The mist continued for days, so I stayed in the stilt hut. I was glad we weren’t moving because my leg had swollen up from the sleek bite and it hurt every time I put my foot down.
The sleek came and went, bringing me food: more cake, an apple, a piece of cooked meat. I was beginning to think Marlie’s cow charm really was lucky – I would stay here and the sleek would look after me.
On the third day, however, the mist lifted and the sleek grew restless. He spat at me and looked at the ladder. When I refused to pack my bag he crouched against the reed wall of the hut with his tail spreading behind him. I watched it change colour from reddish-brown to a deep crimson before I picked up my things.
This time the sleek did not lead the way. Instead he kept a distance behind me, as if making sure I wouldn’t double back to the stilt hut, which was exactly what I wanted to do. I found a path and limped along it. My leg hurt with each step and I wanted to rest, but the sleek wouldn’t let me – he drove me on, nipping at my heels whenever I slowed down, and when the path joined up with the road his nipping got worse.
I was almost in tears when I came around a corner and found the roadway blocked by a donkey cart. Startled, the donkey leapt forward and lost half his load, which was made up of long green tubers like the one the sleek had given me.
‘Halt, Bray!’
A man appeared from the undergrowth. I backed away. He was covered in mud and his arms were full of tubers. He was tall – almost as tall as the stranger. His grey hair was close-cropped and he had a thick black beard.
‘How many times do I have to tell you? Steadfastness in the face of adversity,’ he said. The donkey put down his head and started grazing.
The man turned to me. ‘Not your fault,’ he said. ‘He’s always been flighty. It’s the breed. But you can help me pick these up. Would you mind?’
I shook my head. As I put down my bag I noticed the sleek sliding away into long grass.
‘Would you be a Morrow or an Ebb?’ the man asked. ‘You have the look of an Ebb, but seeing as you are here, lost, you must be a Morrow. So careless, those Morrows. You’re the second child of theirs I’ve picked up this season.’
‘I’m not either,’ I said.
The man looked at me in surprise, then he gave a crafty smile.
‘You’re a Morrow if ever there was one. Do you know how I know?’
He didn’t wait for a reply.
‘Because all Morrows lie!’ He roared with laughter, and the donkey joined in. ‘See? Even Bray likes your joke!’
Although I hadn’t made a joke, I laughed as well. I was so glad to find a kind and friendly person.
‘Had your lunch?’ The man reached into a basket at the front of the little cart and pulled out some cake just like the sleek had brought me. ‘You’ll be wanting a ride, I expect? Well, I can’t be taking you home until after the Third Mist. No point in setting out unless there’s a chance of reaching the destination, eh, Bray?’
The donkey raised its head.
‘So, to be on the safe side, you should stay with us until all the mists are done.’
‘How many mists are there?’ I asked.
The man looked startled for a moment, then he wagged his finger in front of his face as if he’d been caught out. ‘Now that’s a Morrow question if ever I heard one. Everyone this side of the marshes knows there are three mists.’
‘What about the other side of the marshes?’ I asked.
The man laughed so much that he had to put his hand on the cart to steady himself.
‘There is no other side of the marshes,’ he cried, wiping his eyes. ‘Hop in!’
As I climbed into the cart, among the strange vegetables, I saw a flash of red. The man glanced over his shoulder. ‘Just you, not your vermin,’ he said.
‘He’s not mine.’
‘Of course he’s not yours. But you are his,’ the man sighed. ‘That’s the way it is with them.’
For some reason I thought it best to own up about the stolen cake, so I told him that I’d already had some of his food.
‘What the vermin does is no fault of yours.’
The man clicked his tongue and the donkey began walking very slowly along the road. The man walked beside the cart. He had a slight limp.
‘What did you think of the First Mist?’ he asked conversationally.
‘I liked it. It made me feel safe.’
The man laughed as if I had made another joke.
‘I always enjoy the First Mist,’ he said. ‘But not the second. What’s your name?’
‘Peat.’
‘A grand name! It’s rich and deep and will keep you warm all winter. My name is Last, Amos Last.’
The man had a peculiar way of talking, but I liked him. Wim had told me she’d heard there were people who lived on the edge of the marshes. She thought they spoke a different language. Amos Last’s words were the same as ours but his accent was different. His voice went high and low, and there was a softness to it, as if the mist and rain had seeped in and taken away the hard edges.
We had not gone far when the road straightened and a rise appeared ahead. The donkey stopped.
‘My apologies, Bray.’
Amos motioned for me to step out of the cart. When I was on the ground, the donkey began walking again.
‘That’s our Bray for you. He’s not one for hauling people up hills.’
