Then the birds disappear away up the bank over the reeds and feathery grasses ahead, to search for the leaf-cure, the white pigeon calling, *Way this! Way this!*
I follow them, but the wolf-cub immediately runs after us, getting in my way and nearly tripping me up.
*What are you doing?* I say. *No one said anything about you coming.*
*You have been declared Wildness and I too have submitted like the stag. I must now hunt with you, always.*
As we leave the roar of the whiterforce behind, a hush falls, the wolf-cub pushing silently ahead through sheaves of tall grass. Grass that seems to be growing taller the further we go into the marshes, as the ground gets soggier beneath our feet. It’s hard work, constantly slipping into boggy puddles and stepping out again. Every cell in my brain, every nerve in my body is focused on being the Wildness now, on leading and being in charge. The wolf-cub stays by my side and jumps happily over hillocks of moss erupting out of the ground in spools of bright yellow and green, endlessly sniffing every last strand.
*Why did you leave your father? Did he fall off a cliff after a great hunt too?*
*Not really,* I mutter.
*It must be very hard to be without a father. I find it hard. I’m so used to him telling me what to do. But I think I’m doing really well, don’t you?*
*Yes, you’re doing just great.*
*Better than any other wolf-cub without a father that you’ve ever seen?*
*Yes, much better — the best ever.*
Some soil drops on to our head, and there is the white pigeon, who has somehow managed to get filthy from the bog as well, high above our heads, hurrying us on.
*So why did you leave?* the wolf-cub asks again.
I look down at the ground. *I didn’t want to. I got taken away from him.*
The cub seems proper shocked. *Had you committed a great crime against your pack?*
Biting my lip, I look around for something else to think about — all the rubbery leaves and pale flowers and waving grass — but the cub swipes his paw at my leg, breaking my thoughts. His eyes are hard, his jaw set. I don’t think a Wildness is meant to have committed any crimes.
*You are the Wildness now. You have to tell me.*
*Look, it’s not something I want to talk about right now —*
I turn aside and stumble on. I’m the Wildness. I can do what I like. I don’t have to answer, or explain anything. We wander on in silence for what feels like hours, my hands dug into my pockets, my head full of thoughts that I don’t want to be there.
Finally the cub speaks again, quieter this time, wounded. *I have pledged you loyalty. Do you know what that means?*
*Not really, no.*
*It means I will offer my life for yours if I have to. But I can only do that if I know who I am serving. You have to tell me — those are the rules of a wild.*
*You don’t have to offer your life.*
*It doesn’t matter. I will.*
*Well, thanks, that’s really—*
He leaps in front of me and stamps his paw, sending black mud flying everywhere. *I don’t want thanks. I want to know who I am serving. What did you do? What did you do that was so bad you got sent away to that place for a whole six years? You have to tell me!*
We stare at each other in silence, the only reply coming from the wind whispering between the reeds. Then there’s a call from the rushes up ahead.
*Found it! Found it!* call down the pigeons. *Over here!*
*Over there!* cries out the white pigeon.
We splash on through the swamp, following their cries, and find them perched high above our heads, spread out on the drooping branches of a tree. A tree that stands all alone in the middle of a black pond, the surface covered with floating moss and lily pads. The wolf-cub and I only just stop ourselves falling in as the rushes and reeds give way to water. But neither of us can take our eyes off the tree. Here, rising out of the bog, the leaves of the tree, which hang down in bunches, pulling it right over with their weight — are bright gold. Gold and shining and twisting in the cold air.
Shining willow. The leaf-cure.
The leaf-cure that is in the middle of a swamp.
A swamp that steams and bubbles, treacly black mud stirring and oozing like oil. I glower at the pigeons, sitting coolly on top of the tree, watching me with their beady eyes. I’ve only just climbed out of a freezing river –
*What about this? Is this in your old dream as well?*
*Oh yes,* they nod back.
*When are you going to tell me what’s really going on?*
They look away.
*We are only birds. We cannot explain everything that there is.*
Shaking my head, I start wading into the watery mud. The swamp tugs and pulls at my feet. I try to go back, but just sink deeper in, up to my knees. It gets thicker as I go deeper and deeper, pressing around me, licking my chin.
And then, I slip –
My foot stumbles on a rock, I’m falling and the mud is closing over my head –
For a minute all I can see is black, and I can’t breathe at all — and there is soil and water up my nose and in my eyes –
I try not to panic, but it’s hard when you can taste dirty mud on your lips as it squeezes tight around your chest, making it harder and harder to breathe, and yet –
The strangest thing. I can hear it. I can hear the swamp. There are no creatures here that I can see. No snakes, no fish, no varmints. But there are voices. Tiny faint voices, not making any sense, not forming any words, just noises and echoes of noises. Voices everywhere in the swamp. Voices waiting to be born.
It’s only a moment — then I give one last push and I’m bursting up out of the swamp, wiping gobbets of mud from my eyes, gasping for air.
For a moment I just stand there, black from head to foot in bog, sucking in huge breaths of air. But I don’t feel scared any more. Not of mud. Not of the outdoors. I feel different somehow. Part of things, in a way that I wasn’t before.
Then the wolf-cub shouts at me from the bank, the pigeons from the tree — and I’m plunging forward towards the shining leaves ahead. Reaching them, I strain on my toes, grabbing at the lowest hanging bunches, ripping them off.
*Take as many as you can!* say the birds.
Holding the leaves high above my head, I wade back through the bog and collapse on the bank, my chest heaving up and down. I sniff the leaves clutched in my hand, dripping with mud. They smell strange and woody.
The pigeons crowd round.
*Place them on her ankle. Wrap them round tight. They will heal her and soothe her.*
I stuff my pockets full of leaves until I can carry no more and we hurry back through the swamp. But it is no easier to get through than before, and as we weave our way through the pools and clumps of grasses, the light slowly begins to change in the sky.
As we finally climb up the bank, pushing through the ferns to reach the fish-road again, and see the long shadows falling from the trees on to the water, I realize that we have been gone for most of the day. Immediately I sense that something isn’t right. Because although it is getting darker, I can still see clearly. I can see the clouds of mist from the whiterforce, the ripples of light on the water, and I can see the rocks and boulders on the shore where we left the others.
I just can’t see them.
Chapter 27
By the time I start to run to the shore, the wolf-cub is already ahead of me, leaping in great strides, skidding on to the shingle, flipping rocks over with his paw, as if the stag or Polly might be hiding under them.
*You won’t find them there —*
*I’m not looking for them!* he snaps back. *I’m looking for the bug.*