‘How do we cross this swamp?’ Fox said to Heckle who was waddling towards the bank of the river. ‘Because if there are pits of snakes beneath the soil of the jungle in the Bonelands I dread to think what’s lurking under the surface of that water.’
The parrot cocked her head, then scuttled backwards a few steps. ‘Heckle is wondering what that shape gliding towards us is.’
The sloth craned his furry head round Fox’s neck to get a better view and Fox peered into the distance. Her eyes widened because there, skimming over the surface of the water towards them – as if the departing flamingoes had summoned it – was a boat.
It was a small vessel, about the size of a rowing boat, but it was scooped up at the front as if it had been carved into a specific shape. There was a cloaked figure sitting in the boat who, every now and again, dipped a wooden staff into the water to ease the vessel across the swamp.
Fox didn’t cower away. And neither did Heckle or the sloth. The glasswing butterflies had led them here, which meant that the Forever Fern was probably somewhere beyond this swamp, and now it seemed there might be a way to cross the water, after all.
The boat was halfway across now and Fox saw that it was painted white and the prow was actually carved into the elegant neck and head of a flamingo.
‘I come in peace,’ the cloaked figure said. It was a woman’s voice, lilting and strong, though Fox couldn’t tell whether it belonged to someone young or old. ‘I am the last Unmapper left in these parts,’ the woman called. ‘I have been hiding out over here and waiting for you.’
Fox took a very small step backwards and Heckle fluttered up onto her shoulder. Goldpaw hadn’t mentioned any Unmappers living in the Bonelands.
‘I am here to help you cross the swamp and continue your search for the Forever Fern,’ the woman went on.
The boat was a stone’s throw away now, but still the figure didn’t lift her hood back from her face. She kept her body completely hidden.
Fox couldn’t help wondering how the woman had known that she would come this way. Even Fox herself hadn’t known she’d end up at the swamp until a few moments ago. The sloth tightened his grip round Fox’s neck, which made Fox take another tiny step backwards.
Heckle stiffened on her shoulder. ‘Heckle is feeling worried because she can’t read the Unmapper’s thoughts…’
The boat was approaching the shore now and overhead Fox noticed that the flamingoes were flying back towards them, too. She could hear that their wings were beating with an unusual sound: a clattering rather than a whrum. With one final push, the cloaked figure let the vessel glide right up to the wooden jetty in front of Fox. The Unmapper stretched out a hand to pull herself up onto the pontoon and the air turned suddenly cold.
The Unmapper had fingers, but where skin should have been at her wrist there were feathers. Black ones that shone like oil.
She stood on the pontoon and though the hood of her cloak was still draped over her head, Fox caught a glimpse of a yellow eye that burned with malice. And, as soon as Fox locked eyes with the figure, the magic that had been holding the whole scene together – the magic that had made Fox feel like the boat had come to help her – vanished.
This boat had come for Fox, but not in the way she had hoped.
The boat’s planks transformed into bones. And when Fox looked up she saw that the flamingoes soaring towards them were now vultures that looked also to be made entirely of bones. Creatures stirred in the swamp around the boat, too, and Fox’s eyes widened as the heads of several large black crocodiles broke the surface of the water.
But most terrifying of all was the figure on the pontoon. No longer feeling the need to hide, it threw back its cloak and Fox screamed at what she saw: the body of a woman, but a woman covered in black feathers, with talons for feet, a long pointed skull over her face and two shining black wings tucked in at her sides. Heckle hadn’t been able to read the Unmapper’s thoughts because this was no Unmapper. This was a creature filled with dark magic.
This – Fox realised – was the harpy, Morg.
‘And so, girl from the Faraway, we meet at last,’ Morg sneered.
Fox didn’t wait to hear any more. She turned and ran, legs pounding, arms pumping, with the terrified sloth bouncing on her back and Heckle flapping in front as together they rounded the swamp. It was too late for the doubleskin mirror: Morg’s eyes were pinned on Fox so she couldn’t melt into the forest unseen. She fled, the crocodiles following her every move, skulking through the water with teeth bared, while up above the vultures trailed her on skeleton wings.
And down on the forest floor, scuttling round the bank of the swamp like a large, deformed beetle, came Morg. Her wings were bristling with dark magic now, which she had put to use by disguising the flamingoes and the boat, and which she planned to use again as soon as she closed in on the troublesome girl. But those wings were not yet strong enough to grant the harpy flight. Instead she scuttled over the ground because she’d let a Faraway child escape once before and she wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.
‘Give up, little wretch,’ the harpy crooned. ‘There is