We walked along in silence for a while. I leaned on the cart so as to take the weight off my leg.
‘Finest Bray. Most handsome of donkeys.’ Amos gave me a wink. ‘Here you are, walking ahead on four strong legs, and we’re coming behind with only two good ones between us.’
The donkey paused and flicked his ears, then he began walking again.
‘But that’s the way of the world, eh, Bray?’ Amos Last said cheerfully. When the donkey snorted, he added, ‘Nothing to forgive, my friend.’ He turned to me. ‘It’s his nature. It’s in the breed.’
I wondered if the sleek was following, or if he had gone back to his hole in the escarpment. For a moment I thought I would miss him.
‘Did a stranger pass this way?’ I asked.
‘And when would that have been?’ Amos chuckled.
‘About two full moons ago.’
Amos Last smiled and scratched his chin. ‘Can’t say I saw him. One of the children might have. You can ask them.’
‘Children?’
For some reason the thought alarmed me; I had never met any children before.
‘I had a dozen or so at last count,’ Amos said. ‘It’s hard to keep track of them. Gilly would be about your age, or was it Ula?’
We reached the top of the rise. The road stretched ahead, with wild grass on one side and neat fields on the other. In the distance it turned sharply to the right and went up a steep hill. Perched near the top I could see a small wooden shack.
‘That’s our place. The end of the road.’ Amos Last sighed, and his shoulders slumped. His good humour seemed to have left him at the sight of the shack.
When we reached the spot where the road turned, he unhitched the donkey. ‘Thank you, Bray,’ he said. He turned to me. ‘Bray doesn’t like hills, and he doesn’t like my wife,’ he explained.
A cross-looking woman appeared outside the shack. ‘No. Absolutely not!’ she yelled. ‘We’ve got enough mouths to feed.’
Amos Last looked up the hill. ‘It’s only until after the mists,’ he called.
‘One night,’ his wife yelled back. ‘And no more. If the Morrows can’t look after their own, why should we?’
Then she clapped her hands and a big group of muddy children came out of the shack and ran down the hill. There were so many of them it seemed like an avalanche. How could they have all fitted inside the hut?
I quickly stepped behind the cart, and this made them laugh.
‘Not yet,’ they cried. ‘First, let’s get this lot up.’
They loaded each other with the tubers, and they loaded me up as well.
‘Come on,’ they said. ‘We’ll play later.’
I wondered what they meant by ‘play’. Marlie and I had only ever worked. There was no opportunity to find out. When we reached the shack, Amos Last’s wife was waiting outside.
‘Pay up,’ she said. ‘What have you got?’
Her eyes were fixed on my cow charm, but I wasn’t going to give her that. I had nothing else except the things in the bag. I took out the stranger’s shirt and she snatched it.
‘Go and wash your face and hands, you dirty Morrow!’
‘I’m not a Morrow,’ I said.
The woman glared at me.
‘You’re an Ebb?’ she demanded.
I shook my head.
‘Well, you’re not a Last,’ she said. ‘And there are only three families in this district – the Ebbs, the Morrows and the Lasts.’ She put her hands on her hips.
‘I’m not from this district. I’m from Skerrick.’ It seemed easier to say that than try to explain about the Overhang.
‘Never heard of it!’
An old woman with bright-blue eyes poked her head from the door of the shack. ‘I’ve heard of it,’ she said.
Amos Last’s wife regarded me shrewdly. ‘You can stay tonight and go back to where you came from tomorrow.’
‘I’m not going back,’ I said. ‘I’m going on.’
‘You little fool,’ she said. ‘There’s nowhere to go. We are the Lasts, and this is the end of the road. Beyond us there are only the marshes.’
She grabbed my hand and pulled me further up the hill, past the hut. The pain in my leg made me cry out.
‘Don’t play your foreigner tricks on me,’ she snapped as she turned me around. ‘Look out there! If you go on, that’s where you’ll end up. All the muck of the world drains into those marshes.’
I looked where she pointed. The marshes were vast. They began with lowlands of trees, grasses and ponds. Further away I could see fields of reeds and then a complicated maze of islands and waterways that seemed to move as I watched, although perhaps it was just the reflection of clouds in the water. Islands seemed to join up, then separate. It was mesmerising. In the distance, the land seemed to fray off into the sky.
‘Is that the coast?’ I asked.
‘There is no coast. There are only the marshes.’
‘There must be ocean somewhere,’ I said.
‘If you believe there is anything beyond the marshes, you’re dreaming,’ the woman sneered. Then she turned and went down into the shack, slamming the door behind her.