Stormswept. Part 12

"Where is he?"

"Gone to check the crab pots. Mum's at the church helping Marie with the flowers."

A thought strikes me. "It's a bit strange that he's being buried here, isn't it? Adam Dubrovski, I mean. You'd think his family would want him buried at home."

"His grandparents brought him up, and the rest of his family emigrated, so his friends thought he should be buried here," says Jenna, in an annoying "You should know this" voice, even though she'll only be echoing what Mum told her. "Get up, Morveren, it's late. Digory's had his breakfast and he's all ready."

"Do you have to be so bossy?" I mutter as I push back the duvet.

"Yes, I do!" shouts Jenna. "I do everything while you lie in bed doing nothing! I'm sick of it."

I stare at her in amazement. She's pale, maybe with anger, but I think there's something else in her face. Something has happened to upset her a lot. With a conscious effort not to fly into a rage myself, I ask, "Jen... Is something wrong? What's happened?"

"Nothing's wrong!" she snaps.

"It's something to do with Bran," I think, and immediately realise I've spoken my thought aloud. Jenna's face floods with colour.

"Why don't you think about someone else apart from yourself for once and just get out of bed," she says furiously. "I've got Digory ready and cleared the kitchen and done everything as usual. Ynys Musyk is playing at the funeral, in case you'd forgotten."

"I hadn't forgotten," I say coldly, turning my back on her. I can feel her standing in the doorway, hesitating. Maybe she's wondering if we're going to make up. But we're not, not until much later, when we see the bank of white and yellow chrysanthemums that Mum and the others have arranged with such care around the altar where Adam Dubrovski's coffin will stand, and Jenna bursts into tears.

No one else notices. Jenna has her head down. I can see her shoulders shaking, just a little. Jenna's crying, and she hasn't got a tissue. She sniffs and wipes away her tears with the back of her hand. The gesture makes her look about six years old, and even though I'm still angry with her, my heart melts.

"Jenna," I whisper, and I pa.s.s across the old cotton hankie of Dad's that I keep in my violin case. That's one of my traditions. Jenna wipes her face, blows her nose and glances sideways at me.

"You OK?" I mouth silently, and she nods, swallowing hard.

"Good," I whisper.

I don't think she's crying about Adam Dubrovski, even though the church is full of flowers and sadness. She picks up her flute. Don't cry any more, Jen, you won't be able to play if you do, I think, and I know that the thought reaches her, because she gives me a small, watery smile.

I'm wearing my school swimming costume under a long-sleeved white T-s.h.i.+rt, and then my school black skirt and white blouse. The T-s.h.i.+rt is so that the swimming costume won't show through the blouse. I wish I could have put on my short wetsuit as well, but I'd have been way too hot in the church. I'm pleased with myself for planning ahead like this: I even put some spare underwear in my jacket pocket.

Matt Jackson plays his A and we all tune to it. Whenever it's damp my violin goes out of tune. I have good pitch, but not perfect pitch like Digory. Tamsin Mellon leans across to me.

"Your Digory's playing the lament, isn't he?"

"I don't know."

The bearers are at the door. They are carrying Adam Dubrovski's coffin on their shoulders as they pace slowly up the short aisle of our little church, and then they lay the coffin down gently on its bier.

The church is full. Adam Dubrovski's s.h.i.+pmates stand in the front pew, in new black suits. A priest has come over from the mainland, and when he stands up to give his sermon, my heart sinks. The tradition on our island is that if there's a funeral, everybody goes, and so I've already been to quite a few. I don't like it when they talk about the dead person, because it never seems real. But this priest doesn't pretend. First he talks directly to the surviving sailors, about the saving of their own lives, and the loss of their friend's. They he says that many of us are here to mourn a young man we didn't know. But we, like Adam Dubrovski, make our living from the sea and so we feel not only human sympathy but the special solidarity of sea-going people. He says that the one thing the sea teaches us is that we do not control life. People in cities who flick on the central heating may keep the illusion that they are in control, but a man out at sea in a storm knows that there are forces far more powerful than he is.

The priest glances at the coffin as he speaks, as if he's talking to Adam Dubrovski too. He says that we must all die, and that this young man already knows more than the oldest of us here. It's not the usual kind of funeral sermon at all. For some reason it makes me think of Malin too. The sea took him, just as it took Adam Dubrovski, but instead of drowning him, the sea flung Malin on to land. The Mer can drown in air, just as we can drown in the water. It's so strange, how we live side by side with the Mer but never know them. As if they are foreigners... but much more than foreigners, even though they share the same world with us... Many of us are here to mourn a young man we didn't know... But if Malin had died, would we have mourned him, or would we have taken him away to a laboratory to investigate him, as if he were a different species that didn't have thoughts and feelings like our own?

We play a Polish hymn. Only the sailors know the words, but the tune is easy and we've practised it beforehand. It's like folk music, not church music, slow and mournful. The sailors stand very upright, heads thrown back, eyes closed, singing with all their hearts in deep, resonant voices. I close my own eyes and the song surges into me. I wonder if the familiar tune makes Adam Dubrovski feel as if he's being buried with something from home.

