by Martin Ash
I pushed myself forward - half a finger’s length, another. The thought came to me to discard my pack, which hung over one shoulder. It was not particularly heavy, but any weight I could shed would surely help. But my fingers could not find the strap.
I scrabbled helplessly, sank a little more.
Then the tips of my fingers touched a branch which hung down into the muck from somewhere overhead. I curled them around it and hauled, tentatively lest it break. It bent towards me, but seemed to take my weight. I drew myself up, forward, seeking the larger bough from which this branch sprouted.
I had dragged myself free to my waist, clinging with every atom of strength I could command, when the branch came away with a dull snap. I sank inexorably, falling forward on to my face. My fingers remained locked to the branch, which floated now, only half-submerged beneath the ghastly mud. I threw my arm around it, spluttering, managing to keep my head and shoulders from going under.
But my strength was going. I was cold, so cold. Only half conscious, I pulled my way along the branch, slowly, slowly, feeling my muscles drag, the cloying mud sucking at me, drawing me down. With my free arm I flailed wildly, seeking something else to grab hold of.
A creeper offered a moment of hope, then that too came away in my grasp. Above me, outlined against the sky, I could just make out a long, twisting horizontal limb. I stretched upwards, but though my nails scratched against its underside I could find no purchase. And I was sinking now, praying, panicking, overcome with exhaustion. My fingers no longer touched the bough. The cold, deadly sludge rose over my shoulders to my chin.
I cannot properly describe what happened next. That is, I know what I thought happened, what seemed to happen. Yet even after what I was subsequently to learn, I remain unsure.
The moon reappeared. That was my interpretation, anyway, for quite suddenly I could see. And what I saw, clearly, was the heavy limb above me, slipping away as I sank to my death, and my mud-coated arm waving helplessly over my head. And higher overhead was a latticework of branches, starkly outlined against the dark sky. And everything was held in a soft, unworldly light.
There was something upon the bough. A figure, crouching, peering down at me. It was pale, vaguely human in form, I think, yet not like anything I had ever seen in my life. It sat in a hunched position, and it was watching me with a forlorn, puzzled expression, its head cocked slightly to one side.
And I gasped out: ‘Oh help me! I’m drowning!’
Two enormous dark eyes slowly blinked, then the creature leaned towards me, nimbly extending its torso, and reached down. Warm fingers locked around my wrist and it hauled me free, single-handed, from the mud, drawing me up on to the branch beside it.
That is how I saw it; that is how I experienced it. Barely alive, I hooked my knee over the bough and dragged myself the last few inches, still held by the strange creature. I laid myself exhausted along the wide limb. I heard my rescuer’s voice: ‘Remain here. Do not move until morning. You will be safe now.’
I lifted my head, nodding in relief, seeking words to express my gratitude - but the creature was gone. I was alone on the bough.
Yet there was nowhere it could have gone to.
I gazed all around, raising myself into a half-sitting position, could see clearly into the nearby marsh. There was nobody. Nothing.
I remained there for a few moments more, dazed, confused. Then I dragged myself along the mossy limb to the more secure platform of the massive fallen tree trunk from which it grew. There, with my arms curled for support around a protruding branch, I let my head rest on the wet, half-rotten wood, and closed my eyes.
Sometime during the night I awoke, shivering. It was black all around. I could just make out the closest trees and a sallow gleam on the surface of the ooze beneath me. The marsh was silent.
There were figures moving between the trees. Vaporous, luminous things which seemed to float above the surface of the marsh. I saw five or six, moving soundlessly towards, as I reckoned, the settlement of Guling Mire.
Marsh-wraiths, they had to be, though I had not really believed them to exist. I peered hard at the nearest and made out vague features, eyes or eye-sockets, a mouthlike depression. But the shape changed even as I watched, like animate mist.
Had my rescuer been one of these? I believed not. Whatever it was that had crouched above me on the bough had had physical shape, had been solid to my touch, whereas these things had no sustained form and gave the impression of being no more solid than air. And I wondered: had I dreamed I’d been saved? Had it been hallucination brought on by the desperate plight of my own mind? It seemed almost possible, now, that I had dragged myself free of the bog.
I was too cold and too exhausted to concentrate. I watched a while longer, not daring to move as the marsh-wraiths passed on their way and were lost to sight. And I lay there, frozen waiting to see what the dawn would deliver.
Seven
First light brought a pale grey illumination, revealing for the first time the mass of twisted ghostly trees, the primeval forest growing out of the sodden, watery earth all around. The marsh lay in low mist, silent but for the occasional call of a bird or the splash of a fish or small amphibian. I had awoken - for I had somehow slept again, at least lightly - shivering and stiff with cold. My clothes were wet on my skin and heavy with stinking black muck.
With difficulty I roused myself to a sitting position on the tree trunk and began to take stock of my situation. It was not hopeful. Looking around me, I could barely see the ground, such as it was, for mist. Beneath one end of my tree it looked solid enough, but it was impossible to determine a path in any direction. And appearances were deceptive anyway. What looked solid to the eye could well turn out to be a thin layer of grass or reed lying on little more than slurry. As I already knew, a single step could take me from safety into bottomless mud from which there was no hope of escape.
