I had imagined I would be there for some time, but I did not know much about boatmen. Before dawn had even begun to light the eastern sky, there were already people about, preparing their crafts and loading up crates and sacks. It proved a simple task to find someone willing to take me where I wanted to go. He was calling in at March and Lynn first, he told me, but with any luck he would be able to drop me off at my destination by mid-afternoon.
I was his sole passenger. I had no coins with me, but I carried my leather satchel of oils, herbs, potions and remedies, and in exchange for my passage over the fens I offered to provide any medicament, within reason, that he might be in need of. As it turned out, he was a very healthy man, but his old mother suffered terribly from the phlegm-producing cough that is so common in our damp, watery land. As soon as the sun had risen sufficiently to give me light to work by, I set about mixing a bottle of Edild’s finest cough remedy. Once I’d handed over the medicine, I made myself comfortable, propped my back against a sack containing something soft — wool, probably — and snuggled up in my shawl. I had thought I was far too anxious to sleep, but I hadn’t realized how tired I was. The gentle movement of the boat was like a mother rocking a baby in its cradle, and soon I was fast asleep.
I had never before been to the port of Hunstanton, nor, indeed, anywhere near it. I did not intend to change that now by actually going into the town. As far as the lord of my manor knew, I was in Cambridge. I had been to Chatteris — twice — without his knowledge or his permission, and now I was embarking on another unauthorized trip. The fewer people who saw me, the better.
I set out on the track that led northwards out of the port, keeping as close as I could to the sea, over to my left. I had memorized Edild’s directions, but so far I didn’t really need them. I had merely to walk on until the land began to curve away to the east, then begin looking out for the landmarks she had described.
The afternoon slowly faded into evening. The sky was clear, and the light lasted for a long time. The weather was mild; it had been sunny all day, but now a cloud bank was building up out to sea. I was refreshed after my sleep on the boat. I stopped to eat some of my supplies — Edild had managed to scrounge a little food from one of the lay sisters on night duty in the infirmary, and I had filled my water bottle at Hunstanton quay — then walked on some more. I had probably walked eight or ten miles by the time I finally settled under the shelter of a dune to sleep away the rest of the night.
The onslaught began even while I slept.
It was so subtle, to begin with. I was dreaming: uneasy dreams, wherein I was threatened by a vague menace which, while I did not know what it was, I nevertheless knew to be threatening. Dangerous. Then, out of nowhere, the face of a drowned man was before me, empty sockets right above my eyes, gaping jaws open to expose a tongue eaten off by some sea creature. I screamed, and believed I had woken up, but somehow I could not escape from the dream vision. Was I still asleep? I did not know. The first spectre was followed by others, dozens of them, floating up to me and opening their mouths in silent howls of anguish and terror. Their garments were ripped and shredded, and they stank of the dead things that rot at the very bottom of the sea.
I lay and endured. I sensed the presence of many more of them, floating around me like a putrid, nightmare cloud. After a time, they were no longer there, or perhaps it was that they had ceased showing themselves to me. For the magic was still there; whatever malicious enchantment had shown me that vision was still at work. Its message was clear: go away. It is perilous for you here.
I wanted to gather up my satchel and run, back the way I had come. Aelf Fen was somewhere to the south, quite close, and I longed with all my heart and soul to fly to the comfort of my mother’s large, soft bosom, my tall father’s strong, protective arms.
But I had been summoned. The message in my power dream had been unmistakable.
I pulled my shawl up over my head and tried to go back to sleep.
It was the cold that woke me next. The light told me that dawn had broken, although it was a dim and miserable dawn. The cloud bank I had observed the previous evening had swept inshore, and it had thickened as it approached, so that now there was a thick, swirling mass of lowering dark grey above me. There was a wind blowing hard off the sea, bringing with it a fine salt spray which, I soon discovered, had the power to penetrate each and every one of my garments.
I ate a few mouthfuls of yesterday’s food — dry bread, a hard piece of cheese, a small but sweet apple — and drank from my flask. Then I left the shelter of my dune and headed on.
I seemed to walk for a long time. The land around me would, I guessed, have been pretty featureless under even sunny conditions, consisting as it did of salt marsh giving way to a flat grey sea, with only a few scraps of bushes and the occasional stunted, twisted tree to break it up. Now the low cloud had ushered in pillows of mist that seemed to hover around me, before giving way to the steadily increasing wind and dispersing. The mist appeared to emerge from the ground beneath my feet. I stared down at the path. It was still quite well defined, and its surface was pebbly. I noticed, however, that on either side the sandy ground was becoming more and more waterlogged.
I told myself there was no need to be afraid of losing my way and sinking into the marsh. I knew how to find a safe way that was invisible to others. I stopped, waited till my anxious heartbeat slowed down a little, then began the steady deep breathing that normally allows me to enter the light trance state necessary for all dowsing work.
I needed help, for I was facing unknown danger and quite alone. I silently called out to Fox, and, as if he knew how much I wanted him and had been waiting for my summons, almost straight away I caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye. He looked eager and full of courage. His presence was immensely reassuring.
I closed my eyes and asked the spirits please to show me the safe way. You don’t actually have to tell the spirits why you want their help, because they know far more than we do and will undoubtedly already have worked it out. Still, I always feel it’s only polite to explain, and so as I stood there, eyes still shut, I reminded them about the dream and also about the summoning voice. I didn’t ask if it really was Rollo’s, and they didn’t say.
Hesitantly, I stretched out my arms, palms down towards the ground, spreading my fingers widely. Nothing happened at first, but I was learning — very slowly, I admit — how to be patient. After a while, I had my reward. The familiar tingling began, in the very tips of my fingers and then centring in the middle of both palms. Confident now, I opened my eyes.
The clouds were still spread thickly right above me, heavy with the rain that was surely about to deluge down. The pockets and patches of mist were still swirling. Visibility should have been roughly the length of my outstretched arms, but through the obscuring fog I saw a shining, gleaming line snaking away across the salt marsh. It twisted and turned repeatedly; nobody who had not lived here all their lives and studied the land closely would have a chance of finding their way safely. I would have stepped off into the sinking sands within a very short time, for I had been heading straight for a boggy patch of wet ground that was without a doubt quicksand.
I sent up a song of gratitude to the spirits. I put down a hand to Fox — just occasionally, I feel the touch of his cool, wet nose on my fingers — and side by side we walked confidently on.
The rain replaced the light mist on the air and swiftly became a torrent. I was soaked through in moments, and I wrapped my shawl tightly around me: not to keep out the rain — which was impossible — but to try to preserve some body warmth. The wind had become a gale, howling and shrieking like the herdsman of the dead. And the drowned men were back, flying in low over my head like hawks attacking a helpless lamb.