I looked up at him, his cheeks not exactly rosy, but pinkish gold. “You don’t believe me?”
He paused. “I don’t not believe you.”
I should never have said anything. Of course he didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t myself. Why didn’t I think about it all the time? Why didn’t I turn into Mr. Sherlock Holmes and bring her murderer to justice?
We fell into silence. Eldric fell back to whistling; his whistling slid into singing. “Gin a body meet a body, comin’ thro’ the rye.” Beyond the Flats lay the fields. I had used to love lying in them in the fall, the rye waving above my head, bronzed and feathered.
“Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry?”
Eldric and I bled and wept round twists of black branches. It was most peculiar to hear Eldric sing. I felt he was singing just for me. I’d not felt that since Father stopped singing to us, at bedtime. I suppose we’d grown too old for that, Rose and I, but still, I’d missed it for a long time.
Now I had to struggle to keep up with Eldric. He wasn’t short of breath; he was fresh as the proverbial daisy. Unfair! This is my swamp and I’m wolfgirl, tireless and fierce. Unfair! I wished I could uproot him and pluck his petals, one by one.
But I already know how it will end.
“Let’s slow down,” said Eldric. “No need to rush, not today.”
“You think I’m not fit,” I said.
“It’s Mr. Dreary who’s not fit,” he said. “It’s you who’ve not been well.”
“But I’m not a fragile, faint-y sort of girl,” I said. “Once, I could run forever.” I can’t even remember when I learned to run forever. It seemed that I’d always been wolfgirl. Father had never minded my going into the swamp until I turned ten. Then he began to have doubts. He told me I ought to be more ladylike. He never quite forbade me, though, and thank goodness Stepmother came along to say I might visit the swamp as much as I liked—until, of course, she told me I mightn’t.
He had a nice voice, not beautiful but pleasant. He sang as naturally as he spoke.
He returned to his subterranean whistle. Drift, weep, bleed through the black labyrinth of trees, through the ancient forest. Drift, bleed—
Blast!
Blast Mr. Dreary, calling for us to wait up. His Dreariness was slow and puffy. His little legs weren’t drift- worthy, only drear-worthy.
“Hold tight to your Bible Ball,” I said. “We’re about to enter the Quicks. They’ll gobble you up if you’re not careful.”
“Unless,” said Mr. Dreary in his tinned-soup way, “I happen to come across a Horror who’s immune to the Bible.” How could a tinned-soup voice sound mocking? Mr. Dreary didn’t believe in the Horrors.
“How does a Horror come to be immune?” said Eldric.
“Natural selection,” said Mr. Dreary, very proud no doubt to have heard of Mr. Darwin.
“Not enough time,” I said. “The Bible only came to the Swampsea during the last century. Natural selection doesn’t work that quickly.”
“How do you also come to know so much?” said Eldric.
“Father engaged a brilliant tutor for me. Henry Fitzgerald was his name, but we called him Fitz. He didn’t mind. Sometimes we called him the Genius. He didn’t mind that, either. He was interested in everything—in Mr. Darwin, in Dr. Freud, in those machines that photograph people’s bones.”
“My feet are wet,” said Mr. Dreary.
“You lack the proper gear,” I said. We teetered along a trickle of land that wound between water and mud. “Here in the swamp, even the swans wear rubber boots.”
“Not for long,” said Mr. Dreary. “Give Clayborne a couple of years, he’ll drain the swamp dry.”
Oh, dreary me!
“But the swamp’s so beautiful,” said Eldric. “I don’t care for the idea of draining it.”
“It’s progress,” said Mr. Dreary. “You can’t stand in the way of progress.”
“I can so,” said Eldric.
“But Miss Briony understands,” said Mr. Dreary. “She knows what progress will mean to the Swampsea. Cattle, crops, education, commerce, medicine.”
Miss Briony understood no such thing, but just then, a brace of pheasant had the good sense to blast out of the reeds at our feet. Mr. Dreary jumped. Eldric and I pretended not to laugh.
We skirted the hungry bog-holes, which were simply dying to drink down any unwary traveler. Well, actually, it’s the traveler who’d be doing the dying. But the swans had nothing to fear and were feeding at the bog-holes, poking about with their yellow bills. The water shone yellow, reflecting the yellow sky and the white swans and the bronzed reeds and the yellow bills. The ground quaked beneath our feet, breathing in air, breathing out mist.
“Tell me about the Horrors,” said Eldric.
“Later,” I said. “We ought to catch up with the constable and the Reeve. The swamp is unfriendly at night.”
I called, but they’d drawn too far ahead.
“I can throw my voice as far as I threw that stone,” said Eldric. “You remember, the stained-glass-smashing one?”
He threw his voice, all right, and with the proper shattering effect. The constable and Reeve turned about and waited.
“Don’t worry,” I said as we sped up. “You’ll experience the Horrors soon enough.”
London seems an exciting place, far more exciting than the Swampsea. But it occurred to me that the Swampsea might seem equally exciting to Eldric. He wouldn’t have seen any of the Old Ones: So many had died in the great cities—in London, and Manchester, and Liverpool. No one knew it was the machines and metal making them sick, killing them.
Only the vampires can survive. They’re remarkably tough, which is lucky for them, as they don’t embrace country living.
By the time we reached the constable and Reeve, the sunset had turned to dust. We’d only two lanterns among the four of us. The water was gray, the reeds were black. With every step, we squeezed at the lungs of the swamp. It breathed out mist and poison.
Mr. Dreary coughed and rubbed his eyes. “Smells like the Hot Place.”
I said nothing, not having had personal experience.
Now that dusk had fallen, came the Horrors. Voices wailed about us, voices of the dying and the damned. Twigs snapped beneath invisible feet; an invisible something smacked its lips.
Mr. Dreary whirled round, and round again.
“Don’t run!” I grabbed his sleeve.
“It don’t be naught but the Horrors,” said the Reeve. “They delights in making folks scareful, but you got yourself a Bible Ball.”
“Don’t run!” I tightened my hold on Mr. Dreary’s sleeve, turned to the others. “Don’t let him run!” A chorus of screams cut through my words. Hold tight, Briony. This is why you’re here, to save Mr. Dreary.
“Look at the lights!” Mr. Dreary’s voice scratched like an old nail. “A village, we’ll be safe there!”
“No!” The Reeve, the constable, and I spoke over one another, trying to explain. “They’re false lights; they’re
