Losara began to appreciate why the gods had told him not to ‘whisk about’ with his new powers. There was something satisfying about journeying slowly, taking in the surrounds and learning the land. He knew that if he wanted to, he could be at Swampwild in the blink of an eye, but that did not bear serious consideration. For one thing, Lalenda was the reason they went there and he could not take her with him through the shadowlines.
The Ragga Plains, which filled most of the distance between Skygrip and Swampwild, were flat and fertile. Blue grasses grew lushly between groves of larger vegetation, giving the land a soft look. Prosperous towns spread lazily, and tended fields clustered in groups, a patchwork of green and blue and dark red crops and sometimes livestock. Shepherds guided flocks of horned beasts that Losara had not seen before, except, he was sure, in the form of meat. At one point he dived a little closer to inspect a Grey Goblin who wore simple cloth and culled his crops with a scythe. That was the life Tyrellan had escaped from, and Losara had trouble imagining him in it. The farmer chanced a look skywards and almost dropped his scythe in surprise.
Lalenda fell into a hover beside Losara. ‘You’d think this was the first time he’d seen a man floating in the air,’ she said, and giggled.
They journeyed on, and soon drew close to Swampwild. The land beneath grew wetter, and grass gave way to reedy ponds. Here and there ran raised pathways of compacted mud, slippery and hazardous. They reached the bog proper, where marshes were dotted by soft green hillocks. A rich and earthy smell rose to meet them – things growing, things decomposing, water full of life. An abundance of plants grew: willows and ferns, grasses and reeds, moss and free-floating tresses of weeds. The air buzzed with the sound of insects, and flecks of silver glinted as wings caught the light. Lalenda slowed, and Losara slowed to match her. He could sense her trepidation.
‘Which way?’ he asked.
‘Deeper,’ she said, and on they flew.
He stood, taking in his surrounds. The huts of the village Twir were built of dried reeds and mud, simple and hump-like. There was only enough room on each hillock for two or three, but most hillocks were connected by bridges in different states of decay, some as simple as toppled logs. Willow trees draped over the water and tangled with their neighbours, and a group of pixie children flitted about them, playing some kind of chasing game. The huts spread out around the base of an ancient willow tree, with a labyrinth of branches issuing from its thickly twisted trunk. It was full of wooden treehouses, more elaborate than those below, and a large town hall was the highest of all. It was here, on a landing, that Losara waited as Lalenda spoke to a wrinkled and grey-haired Mire Pixie mayor.
Grimra wafted by, rustling Losara’s cloak. ‘Grimra,’ he said, ‘go softly.’ Grimra growled his acquiescence and eddied to a stop. Probably Losara need not have said anything. The ghost seemed to understand the current mood and had remained close and quiet ever since they’d arrived here.
‘The flutterbug,’ whispered Grimra, ‘is not happy to be home?’
‘It is not the homecoming she dreamed of,’ said Losara.
The mayor turned and went into the town hall and Lalenda came to join them. Losara noticed that while her eyes were puffy, she was not weeping.
‘She left a letter,’ said Lalenda. ‘In case I ever returned.’
Losara felt uncertain what to do. Should he embrace her? Or did she prefer to be left alone?
‘I am sorry,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Sorry, flutterbug,’ echoed Grimra. He swirled about her slowly, rustling her hair – his version of the embrace that Losara lacked the courage to offer.
What must it be like to lose someone? he wondered. He’d lost his mother too, but knew it wasn’t the same. If he had known his mother before losing her, would he have felt more passionately? Maybe, maybe not. It was sad when life ended, perhaps, but there was nothing surprising about it. In a way, he thought, her mother’s death meant that Lalenda was free. If her mother had been alive, Lalenda would no doubt have wanted to stay with her, who knew for how long. Meanwhile, he would have needed to press on with his pilgrimage and may have had to leave her here. That wasn’t what he wanted. He realised a small part of him was relieved there was nothing to bind her to this place, and he wondered if that was selfish.
He found himself moving to embrace her, a natural thing once it started. As he reached around her, she moved against him, her head resting just below his chin. He stroked her hair, and for a moment she clutched his back and shuddered – but as she pulled away, he saw no tears.
‘You do not weep,’ he said.
‘I’ve wept enough. And this sorrow is too deep and old.’
He wasn’t sure that made sense to him.
The Mire Pixie mayor returned carrying a sealed letter. ‘Here you are, child,’ she said. She glanced furtively at Losara, whose presence had not really been explained to her. He got the sense she was holding something back.
‘Don’t mind me, ma’am,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You may say anything you like.’
‘Well,’ she said, and turned to clasp Lalenda’s hand, ‘it was only to say, we never did find out who …who told Skygrip about you. If we had, well …they would have been made unwelcome.’
Lalenda nodded blankly.
‘If you wish to stay, I can arrange lodgings,’ said the mayor.
Lalenda shook her head. ‘I will visit my mother’s grave and then we will depart,’ she said. ‘There is nothing left for me here save the distant echoes of what should have been.’
She spread her wings and glided from the landing, and Losara stepped out after her. She led the way to Twir’s graveyard, and as they flew between trees Losara felt eyes staring at him. Being a human who could fly was no doubt responsible for the interest. Losara was glad they didn’t know who he really was, or else there would have been fuss of some kind, and that would have overshadowed their real reason for being here.
The village fell away behind them as Lalenda followed some invisible route. Grimra disappeared as well, probably off to see which type of frog tasted the best. They came to an area where the willow trees grew thickly, and Lalenda brought them down on a hillock. Carved into tree trunks in spidery letters were names. She wandered slowly in a circle around the hillock’s edge, examining them. The bog around them was still and thick, and Losara noticed that at the water’s edge were luminescent red flowers with star-shaped petals.
‘They are graveblooms,’ said Lalenda, appearing beside him, ‘planted around the ponds where we bury our dead.’
She sat down on the slope of the hillock and Losara joined her.
‘This is where your mother’s body went in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did your mother’s note …did it …’ He struggled to phrase the question.
‘It said that she loved me, and missed me, and was sorry,’ said Lalenda. ‘Simple things.’
‘But important things.’ Losara sighed. ‘Battu was wrong to treat you as he did.’
They sat for a time in silence, staring into the muddy water. Occasionally a fat bubble would come to the surface, hold for a minute or two, and finally burst with a soft slurp.
‘What was she like?’ Losara asked.
Lalenda thought for a moment and a smile chanced across her face. Losara was relieved to see it, if only briefly. ‘Stubborn,’ she said. ‘Kelan – the mayor – said she fought the wasting disease right until the end.’