And if I left, where was I to go? Back to Guling Mire, to Wirm’s men? I assumed my assailants had been in Wirm’s pay. Who else could have sent them? Yet I was unclear as to why Wirm should wish me dead. Last night I had been convinced that my deception had worked. Wirm had seemed positively eager to make a good impression. Why had he changed his mind? Or had he seen through me from the beginning?
Whatever the answer, I could think of little now to enhance my prospects in Guling Mire. Yet I was stumped for an alternative. I could hardly make off into the marsh. I would barely last a minute.
As I thought about it I realized that I had lost all sense of direction. The sky was overcast, the sun not visible, and I could not determine from where the dawn had come. I had no idea which way Guling Mire lay.
I recalled the words spoken to me in the night by the creature that had hauled me from the mud. ‘Remain here. Do not move until morning. You will be safe now.’
Or had it been a dream? It seemed so unreal.
I sat there, numb with cold and despair, and felt far from safe. For all the good survival had done me, I felt I might just as well have drowned last night.
A while later, as the mist was thinning, I heard noises in the undergrowth some distance off - irregular sounds that hung dull in the still morning air, as if someone or something moved with no concern that they might be heard. Then there were voices, men in some number, spread out - moving, I thought, vaguely towards me.
My heart began to thump. I looked around me again, but there was nowhere I could go. I lay down, flattening myself upon the fissured tree trunk, sliding as far as I dared behind its curve. I was scarcely concealed. If they came within a dozen paces of me I would almost certainly be seen.
Moments later I spied them through the mist. One, then another, then more. I estimated a dozen at least. They advanced carefully, each carrying a long pole with which he prodded the ground in front of him before every step.
Someone called out. ‘Master Cormer!’
I ducked my head down. The voice came again. ‘Master Cormer! Master Cormer!’
&
nbsp; ‘You’re wasting your time,’ came a second voice. ‘He couldn’t have survived out here.’
The first voice resumed, louder, ‘It’s me, Master Cormer. Jaktem. And Ilian. It’s safe! Can you hear me? It’s safe now!’
I raised my head an inch and peered over the trunk. The nearest of the men was about twenty paces off. I could see Jaktem, though not Ilian. Jaktem conferred with the others. Some seemed reluctant to continue. I heard doubts expressed about safety, and further observations on the improbability of my survival.
Jaktem turned to address another man further back, half-obscured by the mist. ‘We must go on - a little longer. As long as there’s the slimmest chance.’
I squinted my eyes. The man he had spoken to stood behind the others and appeared to be in charge of the operation. If I were not mistaken it was Wirm of Guling Mire.
This confused me even further. I listened on, my head swimming. Somebody said something about there not being a chance of even finding the body.
‘Then you go back if you wish,’ retorted Jaktem. ‘But I and Ilian will search on alone until we are certain.’
‘You would not be safe,’ Wirm said. He was clad in a long coat of silver foxfur to ward off the chill of the morning. ‘We will continue a while longer.’
They resumed their cautious advance. My thoughts raced. If Wirm had not ordered my death, then who had? Or was this some elaborate deception designed to lure me in? I could only hope that it was not - I knew that if I remained here I would die.
I pulled myself up on the trunk until I was kneeling, supporting myself shakily with one hand. I raised the other hand and waved.
‘Here!’
A raft and ladder were required to bring me from that fallen tree for there was nothing but quagmire all around. Had I tried to leave without help I would not have gone three paces. Wrapped in warm furs, I was transported back to Wirm’s manse.
Later in the day he came to the chamber where I was recuperating. ‘Master Cormer, are you recovered?’
‘I have slept and eaten. I think my strength is restored.’
‘Good.’
I was seated at a table talking with Jaktem and Ilian, hearing their versions of events from the point at which we had become separated the previous night. Wirm leaned over me, his eyes seeming to find something of interest close to my left ear. ‘As I have already said to you, I am shamed and mortified by what has happened here. I cannot adequately convey my apologies, but be sure that those responsible will pay the price of their infamy. In the interim, if there is anything I can do for you do not hesitate to ask. I mean it. I am at your service, sir.’
‘You are very kind.’
Wirm wrung his hands. ‘Justice will be done, sir. Do not doubt. The culprit who masterminded this shocking attack has been apprehended, and in order that you harbour no questions as to my sincerity I would ask that you accompany me as soon as you are able. There is something I would like you to see.’
‘I am able now, and quite ready,’ I said, rising. I was intrigued.
I had learned from Jaktem and Ilian how, in the darkness and confusion of the conflict, they had become separated from both myself and each other. Each had managed to fight his way clear of his assailants and had tried to relocate me. Failing, they had passed the night hidden. In the morning it became plain that Wirm’s guards were out to apprehend the culprits and that my attempted murder had not been Wirm’s doing. Jaktem and Ilian gave themselves up, and once their identities had been established had been permitted - in fact, encouraged - to initiate the search which culminated in my rescue from the mire.
