‘We won’t go, then,’ she agreed, and the ferryman opened the throttle.
They were way down the river by the time the snow cleared enough to show the forest close to them. The noise of the boat’s engine was fading again.
‘Bit of a problem,’ said the ferryman. ‘I’ll have to bring her in.’
The engine was missing beats as they reached the river’s shore. They came alongside a rickety landing stage and the ferryman threw his rope expertly to lasso the post. When the boat was tied fast, he held out his hand to Lizzie. The gap between boat and landing stage was full of fast-moving, greasy water and the boat wobbled as she stepped up on the plank seat, but she got her balance, and jumped ashore. Then it was Jay’s turn and they were together.
The ferryman had not left the boat. For the first time Lizzie saw his eyes, watching them.
‘Tide’s turned,’ he said. ‘I must be on my way.’
‘On your way?’ echoed Lizzie.
‘Come back with me if you choose,’ he said. ‘Or stay here. Follow that path and you’ll find shelter.’
Lizzie looked at Jay. Two spots of colour flared in his cheeks. ‘We shall need fire, if we’re to stay here,’ he said boldly. The ferryman nodded, dug in his pocket and threw a box of matches to them.
‘We shall need food, if we’re to stay here,’ said Lizzie, and again the ferryman nodded and this time he slung a bundle to them, wrapped up in chequered cloth.
‘And—’ said Jay, and then he stopped, as if he’d forgotten. The ferryman stooped to the bottom of the boat and lifted out something that had been hidden there: ‘A spear,’ breathed Jay, and he took its shaft in his hand.
The ferryman lifted his hand in farewell. ‘Take that path and you’ll find shelter,’ he repeated, and then he pushed off from the landing stage. In a minute the boat had vanished into the thickening snow.
How huge the forest was, and how dark. Their skin prickled all over. They needed a wall at their back and fire in front of them. All animals are afraid of fire, except us, thought Lizzie as she walked swiftly, lightly down the path. Their footprints would soon be hidden from predators.
Their shelter was a cave. What else could it be? Wood was heaped at the back, enough to last for days, and there was dry bracken beside it. They must make fire. Lizzie piled up bracken, then built a dome of the thinnest, driest sticks. Jay squatted beside her and passed her the box of matches. Somewhere in her mind she knew there was another way of making fire, which didn’t need matches. She struck one, held it to her tinder and watched the flames lick and run, blue at first and then flaring into yellow. She laid on more sticks, lightly, so as not to crush the flame, and she blew softly where she wanted fire to grow. Jay stood and drew his arm back to test the weight and balance of his spear.
The fire filled the cave’s entrance. They had curving walls of stone behind them and a wall of fire in front of them. Soon they would cook the food the ferryman had given them. Already the chequered cloth looked strange. Tomorrow they would find better food: their own food. In her mind she saw sharp, sweet berries, hidden under snow.
A new sound rose keening through the dark forest. They knew at once what it was, and sat back on their heels, listening, alert. The wolves were out hunting. One called, and another answered.
‘Wolf,’ said Jay, and he felt the edge of his spear.
‘Wolf,’ said Lizzie, and she thought of how she would skin the wolf, and scrape every morsel of flesh from the wolfskin, and spread it out by the fire to cure. It would keep them warm all winter.
A cloud of things rose in her mind. She saw radiators and file paper; she saw light switches, sewing machines, whiteboards and fridges. They whirled and spun in front of her eyes like a snowstorm, but she no longer knew what any of them were. They settled on the floor of her mind and melted to nothing.
Lizzie rose and took a blackened stick from the fire. She examined it carefully and then she turned to the cave walls, while Jay watched her. She swept her charred stick down the wall, this way and that. As Lizzie drew, a figure sprang to life and became a boy, running forward, spear poised to strike. She drew again, and a wolf leaped out of the forest, on to Jay’s spear.
