Stormswept. Part 2

I'll stop soon, and go back home for a while to warm up. No one really believes that we'll find the missing man alive now. Too many hours have pa.s.sed. I hope he died quickly. I hope he didn't struggle too long in the water, hoping for rescue which didn't come. I hope he wasn't trapped anywhere. That's my worst nightmare.

I rub my hands together to warm them. The sun is out now, sparkling on the waves. It looks so beautiful that it's hard to believe this is the same sea that drove a cargo s.h.i.+p on to the reef last night. The wind is still cold, though. I s.h.i.+eld my eyes and stare down the stretch of pale sand, to the rocks that gash into the water. Porth Gwyn. That's its proper name but we just call it "the beach" because it's where we always played when we were little. In the summer people come out here to sunbathe. It's not a great place to swim because of the rips, but there's a big natural pool hidden among the rocks, right down at the end of the beach. It's more than two metres deep at one end. Jen and I call it King Ragworm Pool because we found the biggest King Ragworm we've ever seen in it, after a storm. It was half a metre long, and hideous. It put us off swimming there for a long time.

The pool fills from a channel, because the tide doesn't come up far enough. It's quite strange how it happens: there's another rock pool higher and closer to the sea, which fills with every tide, and then the water runs to King Ragworm Pool. It looks as if someone engineered a channel long ago.

I search among the rocks, peering down into deep clefts and gullies where the sea thumps in at high tide. While I'm looking, I don't let myself think about what I'm looking for. I think about Jenna and I searching for lost things that the tide has taken. If you're patient, and thorough, you often find them. Maybe I should check again along the surf and the sh.o.r.eline.

At that moment the church bell rings out from the village. Even at this distance I can hear it clearly. Just one bell, tolling out one slow stroke, and then another, as they do for a funeral. It's a signal. The wind lifts the sound, carries it towards me and then s.n.a.t.c.hes it away. I know exactly what it means. At times like these the church bells have their own language, and everyone understands it. The lost man has been found, but he is dead. If they'd found him alive, all the bells would have pealed out a clangour like wedding bells. This single bell-note is telling us it's time to give up, and come home.

Such a slow, heavy sound. The sea glitters as the sun comes out more strongly, and a gull dives down, screeching. They used to say gulls were soul-birds, and carried the souls of drowned sailors. No one believes that now, but I wish it were true as I watch the gull ride the waves of the air.

Five men were saved, I remind myself. The lifeboat did everything it could.

I ought to go back home, but I don't want to. Everybody will be talking about where the man's body was found.

I wander slowly along the strand, still watching the gull which has now soared high into the air. It heads out to sea and soon it is out of sight. Maybe you've gone back to Poland, I think, but I can't really believe it. The bell is still tolling.

The rocks ahead of me are covered with mussels. Maybe I'll pick some. Tide's way out now. The Pascoe boys will be able to get round to the caves at the base of Golant cliffs. Then I remember that there's no need for them to do that any more.

Anyway, it was a stupid idea to pick mussels, because I've nothing to carry them in. Mum usually has an "in case" bag in her coat pocket. I dig my hands into my waterproof pockets, and to my amazement I pull out a Sainsbury's bag. Where did that come from? I remember that it's from when Jen and I bought c.o.kes and crisps in Marazance. I must have stuffed it in my pocket afterwards. Obviously I am meant to pick mussels.

I'm walking towards the rocks when I hear it. Not the bell, but something much closer. A sound like a groan, quickly smothered. I stop, and stare all around. Nothing. Empty sand and empty sea. But I'm sure I heard it. I wait, dead still. Seconds tick past, with the wind soughing in my ears, and the sand sifting underfoot. Nothing. I'm about to walk on when it comes again. The kind of sound you make when you're in too much pain to keep quiet, but you choke it back as soon as you can, because you're frightened of people hearing. But who would be frightened of me?

"Who's there?" I call. No one answers. My mind races. Maybe there was another crewman, and in the confusion of the wreck he was forgotten. Or else, maybe the rescued crewmen gave the number of crew wrong. They barely speak English. What if there's another man, an injured survivor lying somewhere close, maybe unconscious? You can still groan when you're unconscious, I think. I've got to find him.

"Where are you?" I call. "Don't be frightened. I want to help you."

Even if he doesn't understand English, surely he'll realise that my voice is friendly.

"Call out again if you can. I'll find you."

Nothing. I don't know what's best to do. Should I run back to the village and fetch help? No, it'll waste time. If he's been lying out all night he'll be suffering from exposure even if he isn't injured. If I find him I can wrap him up in my hoodie and waterproof and then go for help. It's a miracle he's still alive.

"I'm coming!" I call again. "Don't be frightened!"