I was not sure what to make of this. Something, somewhere did not quite fall into place. But I did not know what. For my part I kept silent about my experience, preferring to let all believe that I had somehow saved my own life by dragging myself on to the bough.
With Jaktem and Ilian in tow, I followed Wirm from the chamber. We made our way down into the township, an escort of four beefy guards at our sides.
‘Last night I saw what I believe were marsh-wraiths,’ I said. ‘Luminous, vaporous wisps that moved of their own volition across the marsh. Did they enter the town?’
‘Not that I am aware of.’ Wirm put the question to the sergeant of our guard, who confirmed that no wraiths had been seen. Jaktem and Ilian, too, had seen nothing, and again I wondered whether it had all been a dream.
‘Do they enter the town sometimes?’
‘Increasingly rarely,’ said Wirm.
We marched on in silence, passing along a couple of narrow, twisting streets, heading, by my calculations, towards the rear of the settlement and the lagoons and eel-tanks in the marsh. Wirm had begun humming to himself. His mood seemed casually buoyant, as though nothing at all were amiss. I felt his stealthy fingers lightly grasp my elbow. ‘Are you at all familiar with the habits of the Grey-backed Twiner, Master Cormer?’
‘I cannot say that I am. I’ve eaten the meat on one or two occasions, but that’s as far as my acquaintance goes.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘I found it tender and pleasant to the palate, yes.’
‘Mmh. Of course, to gain its most beneficial effects you need to consume the flesh on a regular basis. It is rich in goodness, providing it has been properly cultivated. Eaten daily it becomes quite life-enhancing. The rewards can be most salutary.’
He gave my elbow a knowing squeeze, smirking, his eyes almost upon my face.
‘I have heard as much,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately I am a man of fairly modest means. Even were the flesh available in Chol, its price would preclude my enjoying it on a regular basis.’
‘Then, when preparing samples for your master in Chol, sir,
I shall provide you with an additional, complimentary sample from the House of Wirm for your private consumption. How does that sound to you?’
‘You are most generous, Master Wirm. I am in your debt.’
‘Not at all.’ He lapsed into silence for some moments, then said, ‘A fascinating beast, the Twiner. Do you know anything about its life-cycle?’
‘Scarcely a thing.’
‘The eels live for no more than two years, and, though they can travel quite far from the Mire at times, they always return here, to their birthplace, to breed. No one is quite sure why that is, but it is thought to be due to the presence of certain rare nutrients in the mud or plant-life here. A mature adult male can grow to a maximum of a cubit in length, though most are somewhat shorter. The female attains approximately half that. Their diet is particularly interesting. For most of their lives the eels eat plant-stuffs or minute insects or larvae from the water and mud. But for a short period once a year, at the time of breeding, an extraordinary change occurs. The female Twiners become voracious carnivores. Their mouths develop ridges of sharp, calloused flesh, capable of taking the meat off small fish, frogs, other Twiners or animal carcasses. Even small water-loving animals can fall victim, should they unwittingly swim into a school of Twiners which contains breeding females.’
‘Do they turn upon one another?’ I enquired.
‘Not ordinarily, though under certain circumstances - the specific nature of which I have not been able to determine - a group of females will attack and partially devour a male, leaving him alive but in a condition in which life cannot be sustained.’
‘For how long does this behaviour manifest?’
‘Within a month they revert to their normal habits. The eggs are spawned, hatch, and a month later it is time to cull the young. There, Master Cormer, you have learned a secret known to few outside of Guling Mire.’
We had arrived at a wooden palisade set with a large gate and watch-towers. Beyond I could see the long wooden rooftops of the processing areas, with sodden grey and black trees behind. Guards bearing spears and swords were as much in evidence here as at Wirm’s manse. There was a barked command from within, and the gate swung open to admit us. We passed through, crossed a small yard and entered one of the long processing s
heds. The stench of eel flesh and entrails was overpowering. Ranks of drying eels lay on hundreds of racks hung from the roof. Huge wooden pails stood beside the long benches where the workers toiled, and into these the guts were thrown. Hearts and vital organs went into green pails; intestines and digestive tracts into grey. Nothing was wasted, though I did not know where the offal was destined.
Workers, women as well as men, paused in their labours to bow their heads as Wirm strode past. I cast my eye over them, and over the guards who stood watch around the building. The workers appeared pale and hollow-eyed, docile, somewhat cowed. I knew they worked long hours for scant payment. Many were plainly sick. I thought they looked quite stupefied.
We passed from the shed, traversed a small area of open ground and stepped up on to a rickety wooden walkway which stretched out into the watery lagoon of the marsh. The sun had begun to push through the low cloud which had dominated the morning. Tendrils of mist still rose from the marsh; the air was almost motionless and, as yet, chill. The walkway extended for more than one hundred paces, with others branching off at crazy angles and themselves extending and breaking into further walkways, so that a whole network of jetties latticed the lagoon. Moored to wooden bollards here and there were rafts to enable access to the areas the jetties could not reach.