THE MUSICIANS OF INGO
OUR ISLAND IS joined to the mainland by a mile of cobbled causeway. For a couple of hours at low tide you can walk out to it along the causeway, but the rest of the time visitors have to come by boat. They come to see the ruins, because they think King Arthur used to live there. We make cream teas for the visitors and I help by carrying trays of scones and jam and clotted cream. The visitors give me tips, especially when I tell them stories about King Arthur. I don’t believe in them, though. There are other stories about our island which I do believe, but we don’t tell these to visitors.
For centuries our island was part of the mainland, and then one night a huge storm came, and a sea surge, and miles of land were swallowed up. Many people were drowned, but a few escaped. They saw the sea rushing in and they raced for the highest point, with their children in their arms. Those people who survived are my ancestors, and since then my family has always lived on the island. We have to go to school on the mainland, but in winter when the storms blow we say it’s too dangerous to take a boat out, and we stay at home.
One of the men who escaped from the flood carried his fiddle high above his head, and another carried a set of bagpipes. These were the only things they saved out of all their possessions. My father plays the violin and the bagpipes, my mother plays the harp and she can also play the bodhrán and the penny whistle.
Until I was eight I thought I played the violin well. People would say, ‘Go on, Jenna, give us another tune,’ and they’d clap when I’d finished. My twin sister Morveren played the harp and the penny whistle, like Mum. But then Digory started to play. He was four years old, and he picked up the quarter-sized violin I’d grown out of. He listened to the song Mum was practising and he played it through perfectly, even though he’d never had a lesson.
Most people on the island play an instrument but no one had ever heard anything like Digory’s playing. Some said Digory ought to play for the visitors while they had their cream teas. If we put a hat on the ground in front of him it would be full of coins by the time the boat left. But Mum said no one was going to make a performing monkey out of Digory.
Maybe I was jealous of Digory. No, tell the truth, Jenna: I was jealous of Digory, for a whole year at least, while he learned to play as easily as he’d learned to breathe. But then I stopped worrying. I knew I’d never be a tenth as good as him, but it didn’t matter. I was Jenna, and Digory was Digory. Sometimes he would show me little things which made my playing better, but he never criticised. In fact he would say, ‘I like the way you play, Jenna. It has a nice feeling.’
Digory didn’t boast or ask for anybody’s attention, he just played and played and played. He liked fishing with Dad and he liked messing about on the shore, but nothing could keep him away from the violin for more than a couple of hours. By the time he was seven he had learned everything Dad could teach him, and our school said he should go to a specialist music school up in London. But Mum and Dad said he was too young. Digory said, ‘Is there sea in London?’ and Morveren and I laughed and said of course there wasn’t. Digory said, ‘I don’t want to play if the sea isn’t there to listen.’
‘The sea doesn’t listen to you, you baby,’ said Morveren, but I wasn’t so sure. I’d seen Digory down by the water, playing his violin on a calm day with the waves lapping, and he played as if there were hundreds of people gathered there to hear him. Mum and Dad were pleased that Digory didn’t want to go away from home yet. They found him a piano teacher on the mainland, because Digory was starting to compose.
‘He’ll have to go away one day,’ said Mum to me, when Digory wasn’t there. ‘With a gift like his, this island won’t be big enough for him.’
I didn’t want that ever to happen. I wanted things to stay just as they were. I warned Digory not to pl
ay with the window open when the visitors were on the island, because there was always someone who got excited about his playing, and used words like ‘genius’ and ‘prodigy’, which made him sound not like our Digory at all.
I told you that we have our own stories about the island, which the visitors never hear.
Before the land all around us was drowned, there was a city where the sea is now. It had churches and beautiful houses and cobbled streets. All the people there loved music. When the storm came and the sea surged they were gathered at a concert, listening to the music with such devotion that they never heard the howl of the wind and the thunder of the rising waves. That’s why so few escaped. The ruins on our island are not the ruins of King Arthur’s palace. They are what remains of the drowned city’s castle. They built it on the highest ground, so that they could see their enemies coming from far away. If you look carefully, you can see that there are arrow slits in the ruined walls. Sometimes people who go up there at night say that they have seen ghosts.