I run forward until I reach the rocks. I don't think the groan came from here but the best way is to search backwards methodically, from the tide-line to the dunes. The sand here isn't clean and s.h.i.+ning. It's covered in bits of wood, seaweed, twine, a dead mackerel and a tangle of weed and crab legs. The flotsam and jetsam spreads all the way up the beach here, and right over the dunes which are anch.o.r.ed with tough marram gra.s.s. The sea's come up much higher than normal. Maybe the storm produced freak waves.

Suddenly the skin on the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kles. I have an overwhelming feeling that I am not alone. Someone is watching me. I turn quickly, but the beach and the dunes are empty. I turn back to the rocks, and scan along them. Nothing. But my back still p.r.i.c.kles. Very slowly and casually, I bend forward and kneel down as if I've spotted something in the sand. I've plaited my hair because of the wind, and the plait falls forward. Cautiously, I peep round. Even if someone's watching, they won't notice because my thick plait hides my face. I shuffle round a little way on my knees, and pretend to be digging. Whoever is watching will be off-guard by now. They will think I'm concentrating all my attention on what is in front of me. I am quite sure now that there is someone there. My heart is thudding. I want to leap to my feet and race for home, but I can't. If there's an injured man lying there, then he must be even more frightened than I am. That's why he's hiding. Maybe he's had a bang on the head when the s.h.i.+p went on the reef, and he thinks he's in an enemy country or something. Me shouting out in a foreign language won't help.

I turn my head a fraction, still looking down. I shake my plait right forward so there's a gap between it and my shoulder, and, very stealthily, I steal a glance behind me.

Yes. A movement. A tiny flicker of movement behind the dunes. Maybe a hand, or the side of a face. There is someone there and whoever it is must be very scared. He knows I'm here and he's in pain or he wouldn't have groaned like that. But he won't call back to me. That means he is much more afraid than I am.

I think for a moment, and then very slowly I get up and brush the sand off my hands and the knees of my jeans. I take the plastic bag out of my pocket and pretend to put something in it. I slip the bag into my pocket, s.h.i.+eld my eyes and stare straight ahead, towards the rocks. After a while I shrug my shoulders, as if I've given up looking. Maybe I don't believe I heard anything. It must have been my imagination. I hope that my body language is saying these things to the watcher behind the dunes. With luck he'll relax, rea.s.sured, and sink back into his hiding-place.

I take a careful note of where the movement was, and how far down the beach I need to walk to be parallel to it. I stroll casually along the sand, stopping once or twice to pick up a tiny sh.e.l.l, and put it into my pocket. All I am is a girl out for a walk on the sh.o.r.e.

I am parallel to the spot in the dunes now. I slide my gaze sideways for a second. No sign of life. I walk forward a little more. He won't be able to see me now, because the bulk of the dune will hide me from him just as it hides him from me.

Suddenly, I change direction. My feet make no sound in the soft sand as I run to the dunes, scramble up the sifting slope, and over the top.

he first thing I see is an arm drawn back, a fist, and a stone in the fist, ready to throw. I see dark, glittering eyes and a tangle of hair like seaweed. I hold my own hands out, palm up.

"I won't hurt you," I say, and drop to my knees, keeping a distance. Surely he'll see that I am not a threat.

Slowly, slowly, the hand gripping the stone relaxes. Even more slowly, he lowers his arm.

"Who are you?" I ask, keeping my voice soft and level, but then I remember that he probably doesn't speak any English. His s.h.i.+rt and jacket must have been torn off in the struggle with the sea. He's half-buried in sand, but I can see his bare arms and shoulders, in fact most of his body down to his waist. He is surrounded by flotsam and jetsam. Suddenly I realise what must have happened. There was a freak wave. It must have lifted him, hurled him over the beach and the dune, and half-buried him in the sand. He'll be freezing cold. It's amazing that he hasn't died of hypothermia.

"It's all right," I say again, "I'm a friend. I want to help you." Then I have an idea. I point to myself and say, "Mor-ver-en," very slowly. Gradually, so as not to alarm him, I shuffle forward. His eyes stay fixed on my face. He doesn't seem to blink. I don't think I've ever seen such glittering eyes. His skin is a strange colour: it's brown, even darker brown than mine, but it has a blue tinge to it that I've never seen before. It scares me. I think he must be badly hurt, or maybe blue with cold.

He struggles to move as I come closer, as if he wants to get away, but the movement ends in a groan. I stop dead. He's definitely injured.

"It's all right. I won't come any closer. Please don't be frightened of me."

He looks young. I don't think he's a man, he's only a year or so older than I am. Do they have crew that age on Polish s.h.i.+ps? He could be a pa.s.senger, the son of the captain maybe. Then I see something that really scares me. The sand around where his legs must be buried is rusty brown. He's bleeding. The stain on the sand is wide. He must have bled for hours.