At the end of the service, as the coffin-bearers leave their seats, Digory steps forward. Tamsin is right. He must be going to play the lament, as the coffin is carried out to the churchyard.

I put down my violin, and everybody else in Ynys Musyk puts down their instruments, ready to follow the coffin. Digory raises his bow, and strikes the first note. I've never heard this music before, and I wonder where he heard it? Digory only has to hear a piece of music once, and he can play it. It's a lament, and it's very simple, but it has the sea in it, and the noise of the wind. It sounds like the sea when it's quietening itself after a storm. The priest leads the procession out of church, and Digory walks forward, still playing, and follows the coffin. We all follow after him.

It's soft and still outside. The grave has been dug close to the granite wall that encloses the churchyard. The church is built on high ground, and from the churchyard you can see the sea stretching to the horizon. Everybody walks slowly through the old graves and the turf, while the sound of Digory's violin swells over the crowd. Jenna glances at me to see if I'm going to follow her, but I shake my head. I wonder where Bran is? I thought he'd be here. The whole island is gathered, and his nan would expect him to come, if he's staying with her. It's a mark of respect to the dead. Maybe Bran not being here has got something to do with Jenna crying...

I go to stand by the wall. I don't want to hear the final prayers, or see the coffin lowered into its grave. Instead, I look out to sea.

They are there, the Mer. I can see their heads rising above the water, and their long streaming hair. They are far out, riding on the swell, but I can see them quite clearly. Two heads, and then three. Suddenly I am sure that they are here to listen to Digory's music, just as he said they were listening yesterday. I glance round. Everyone else is gathered around the grave now. Digory's playing is growing softer. A breeze blows the priest's vestments as he opens his prayer book. Very faintly, from far away, I hear music. Flutes, fiddles, bodhrans, all echoing Digory's lament. The sounds are familiar, and yet they are mysterious, as if they've been sea-changed. The Mer didn't save Adam Dubrovski, but they are playing for him.

I look over at the crowd by the graveside. Can they hear the Mer music too? No one has turned. I can see Jenna's face. Her eyes are downcast and her face serious, but there's no sign that she has heard anything unusual. As I turn back to sea, the Mer heads disappear.

After the funeral, while Digory and I are putting away our instruments, one of the Polish sailors comes over to us. His right sleeve hangs loose, because his arm is in a sling.

"Thank you," he says carefully, as if he's practised the words. "You play good for my friend."

Digory looks up at him and smiles. The man nods, and walks away.

"Did you make up that music, Digory?" I ask him, thinking that's probably why I haven't heard it before.

"The Mer played it to me," says Digory in a matter-of-fact way, as he wraps his violin in its green velvet cloth before putting it into the case. I feel cold. I hate it when Digory talks about the Mer as if they are part of his everyday life, as familiar to him as we are.

"Don't tell Mum and Dad that."

"Of course I won't. You're always telling me not to tell people things."

"Well, remember this time," I say meanly, and his face clouds.

"I didn't mean to, Mor-"

"I know. I'm sorry. Quick, Dad's waiting."

"That was a great piece you played just now," Dad says to Digory as we walk back home. "Where did you hear it?"

"I- I can't remember," says Digory, looking down at the ground. He's holding Dad's hand and keeping close to him. He looks pale and tired after being up half the night, and even though playing is as natural to him as breathing, it must have taken a lot of energy to play the lament like that. Dad notices how tired Digory is.

"Come on, boy, I'll give you a ride," he says, and he swings Digory up on to his shoulders. Mum and Jenna are a little way behind, talking together in low voices.

"I'll make bacon sandwiches for the lot of you," says Dad, "that'll put hairs on your chest."

Digory giggles. "Jenna and Mor don't want hairs on their chests."

"They may not want them, but that's what they're going to get."

"Dad," I say, "I've got to go. You know that project we're doing on coastal erosion a I'm supposed to be collecting data over half-term-"

Dad frowns. He wants us all together in the kitchen in a warm fug of bacon, ketchup and big mugs of tea. Dad hates funerals.

"Can't you do it later?"

"No, I'm behind with it anyway. Jenna's already done loads."

This is true, as well as convincing. Jenna is always way ahead with any kind of school project.

"OK then," says Dad, "but you'll be hungry."

Nowhere near as hungry as Malin is, I think, as I make my escape before Mum and Jenna can ask me where I'm going.

A cold wind is getting up, with rain clouds ma.s.sing in the west. The beach is bleak and empty. I look round carefully, scanning dunes and rocks, but I'm still uneasy. Someone could be hiding. Bran isn't stupid. He'll know that all he's got to do is watch, and wait. I am much too visible as I climb up the rock. It's better once I'm by the pool. No one can see me now except from the air. Malin rises to greet me.

"Come into the water, Morveren. The air hurts me today."

Even in my jacket and layers of clothes, I'm cold. The last thing I want to do is jump into King Ragworm Pool. The heavy grey sky makes it look so dark and dead. I s.h.i.+ver as I take off my top layers. I'm definitely keeping my T-s.h.i.+rt on.

