The Complete Ingo Chronicles: Ingo, The Tide Knot, The Deep, The Crossing of Ingo, Stormswept. Helen Dunmore

called the Atlantic on every map I’ve ever seen,” I say firmly. Why can’t Faro ever admit that he’s wrong?

      “Only people who don’t know where they are need maps,” answers Faro smugly.

      “You’d get lost quick enough on land.”

      “Maybe. But who wants to go on land?”

      “You did. That’s where I first met you, on that rock.”

      “Ah, but then I had a reason.”

      “What?”

      “I’ll tell you one day. When you can speak full Mer.”

      I never argue when people say things like that. It only makes them more annoying. Changing the subject works much better.

      “I suppose it doesn’t have to be called the Atlantic,” I say. “It’s what we call it, that’s all. It’s got to have a name. The Great Ocean doesn’t mean much. All the oceans are great, so you wouldn’t be able to tell which one you were talking about. Is that really what you call it?”

      “It’s a name, that’s all,” shrugs Faro. “We don’t carry maps around with writing on them, and everything with a name label on it. What do you think happens when the Atlantic meets the Pacific, Sapphire? Is there a thick black line on the sea?”

      “You do know their names! I knew you did.”

      “I know all about your maps and your writing. You think I’m ignorant as a fish, don’t you? Living in the sea, playing all day long, never thinking about anything, no car, no credit card—”

      “Hey, do you really know about cars and credit cards? How do you know?”

      “I listen,” says Faro modestly. “It’s surprising what you can hear when people are swimming or sunbathing or out in their boats. They talk a lot about their credit cards. Anyway, to go back to the subject, fish aren’t ignorant. I’ve told you before that they share their memories. The memory doesn’t die when a fish dies. It stays in the shoal. And because the memories are shared they get stronger.”

      “Do you do that, Faro?”

      “What? Die?”

      “No. Share your memories like that.”

      Faro sculls gently with his hands against the draw of the current. A frill of tiny bubbles bursts around his fingers.

      “In a way. We share what we know,” he says at last. “We don’t keep our knowledge to ourselves, as if it’s money we want to keep safe in a purse.” His smile flashes at me triumphantly. You see! I know all about ‘money’ and ‘purses’. The smile vanishes and he’s serious again. “We have separate memories but sometimes they run in and out of us. I can touch Elvira’s memory sometimes.”

      “Can you touch mine?” I ask suddenly, surprising myself.

      Faro rolls towards me. We are face to face, with the same current holding us both. The inside of the current is so calm and still that it’s only when I look sideways and see the fish flashing by that I know how fast we’re travelling.

      “I don’t know,” he says.” Let’s try.”

      “What do I have to do?”

      “I’m not sure. I don’t know how it happens with Elvira and me. It just happens.”

      I wait, tense and hopeful, while Faro stares into my face.

      “No, it’s not working. You’re stopping me.”

      “I can’t be stopping you. I’m not doing anything.”

      “You are. You’re like a sea anemone when it feels a shadow on it. You’ve shut up tight. I can’t feel your mind at all.”

      Part of me is a bit pleased at this. I’m stronger than Faro. He can’t break into my mind like a burglar. But another part feels sad. I will never belong with the Mer if I can’t share what they share. And it must be good to share memories – not be alone with them, hurt or frightened or not knowing what to do.

      I think of what sea anemones look like in rock pools, with their soft open fronds waving through the warm water, exploring it. Soft, delicate fronds, purple and brown and red. Conor and I used to sit for hours by the pools, not letting our shadow fall over them, waiting until the crabs and baby dogfish grew confident and scuttled out from the weeds, and the sea anemones slowly unfurled like dark red flowers in a sea garden…

      “You’re with your brother,” says Faro. “You’re watching the flowers. You’re very happy…”

      “Faro, you did it! You saw what I was remembering!”

      “We did it,” says Faro. “I didn’t know Air People and Mer could touch each other’s memories.”

      “But we did,” I say triumphantly.

      “Maybe there’s more Mer in you than I knew,” Faro goes on thoughtfully. “Elvira and I used to watch those hollows in the rocks for hours, just like you. When I touched what you were thinking, it was like touching my own memory. We learned how hermit crabs find their shells, how a male sea horse cares for his babies, where to find sugar kelp and strawberry anemones.”

      “Only you were underwater, and we were on the shore. But we were doing it at the very same time, maybe.”

      “Maybe. But you know, Sapphire, you’re not the first Air Person I’ve met. Or even the first I’ve talked to. I know more than you think. I know all about books as well. Why are you smiling like that?”

      “It’s nothing.” I can’t tell Faro how funny he looked, so proud of himself for knowing this perfectly ordinary word.

      “You’re laughing at me.” Faro narrows his eyes.

      “I’m not. It was just the way you said ‘books’. Like they were something out of a fairy story. Don’t the Mer have any books?”

      “Why should we? I told you, we don’t need writing. If something is worth keeping, you can keep it in your mind. We don’t copy Air things. We have our own life.”

      “It’s strange, Faro, that’s exactly the opposite of what humans do. They copy everything. I mean, we copy everything. That’s how we get our ideas. I mean, that’s how aeroplanes got invented, because people looked at birds and wanted to fly like them, and tried to work out how they did it. They were trying to copy birds for hundreds of years before they worked it out. And I suppose we copied fish when we built submarines—”

      “But why did you want to fly?” interrupts Faro, with real curiosity. “You don’t need to. Flying’s for birds. What good is flying if you’ve got legs to walk?”

      “Yes, but – if you see someone doing something, don’t you want to do it too?”

      “No,” says Faro. “But you do, because you’re human. That’s what makes humans so dangerous. They want everything. They aren’t satisfied with what they are. They want to be everything else as well.”

      “But how do you know what you are, until you’ve tried to be lots of other things?”

      “I know what I am,” says Faro. He closes his eyes, resting on his back and letting the current do the work. “I don’t need to try to be anything else.”

      My legs look strange beside the strong, dark, glistening curve of Faro’s tail. They look thin and feeble and forked. Almost ugly. I remember how Faro called me ‘cleft’. I’ve never ever thought my legs were ugly before, but here under the sea they don’t look nearly as good as a tail. One flick of Faro’s tail can take him farther and faster than any swimming I can do.

      “Look how well you’re doing now, Sapphire,” says Faro, opening his eyes. “I don’t have