I glance round desperately. I'll have to leave him and run for help. He could bleed to death if I don't. But what if he thinks I'm abandoning him? I've got to make him understand. "Listen, I'm going," I point at myself then over the dunes, "for help. Someone to help you, you understand? A doctor." Maybe the word for doctor is the same in Polish? He watches me intently, then suddenly puts out his hand, as if to hold me back. Or maybe he wants me to feel his pulse or something...

I reach forward, and take his hand. It is cold, but the grip is surprisingly strong. He seems to want me to come closer. I edge forward, until I'm beside him. If he'll let me uncover his legs then I can see how badly injured he is. But probably he's embarra.s.sed, if the sea has torn off all his clothes.

That stain on the sand is definitely blood. The thought of seeing the wound makes me feel sick. He is still looking into my face, and this time his lips move.

"Morveren," he says.

He's understood! I feel warm all over with relief. "Yes! I'm Morveren."

He lets go of my hand, and points to his own chest. "Malin," he says.

"Your name is Malin?"

"Yes, my name is Malin," he says, in perfect English but with an accent I don't recognise. I'm so stunned that I drop his hand and rock back on my heels.

"You speak Englis.h.!.+"

"Yes, I speak your language. Morveren, you must help me. You must help me to go back to the sea."

Now I know for sure that he is very ill. Probably having delusions or whatever people get when they've had a blow on the head. "Don't worry, I'm going to get help for you. You're hurt and you need to go to hospital. Will you... Will you let me try to move the sand away, so I can see what's happened to you?"

He frowns sharply. His eyes flash. "No! No human beings must come here! You must help me return to the sea."

"Malin, I think you've got a fever, or maybe you hit your head against a rock when the wave caught you. That's why everything seems strange to you."

"Why are you so stupid?" he demands furiously.

"Stupid! I'm trying to help you."

"And I am telling you how you must help me!"

I take a deep breath. Keep cool, I tell myself. You don't argue with someone who's been s.h.i.+pwrecked and nearly drowned as well as injured. He's probably a what is the word a delirious. "I can't take you to the sea. You'd die. You need to go to hospital."

"Look at me," says Malin through his teeth. "Stop talking and look at me." His hands scrabble at his sides, trying to clear away the sand. But he's lying in an awkward position and he can't manage it.

"Shall I help you?"

He nods furiously, and I lean forward and begin very gently moving away the sand. I'm afraid of hurting him, and just as scared of seeing whatever injury has caused all the blood. I work slowly and methodically, clearing the sand, until suddenly my fingers touch his skin. I s.n.a.t.c.h them back. "Am I hurting you?"

He shakes his head, with his lips pressed tightly together. "Go on," he says. Cautiously, I move away more and more sand. His skin is very dark. It's strangely thick, almost as if he were wearing an incredibly light and flexible wetsuit, made out of some material that hasn't been invented yet. It reminds me of something but I can't think what. "Keep going," says Malin, with a strange smile on his face.

"I'm scared of hurting you."

"I am strong."

I take no notice of this. He doesn't look very strong at the moment. I'm afraid he'll faint, and so I dig away the sand more gently than ever. The curve of his thigh is almost uncovered- My hand goes to my mouth in horror as I see the deep, long gash that gapes wide, full of dried blood and still oozing. It must have bled for hours. It is clogged with sand. Malin is struggling to raise himself on his elbows in order to see the wound. But he mustn't. He'll start it bleeding again if he moves like that- "Keep still," I say sharply. "It'll be all right. It's going to need st.i.tching."

"St.i.tching!" Malin's eyes widen in horror, as if I'd said, "You need to be rolled in maggots and then we'll cut your leg off."

"That's why we need to get you to hospital," I tell him. I keep on clearing away the sand, in case there are other injuries. Suddenly, Malin heaves himself up, pushes my hands away and starts to brush off sand himself. As I feared, more blood oozes from the gash, but Malin won't stop. His hands are quick and they clear the sand much faster than mine. I don't want to look in case the storm really has torn off all his clothes and this is going to be embarra.s.sing...

My hands won't move. I stare, transfixed. My brain won't make sense out of what my eyes are telling it. The shape in front of me wavers. My ears hiss as if they have got sand in them. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I'm going crazy. I'm the one who's going to faint. It's all right, I tell myself, it's because you hardly got any sleep last night and you haven't had anything to eat for hours. Just breathe.

After a long moment I open my eyes again. What I see is the same. Dark, strong, leathery skin. No, not leathery. Leather belongs to earth and this skin belongs to the sea. Sealskin. At last I find my voice, and it comes out in a squeak.

"Your- Your legs... What's happened to them?"

"My legs," repeats Malin with contempt. "My legs? Where are my legs, Morveren?"

Where are they? All I can see is a strong, curved shape. No thigh or knee or foot. Just a- just a- A tail.