"Quick, Morveren!"

Who said that? It can't have been Malin, because he's already dived to the bottom of the pool. I'm probably just hearing my own thoughts. I'm so jumpy today. I didn't get enough sleep.

I dip my foot in the water. It's freezing. I crouch on the ledge with my arms wrapped round me. I'll have to jump. No, I can't do that, someone might hear the splash. I'll turn round backwards, and slide in.

The water wraps itself round me with icy hands. I gasp as I push away from the edge, treading water. The rocks are like prison walls, trapping me. I want to get out. I want to be at home with the others, in the warm kitchen.

"Don't fight, Morveren. Come down. Remember the live water."

I take a deep breath and scull with my hands, pus.h.i.+ng the water upwards so that I sink down. The cold eases as I go deeper. I open my eyes and there are the sea-anemones, waving their pink and orange fronds. The water tastes of salt. Salt! I want more of it. I open my mouth greedily and breathe out every bubble of the air I've brought with me from the human world. When my lungs are empty, I breathe in water, not air.

"Malin!"

"Morveren. I am happy to see you."

I feel absurdly pleased, as if these few words are the greatest compliment I've ever had.

"You look so much better," I tell him. He looks stronger, and somehow even more Mer, as if he's coming back to himself. The gash in his tail is healing.

"I am well enough to leave this place."

"Are you sure?"

"If you will help me. You and your sister."

"Jenna."

"Yes, Jenna."

I hesitate. I need to tell him about Bran, but I don't want to alarm him. He's only just started to recover and it might make him worse again if he has to wait here, trapped but unable to do anything about the danger. "Malin, have you seen anything unusual at all a anything new?"

"Unusual?" Malin frowns. His hair swirls back as he says scornfully, "How can I know what is unusual in the human world, Morveren? It is all strange to me."

"Yes..." I pick my way carefully. "Did you hear someone playing a violin yesterday, down by the rocks?"

Malin's face lights up. "I heard music," he says, "Mer music. My people are playing to me, because they want to keep me strong."

"Yes, they were playing too, but I think it was my brother you heard. He was playing his violin close to the rocks."

"Your brother?" The water boils white as Malin turns and seizes my arms above the elbows. "Who is your brother? Does he know I am here? Has he weapons? Can we trust him?"

"He's only a child, Malin! A little boy."

"Human children can be dangerous," says Malin thoughtfully. "They believe what they see."

"What do you mean?"

"They do not pretend to themselves that what they see is impossible. If they see one of my people, they do not rub their eyes and say it is an illusion."

"Let go, Malin, you're holding me too tight." I want to say "You don't know your own strength" the way Mum used to when Jenna and I fought and knocked over the furniture, when we were little a but it would sound too patronising. "But there's a problem now, Malin. We think a I think a that is, I'm afraid someone else heard Digory's music and it drew them here, to the rocks. Could anyone have seen you? If they'd climbed up on the rocks, would you have known they were there?"

"Of course I would know," snaps Malin quickly. Too quickly. I catch the shadow of doubt in his eyes.

"Did you see something, Malin?"

"No..."

"Malin, please try to remember!"

"The sun woke me," says Malin slowly. "It was a flash of sun off the water. I do not ever sleep so deeply, Morveren, when I am well."

He looks furious, but this time I understand that he's not angry with me, but with himself. He has dropped his guard. The sun woke me... a flash of sun... a flash...

Oh no. A flash. A camera. But surely the light would bounce off the surface of the water? Bran wouldn't get an image of Malin.

"Were you sleeping down by the ledge?" I ask him. He'd have been all but invisible down there. I don't think any ordinary camera would be able to capture him. But Malin's frown deepens. He looks proud, furious a and deeply worried.

"You weren't, were you?" I say despairingly. "You came up-"

"I was listening to the music. My people's music, far away, from Ingo. I could not hear it in the depths of this pool. I fell asleep to the music, below the skin of the surface."

I turn away. I don't want Malin to see the despair I feel. I'm afraid that he'll hear the racing of my heart through the water. I am sure now that Bran must have taken a photograph of him. We've got to move fast.

"I had to hear that music. I had no choice," says Malin, stiffly. He doesn't want to appeal to me, or defend himself. "Do you understand?"

"I don't know. I mean, I heard the music too, but I'm not Mer so it doesn't mean the same to me."

"You heard it too?" Malin lifts his hands, cups my face and stares intently into my eyes. For a moment fear and anxiety retreat like a tide. He smiles a smile I've never seen before, on Malin's face or any other. He says with soft, almost incredulous emphasis: "You heard the music of Ingo, Morveren. Your name is true. You are one of us."

I so much want to say yes. I want to be part of whatever Malin is part of. I want that smile to stay on his face. But it wouldn't be the truth.

"Malin, you know I'm human."

"Human? Maybe. But look at you now."

For a moment I see myself as Malin sees me. My hair flows up through the water like seaweed. My lips are open, breathing in water. I don't even have to think about it any more.