It was the middle of September when Digory began to slip away in the evenings.
Mum never worried about where we went, because everybody knew us and we could all swim like seals. But we had to be home by dark, or she would keep us in the following evening. Digory would come back just in time, and I remember noticing that his face was flushed and his eyes were sparkling. I thought he’d been playing hide-and-seek with the other little ones.
It was a Wednesday night, 21st September. I know that because Morveren and I had a big maths test the next day, on the 22nd, which our teacher had been scaring us about since the start of term. We were revising at the kitchen table, and Mum was at the village hall with Dad, practising with the others in Ynys Musyk. (That’s our island orchestra, and usually Morveren and I would be there too, if we hadn’t got a maths test.)
Suddenly Morveren said, ‘Put the light on, Jenna, I can’t see the page.’ I switched the light on, and as I did so I realised Digory wasn’t home yet. I looked on the shelf and his violin was gone too.
‘We’d better find him,’ said Morveren. ‘Mum’ll get really cross with him. It’s the second time he’s disappeared this week.’
We were annoyed with Digory, because we wanted to work for our test, but we were worried too. Digory shouldn’t be out alone after dark. Morveren got the torch and we decided we’d look for him before telling Mum and Dad.
We went all round the cottages, round the back of the village hall, and into all the likely and unlikely places where Digory might be. Morveren thought we should go up and look in the ruins, in case he’d fallen there, but I thought there was more chance he’d be down at the shore.
‘If he isn’t there, we’ll have to get Mum and Dad. It’s really dark.’
The moon hadn’t risen yet, although the stars were already coming out. We took the shore path and our torchlight bobbed and flickered in front of us. The furze grew high on either side, so we couldn’t see much. We kept calling Digory’s name, but there was no answer except the gulls in the night sky and the sound of the sea breathing. We came out on to the shore. Usually there’s a big beach of white sand, but not tonight. The sea was lapping up to the marram grass that grows on the dunes. The water gleamed in the starlight.
‘Listen!’ said Morveren suddenly, and she clutched my hand.
I listened and the hairs along my arms stood up. A violin was playing. It could only be Digory, because no one else on the island could play like that. But he wasn’t playing alone. Behind the sound of the violin there were the sweet notes of the harp, and the drone of the bagpipes, and the sound of the bodhrán. It sounded as if there were hundreds of instruments playing.
‘Do you think Ynys Musyk has come out here to play?’ I asked Morveren, but I knew that they hadn’t, because we’d heard them playing when we passed the village hall. Besides, the sound was too rich for Ynys Musyk.
Slowly, we crept forward. The moon was rising behind us and we were afraid Digory would see us before we saw him. We both had the feeling it might not be safe if he did. All at once I saw him, sitting on a rock with his violin under his chin and his bow in his hand, playing. When he saw us he didn’t try to run away, as I’d feared. He lifted his bow and the music faded away. Not just the music of his violin, but the sound of harps and bagpipes and bodhrán too.
‘Digory, what are you doing out here?’
‘Just playing with my friends,’ said Digory.
‘What friends?’ asked Morveren in a voice that would scare the life out of the little ones at school.
‘Didn’t you hear them?’ asked Digory. ‘Jenna, you’ve got to fetch Ynys Musyk. My friends want us all to play with them. This is the last night they can play with us, because the moon and the tide won’t be right like this for another hundred years.’
Morveren and I stared at each other. Should we grab him and run home as fast as we could? But looking at Digory, I thought we’d better not.
‘Digory,’ I asked, ‘where are these friends?’
‘They’re in Ingo,’ said Digory. ‘That’s why they can’t come to us. But they can hear us and we can hear them. Fetch Ynys Musyk, Jenna. They really want to play with us.’
‘But, Digory, where’s Ingo?’ asked Morveren, and although I’d never heard the word before, a shiver went through me as if I’d known it in another life.
