little thrill of threat that ran with those whispers. Not Troths, Troths had no words. Not Kelpies, for they were singular menaces. But these whispers were likewise hostile.
She…She…
A drumbeat. Ominous and closing in.
And then I remembered Lark’s terrified cry:
Run, Evie! Run! The Breeders come!
I whirled, unprepared, standing empty-handed in my undershift. My mind worked fast—there were none of the plants I’d need to fashion a barrier, but there was a broom in the hut. I ran across the grass, pulled on my frock and cloak, crammed into my sandals, and threw my satchel over my shoulder. The rustlings were louder—how much time? How many were coming? I raced to the shelter of the hut and felt my way in the darkness, sending a brief thanks skyward to the owner who’d left a simple tool, something that might fend off an attack.
Attack
—a shuddering, unexpected word. It made me think, suddenly, of Raif’s grandfather suffering the first attack of the Troths. Lark said the old man accepted his death with noble dignity, as any villager of Merith might. I didn’t think I could stand still like that, didn’t think I could surrender. I’d planned my death over and over these months, wished for it, but the Healer in me immediately armed against it.
I found the broom, stamped on it to splinter the handle for a spear. It was the best I could do. No one from Merith ever learned how to fashion a weapon properly. To us, violence was appalling.
I stepped back outside and held, listening. A silence had taken hold of the marsh—an abnormal silence. I looked up. The stars seemed fainter in the rich blue expanse, which meant the moon was rising. I looked at the goats. They huddled at the side of the hut, panting and restless, so I walked away from them toward the center of the lawn and planted the spear at my feet like some makeshift soldier, ready to defend.
Our little island waited, poised. The silence deepened—a held breath. Then—
The goats bleated in panic, shattering quiet. I spun to catch the first intruder; but it was just a shadow skittering across the grass, gone before I could blink. I whisked the other way as another little blur darted out of the reeds and was gone, and then another and another. Shadows, ’twas all, harmless little swipes as quick and silent as bats. But then a thousand hisses of
She!
exploded from the reeds, and dark things poured out of the marsh aiming straight for me.
I swore and took off running. They pursued—shreds of darkness, racing fast. No faces, no true arms or legs, just wisps—brushing across my face and arms like a sweep of stinging nettles. I yelled and lashed out with my broom handle. I hit some of them, I think, for there was an ugly ripping sound and a stink of sulfur. I stumbled forward, hacking at the air, trying to beat back the shadows, but I was already surrounded—they hovered and swallowed. Their sheer numbers turned the night black like some turbulent and hostile cloud that lifted me off my feet and hurtled me, dangling, through the miles of marsh at breakneck speed, leaving a wake of broken reeds.
I kicked and slashed, but anything struck was only replaced by countless more, an endless swarm of shadows buzzing
She! She! She!
until the word blurred into a single drone. I was gasping from the struggle, the speed, the suddenness—
And then, just as sudden, we broke through the end of Rood Marsh, where the moon ascended above a wide, shallow pond that bled from the rushes. It lit the surface in a sweep of silver. It lit my hair silver too, a beacon in the midst of the black. The abundance of light seemed to shock the swarm, for they abruptly scattered in a fury of hisses, dropping me belly-first into the water.
I sank, resurfaced, and then stroked fast away from the marsh. They were shaky strokes—I moved by some mechanical reflex, hardly thinking. But it was a mistake, my release; the things were not done with me. In a shriek the swarm regathered and
She…She…
A drumbeat. Ominous and closing in.
And then I remembered Lark’s terrified cry:
Run, Evie! Run! The Breeders come!
I whirled, unprepared, standing empty-handed in my undershift. My mind worked fast—there were none of the plants I’d need to fashion a barrier, but there was a broom in the hut. I ran across the grass, pulled on my frock and cloak, crammed into my sandals, and threw my satchel over my shoulder. The rustlings were louder—how much time? How many were coming? I raced to the shelter of the hut and felt my way in the darkness, sending a brief thanks skyward to the owner who’d left a simple tool, something that might fend off an attack.
Attack
—a shuddering, unexpected word. It made me think, suddenly, of Raif’s grandfather suffering the first attack of the Troths. Lark said the old man accepted his death with noble dignity, as any villager of Merith might. I didn’t think I could stand still like that, didn’t think I could surrender. I’d planned my death over and over these months, wished for it, but the Healer in me immediately armed against it.
I found the broom, stamped on it to splinter the handle for a spear. It was the best I could do. No one from Merith ever learned how to fashion a weapon properly. To us, violence was appalling.
I stepped back outside and held, listening. A silence had taken hold of the marsh—an abnormal silence. I looked up. The stars seemed fainter in the rich blue expanse, which meant the moon was rising. I looked at the goats. They huddled at the side of the hut, panting and restless, so I walked away from them toward the center of the lawn and planted the spear at my feet like some makeshift soldier, ready to defend.
Our little island waited, poised. The silence deepened—a held breath. Then—
The goats bleated in panic, shattering quiet. I spun to catch the first intruder; but it was just a shadow skittering across the grass, gone before I could blink. I whisked the other way as another little blur darted out of the reeds and was gone, and then another and another. Shadows, ’twas all, harmless little swipes as quick and silent as bats. But then a thousand hisses of
She!
exploded from the reeds, and dark things poured out of the marsh aiming straight for me.
I swore and took off running. They pursued—shreds of darkness, racing fast. No faces, no true arms or legs, just wisps—brushing across my face and arms like a sweep of stinging nettles. I yelled and lashed out with my broom handle. I hit some of them, I think, for there was an ugly ripping sound and a stink of sulfur. I stumbled forward, hacking at the air, trying to beat back the shadows, but I was already surrounded—they hovered and swallowed. Their sheer numbers turned the night black like some turbulent and hostile cloud that lifted me off my feet and hurtled me, dangling, through the miles of marsh at breakneck speed, leaving a wake of broken reeds.
I kicked and slashed, but anything struck was only replaced by countless more, an endless swarm of shadows buzzing
She! She! She!
until the word blurred into a single drone. I was gasping from the struggle, the speed, the suddenness—
And then, just as sudden, we broke through the end of Rood Marsh, where the moon ascended above a wide, shallow pond that bled from the rushes. It lit the surface in a sweep of silver. It lit my hair silver too, a beacon in the midst of the black. The abundance of light seemed to shock the swarm, for they abruptly scattered in a fury of hisses, dropping me belly-first into the water.
I sank, resurfaced, and then stroked fast away from the marsh. They were shaky strokes—I moved by some mechanical reflex, hardly thinking. But it was a mistake, my release; the things were not done with me. In a shriek the swarm regathered and
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