‘We must press on, make haste,’ Golconda said when Warrigal asked him if they were going to rest for the night. ‘There is no knowing what the goblins are planning, and the sooner you are safely through the marshes, the better I shall feel.’
The swirling, writhing mist had not lifted all day but the darkness made it appear thicker and more dense so that it felt like a heavy drizzle and their coats once again became soaked with wet. They went in silence now, concentrating on following the heron as he walked ahead of them for they could see very little. Suddenly Nab, who was immediately behind him, heard a muffled thud and a little cry which was stifled almost as soon as it began so that he could not be certain whether or not he had imagined it. He stopped for a second and whispered to Warrigal.
‘Did you hear that?’
‘Yes,’ the owl replied quietly.
‘What was it?’
‘Just some creature, I would think. I heard a splash as well. Come on or we’ll lose sight of Golconda.’
Nab peered ahead through the murk. For an instant or two he could see nothing except the shapes formed by the mist but then to his relief he saw the familiar form of the heron, striding ahead, his tall white figure appearing almost wraith-like as it gathered shrouds of mist around it.
‘Hurry up,’ said Warrigal urgently and Nab felt the talons of the owl tighten on his shoulder. ‘He seems to have got a long way in front. Better not call him in case the goblins are around. Come on.’ Nab moved forward quickly and the others followed and soon they were once again trudging along in silence, sunk in thought, with the heron just visible in front. The little nagging feeling of panic which Nab had felt when he had heard that cry soon passed as he concentrated on following Golconda. Nevertheless there was still something bothering him and as time went on and the figure ahead of him kept going forward resolutely without ever turning around or getting any closer, Nab felt little prickles of fear creep up his spine until he felt as if the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. Nomatter how quickly or how slowly they walked the heron always seemed to remain exactly the same distance in front of them. Why did he not wait for them to catch up? If only he would turn round and they could see his face or if he would just say something. The marsh seemed to be getting thicker and thicker and the smell of damp rotting vegetation was now so heavy on the air that they could almost see it lying like a cloud above the surface of the dark brackish waters and bog moss which lay on each side of their raised path. Around I them the swirling clouds of damp played tricks with their eyes, making it seem as if the dead stumps of the trees were moving; every so often one would loom up at them out of the mist like some malevolent creature of the hog.
Nab’s eyes were fixed so much on the figure ahead of him that he failed to see the ending of the path. Suddenly his feet were enclosed in a mass of green sludge and when he tried to lift them out he found that it was impossible; the more he tried to free one, the further in did the other one sink. Warrigal had flown back on to the path and he called to the others to hurry up. Beth was only just behind but by the time she had arrived the quaking mire was up to his knees. Brock, Sam and Perryfoot ran the few paces to the spot where the path fell away into the bog and saw with horror the scene before them as Nab frantically waved his arms about trying to throw himself towards the bank, but the more he struggled the further he sank. He could feel himself being sucked down with a strength that was impossible to fight: soon he could not move his legs at all for the sludge was halfway up his thighs. Beth lent over as far as she could but still she could not reach his hand and then, through the haze of her memory, she recalled scenes from films and books in which someone had been caught in quicksand. Quickly she took off her cape and rolled it on the grass so that it formed a rope of cloth and then she lay face down on the path as near to the edge as she dared until the stench of the bog filled her nostrils.
‘Brock, let me hold on to you and Sam, you lie across my legs,’ she said.
The animals understood what she wanted and so with her left hand gripping Brock’s front leg as he stood at her side and with the weight of Sam holding her down she threw the cape out with her free hand, but it did not fall straight and dropped well short of Nab’s clutching hand.
‘Hurry,’ he shouted and as he did so he felt the sludge force itself up over his waist.
Beth drew her right arm well back so that the cape was stretched out straight on the path behind her and then with all the strength she could muster she flung it out across the bog. This time the whole of its length was used up and her arm lay out at full stretch. With her heart pounding beneath her she hardly dared raise her head to look, but when she did, to her enormous relief, she saw that he had just managed to grasp the end. Then she could feel him pulling on the cape and her arm felt as if it was being torn out of its socket. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as a wave of pain swept over her. The problem now was how to haul him out of the bog. She tried to bend her arm to pull him but it was impossible; she did not have enough strength. Then she felt her hand begin to slip on the cape but she managed to wedge her fingers against the lion’s-head buckle to stop it sliding. Next she began to wriggle back on her tummy in an attempt to drag him out but that also proved impossible. Desperately she thought for a second and then she called to Brock and Sam to grab hold of her by her legs and pull. They did so, gripping her jeans in their teeth and pushing away from the edge with all their strength. At first nothing happened but then slowly, inch by inch, Beth felt herself moving back.
‘We’re doing it,’ she yelled exultantly to Nab. ‘It’s working.’ She prayed that the cloth of her jeans would hold. Very gradually, Nab felt himself being pulled out of the mire. Soon only the lower part of his legs was left in and he was able to move his hands along the cape to heave himself out more quickly. He would never forget the delicious feeling of freedom as each part of his body fought itself free of the clinging mass that had engulfed it.
Finally he lay on the firm grass path with Beth at his side, panting breathlessly with the effort of her exertions. The joint where her right arm joined the shoulder throbbed terribly with a pulsating ache and the mouths of Sam and Brock were bleeding but they were almost delirious with relief. When he had recovered a little from his ordeal Nab got up slowly and, having thanked them all solemnly picked some handfuls of grass and began to wipe some of the foul ooze from his body. Everywhere was deathly quiet. Then suddenly, for in the drama he had just been through he had completely forgotten him, his thoughts turned to Golconda. Surely he must have missed them by now and turned back? But there was no sign of the great white heron. Nab peered desperately into the darkness but all he could see were the shapes in the mist, dancing joyfully. For a moment the tiredness of his eyes played tricks and he almost believed they were laughing at him. Had the heron been a figment of his imagination? No; they had all seen and spoken with him. Worse still then, had he been in league with the goblins; leading them all into the middle of the bog by gaining their confidence and then abandoning them to wander about for ever in this terrible place to be swallowed up one by one by the marsh as he almost had been?
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the voice of Warrigal, who had perched on a stump at his side.
‘We have no guide,’ he said simply. ‘We have no alternative now but to go back along this path until we find another and then see where that leads us.’