‘There,’ said Digory, pointing at the moonlit sea lapping up the beach. ‘It’s under the water. That’s where they live. Hurry, Jenna. They can’t stay long. They have to leave when the tide turns.’
Morveren and I stared at each other. We are twins and sometimes we know what each other is thinking. I knew she believed Digory, because I did too.
‘You stay with him, I’ll get the others,’ I said, and I ran.
I could barely breathe by the time I burst through the door of the village hall. Mum saw my face and broke off in the middle of a note. Dad put down his violin. Everyone was looking at me.
‘You’ve got – to come. All of you. Digory needs us. Bring – bring the instruments.’
I never thought they would believe me, but Dad listened while I stammered out the story and then he picked up his violin, and then all the rest of Ynys Musyk were picking up their instruments too. Mum’s harp was too big, so she grabbed her penny whistle.
It was the strangest procession. As we passed our cottage I ran in and got my violin and another penny whistle for Morveren, and then we were on our way. We hurried through the village and across the rough grass until we came to the path through the furze to the shore. I led the way, and Ynys Musyk followed. The moon was bright now and as soon as we came out on the shore we saw that the tide was full, higher than I’d ever seen it, touching the rock where Morveren and Digory sat waiting for us.
‘There they are!’ whispered Mum.
We streamed towards the rock, skirting the water. It was all so quiet, just the moonlight and the lap of the waves. Suddenly, far above our heads, a gull cried. I was close to Digory by now, and I saw him lift his violin and place it under his chin.
‘My friends are waiting for us,’ he said.
Everybody looked around at the quiet shore and the still water.
‘Who are they?’ asked Mum, bending down to Digory.
‘They’re musicians, like us. They want Ynys Musyk to play with them. I’ll lead, because I know the song.’
He looked out at the water as if he were waiting for a signal, then he nodded, raised his bow and the first note shivered the silence. It was a song I’d never heard before. I held my own violin, waiting, listening to Digory’s music flow out until it filled the bay like a tide.
Quietly at first and then more and more strongly, there came back something which wasn’t an echo, but an answer in music. It was coming from the water. There were horns and bagpipes, flutes and violins, a bodhrán and the sweet notes of a harp. The sound swelled louder and louder, more and more urgent. For a second Digory stopped his fiddling and held his bow like a baton, bringing us
all in, and then he was playing again, his music high above all the other music and leading it.
I followed the second violins; I could hear them out of all the other instruments. Dad was following Digory, and Mum and Morveren shrilled out the melody. Everybody was joining in now and the moon grew so bright that it made the water transparent, just as the sun does at midday. That’s when I saw them. They were just shapes and shadows at first. I saw a fiddler’s elbow, and then an arm plucking a harp string. The more I played, the more I saw. There were a hundred of them, maybe more, keeping in the deep water where the white sand falls away to rock. A whole orchestra, many times larger than Ynys Musyk. Their long hair floated like seaweed. They rose until we could almost see them clearly, and then sank again beyond the reach of the moonlight.
They played as long as slack water lasted, and we played with them. I don’t know how long it was. I didn’t want it to end, but suddenly the music changed. The tide was on the turn, and the musicians knew it. They played faster and faster, until the sea and the island echoed to it, and then Digory threw back his head and played a long, last chord like a farewell.
The musicians of Ingo dived, holding their instruments. Their bodies glistened and their hair streamed away behind them. They didn’t look as if they belonged to the human world. In another moment they were just shadows, fleeing into the deepest water, and then they were gone.
I heard Morveren sigh. Digory sat on the rock with his head bowed, looking much younger than seven. Mum took Dad’s violin, and Dad lifted Digory high on his shoulders, and that’s how we walked back to the village, all of us in Ynys Musyk together.
There are a lot of stories that we never tell to the visitors, and this is one of them. Sometimes Morveren and I talk about it in whispers. We try to decide who those musicians were. Maybe they were our ancestors from the old drowned city, come back to play with us. Maybe they were the Mer, who always live in Ingo. We can never decide.
Girl, Balancing & Other Stories Page 16