My brain whirs, still trying to make sense of what I see. It whirs but does not connect. He is a boy. He has no legs. Instead he has a- A tail.

"Are you wearing a costume?" my voice bleats. Even as I hear the words, my brain knows how stupid they are. And so does Malin.

"Touch my skin," he orders.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Touch it."

It is skin. I s.n.a.t.c.h my hand away as if it's been burnt.

"Now you understand why you must help me to go back to the sea."

"You mean... You live in the sea? You're a mer... mer... person?"

"I am Mer," says Malin, as if it's the proudest claim that could be made by anyone.

"You are Mer," I echo, as if I've been set to "repeat" mode. But Malin seems pleased with the answer.

"Now you understand and you will help me," he says confidently. But the wound gapes wide. He'll collapse if he goes back into the sea, even if he is... I try the word over in my mind. Mer. He'll still die. One wave would roll him over on to the sh.o.r.e again, and strand him. Dolphins that are stranded can't live long, because unless the sea is buoying them up, their own weight crushes their internal organs. Maybe it is the same for the Mer.

As if my thoughts have reached him, Malin sinks back against the dune and shuts his eyes. Without their glitter his face is drawn and lifeless. He must have lost a lot of blood in the night. I won't think about him being Mer. I can think about all that later. First, I've got to make sure he doesn't die.

"You really do need help, Malin," I say softly, leaning over him. "Let me go and fetch my dad and Dr Kemp. They won't hurt you, I promise."

His eyes fly open. "They will take me away. They will imprison me and take away my freedom."

"Malin, I swear they won't. I've never heard of anything like that happening. Dad wouldn't-"

"If humans catch the Mer, that is what will happen. Everyone knows it. We learn it before we can speak."

"They won't-" I begin, but then I stop. How can I be so sure? Terrible things have happened to anyone a or anything a that is different. What if they put him in a tank and do experiments on him? People do experiments on animals, to find out about them. Scientists might say that Malin is an animal. A rare sea-mammal that needs to be studied in detail. They might say it's research of national importance. Once they'd got hold of Malin, I wouldn't be able to do anything. They'd brush me away like a fly.

"But... but you're human! You speak English. They couldn't do that to you," I say, trying to convince myself as much as Malin.

"I am not human, Morveren. They will not give me the protection they give to their own kind. You kill among yourselves. Why should you not kill me?"

"I wouldn't, Malin a we wouldn't-" But I can't meet his eyes. Chimpanzees look nearly human. They share most of their DNA with us. But we do research on them. We experiment on them and because they're not quite human, that's all right.

Maybe Malin knows that.

"I must have water," he says, in quite a different voice, almost a groan.

"I'll get you water! Wait here."

"No." He puts out his hand to stop me. "You drink water from the earth and I cannot swallow it. I must have salt. I must be in salt water if I am to live. I am strong but my skin is already cracking. Soon I will die."

He says it calmly, as if he's talking about someone else. For a second I think he can't mean it, but then I look at his skin. It's parched and seamed all over with tiny cracks. It reminds me of photos I've seen when there's a drought in Australia.

But I don't know what to do. Malin can't move on his own. I can't move him on my own: he's much too heavy for me. Even if I did manage to drag him down to the sea, the waves would throw him back on land. He hasn't the strength to swim against a rough sea.

A rough sea... It's as if the words light a fuse in me. When the sea's too wild for swimming, you can always swim safely in King Ragworm Pool. That's what Jenna and I used to do. The solution comes to me, clear and perfect. Malin will be safe in King Ragworm Pool. He can rest there and recover until he's strong enough to go back in the sea. Salt water is good for wounds. King Ragworm Pool is salt water, because it's fed by a stone channel from the tidal pools closer to sh.o.r.e. Jenna will help me. We'll bring the groundsheet and we'll pour salt water over it so Malin's skin doesn't get damaged. Surely we can manage to carry him as far as the pool. We'll have to climb the rocks but we can take it slowly.

Malin's looking away from me again, to where the sea sounds beyond the dunes. His face is a blank. He can't really think he's going to die. He'd be frightened a anyone would be terrified...

"Malin, I think I know what we can do." He turns his head languidly, as if he's only listening out of politeness. "There's a pool near here where you can go. It's salt water and it's hidden, but I'll need help to get you there. I can't do it on my own."

Malin sweeps my idea aside with a flick of his hand. It's so arrogant that I'd be really annoyed with him if he weren't half-buried and badly hurt. "I prefer to die than have other humans here," he says.

"I'll get my sister. She'll help you and she won't say anything. I swear she won't."

"You swear? On what?"

I think hard and quickly. I want to swear on the most precious thing I can think of.

If that fiddle is ever lost or broken, it will be the end for our island.

"I swear on Conan's fiddle," I tell Malin.