by the grinnlings or, perhaps, worse things.
A firm conviction was beginning to form in his deepest thoughts: that it would be the grandest thing to return to the safety and forgetful ease of a city and leave all this threwdish wild land behind. How could anyone have ever thought it prudent to put a road through such a place as this haunted region?
The land fell away sharply from the northern edge of the road and upon its steep slope no trees grew, affording them a limited view. At last Rossamund could see the moon, ocher-yellow and setting in the west. He turned about quietly where he was and observed the white line of the road they had already traveled as it emerged from the trees. He looked with dread at the impenetrable black of the tangle-wood valleys directly below and, beyond that, the low dark hills further north. He quaked slightly-anything could be stalking about out there. The world was so much bigger than he had ever thought: wilder, and full of threats and loneliness and dread. He hugged his knees to his chest and waited, afraid, staring at the fulgar's shadow.
As they sat, she fidgeted with the scarf about her neck and with the wound beneath. 'Are you better?' she whispered.
'Aye,' he whispered back. 'Your neck, miss?'
'It bleeds still… and it is starting to itch awfully. I believe it may well need seeing to by a physic. That will have to wait. Let's be off again. We still have far to go and this place is starting to get me down.'
The dose of whortleberry had invigorated them both heartily: they walked and walked, and walked yet more, Europe leading onward. The road rose over hills and dropped into small valleys. The forest soon closed in again and they were surrounded now by several kinds of pine. The air was still, filled with the strong smell of sap and the hissing of breezes in the branches. Stars continued to shine brightly and shed some little light on their path from the glimpse of sky above. Of the Signal Stars, Maudlin was now absent, having passed beyond view; only orange Faustus, the 'eye' of the constellation Vespasia, and the yellow planet Ormond showed, and they showed that it was very late indeed. A frightened baby owl screeched thinly, voicing Rossamund's own lost and lonely feelings. As he read the stars, he heard the fulgar stumble heavily in front of him, and looked down to see her sink to the sandy path.
He hurried to her. 'Miss Europe…?'
She was on her hands and knees, panting as she had done after her organs had spasmed. 'The bite… the bite…' she rasped.
Rossamund carefully unwound the scarf from her neck and saw, even by dim starlight, that the wound had swollen frighteningly, and even now was beginning to stink of putrefaction. He gasped. 'It's going bad already, ma'am. You must surely see a physician, and soon!'
'It burns…!' She managed to sit, to lift a water skin to her mouth and drink greedily before lying back and panting yet more. 'We must go on… you're not safe… we… Not long… must…' she rattled on, though she did not seem able nor any longer willing to move.
Rossamund's mind whirled for a time. This panicked feeling was becoming all too familiar. He forced himself to be even-headed.
The evander water! He sat down by Europe and dug about in his satchel for the little flasks. He searched for the longest time with little satisfaction-oh no! — he must have hurled them along with the bothersalts in his hurry to help. But then he found what he wanted: just one bottle, buried right down at the bottom, tangled in among the rest of the contents. He gripped it exultantly. Leaning close to the fulgar's ear, he could feel heat radiating from her in a most unhealthy way. 'I still have some evander water!' he whispered.
Europe revived with this intelligence and forced herself to sit up.
He gave her the little bottle, but her hands shook too much now. Indeed, her whole body was beginning to shudder. He held the flask for her, removed the seal and tipped it very slowly, mindful lest it should spill and be wasted. She swallowed it all as greedily as she had the water and then lay back again. He watched her, holding his breath anxiously.
With a burst of air from her own mouth-loud enough to startle some night bird, which shrilled terrifyingly three times and flurried off-she sat up once more. 'I can walk… We've not… not got far… to… to… go now… Help me up, Box… Box-face.' Her words came in struggling breaths. 'With your… help… I can… can make it.'
Putting a hand on his shoulder, she pushed herself up to stand. Rossamund grimaced but did not make a sound. When she had righted herself, she murmured, 'Lead… on…'
He struggled earnestly to fulfill this task, at first leading her by the hand, gripping it tightly now, completely heedless of being sparked. Then he began limping himself as she started to lean heavily or pull upon him, often stumbling, silently cursing every stone or rut that threatened to trip one of them.
Interminable seemed these last few miles, though the way had, mercifully, become flatter. At one point Rossamund thought he heard the far-off tittering of the grinnlings and urged Europe on a little faster. The further they went the more fatigued he grew and the more insensible Europe became. She muttered odd things-often in another strange, musical language-at one time saying clearly, 'We've been in many scrapes, haven't we, darling…?' She actually chuckled, then became dangerously louder. 'But we get away scot-free every time, hey… hey Box-face? You and me… we… making it large all over the land…' It seemed she might go quiet, but suddenly she blurted, 'Oh my! What have they done to you!' and began to sob, great, deep gulps that wracked her whole body. 'What have they done to you?' she hissed finally and continued to weep. She said no more that night.
Soon Europe collapsed completely, toppling Rossamund with her in a flurry of sweat and perfume, stunning him. He lay for a moment half under the fulgar, his head full of spinning lights. He never thought a woman could weigh so much.
The soft hooting of a boobook went hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo. It was a peculiarly soothing sound and he focused on it to stay awake. There was nothing for it-he had to drag her. Hardly believing where he was or what he was doing, he pulled himself out from under her, fixed a saddlebag under her head, grabbed her by her booted ankles with a foot tucked under each arm and began to walk. Pulling, pulling, finding energy he did not know he had, he dragged the fulgar. Her shoulders ground noisily and her petticoats rumpled and gathered and began to tear, but he could do nothing about either now. He must trust to her proofing, ignore her indignity and simply go on.
Despite the noise and his agony and the desperate slowness of their pace, Rossamund pulled Europe, bags and all, along the road till his fingers clawed and the eastern horizon grew pale. The trees began to grow farther apart, a fringe to the main wood, and as he gradually came around a bend in the road, he thought he saw lights through the sparse trunks. He pulled on a little bit farther and found that it was lights, lantern lights. He stopped to gather himself, gasping in air, and peered at this new sight.
There, in the obscure gray of a new day, he found what they sought: a long, heavy stone wall of great height on the left, protruding from the thinning trees. In a gap about two thirds along this wall and crowned with a modest arch was a solid ironwood gate. Above it was a post fixed horizontally from the apex of the arch, a bright-limn lantern at its far end, shining orange. Dependent from this post was a gaily painted sign. It showed what looked like a woman running or leaping and beneath this the barely legible letters:
… It was the wayhouse. They had arrived at last.
10
Wayhouse (noun) a small fortress in which travelers can find rest for their soles and safety from the monsters that threaten in the wilds about. The most basic wayhouse is just a large common room with an attached kitchen and dwelling for the owner and staff, all surrounded by a high wall. Indeed, the common room still forms the center of a wayhouse, where the stink of dust, sweat and repellents mingles with wood-smoke and the aromas of the pot.
The entrance of the Harefoot Dig would not open when Rossamund pushed upon it with his shoulder.
