who had dug down into the graves in search of heaven knew what?
Our musings were interrupted by a tentative tap on the door, and Edild left me chopping and crushing while she went off to see to her patient. Something was nagging at me, demanding my attention, and, as my aunt has taught me, I stilled my mind to let the inner voice speak.
After a few moments, I knew what it was. My kin had been the object of all three searches; as far as we knew, we alone had been targeted. Now, someone had disturbed the peace of the recently dead, and now I realized why: it was an extension of the same search. One member of my family had died within the last couple of years â my Granny Cordeilla â and whoever had ransacked the homes of the living had also attempted to discover what he sought within her grave.
He had failed. Having somehow discovered that Granny had died recently, he had gone to the graveyard thinking to find her there. He had investigated the newest burials, ruthlessly breaking into the eternal peace of the dead, but it had all been in vain. My Granny Cordeilla, of course, did not lie in the graveyard, for we had buried her out on the secret island, in the company of her ancestors.
Edild was busy with her patient, and, out in the still room, I was not visible to her. There was no let-up in the rain â I could hear it beating on the ground outside â but, since I was still almost as wet as when Iâd just returned, that didnât really matter.
I knew I wouldnât be able to rest until I knew.
I draped my sodden shawl around me and slipped outside, emerging at the rear of Edildâs house. It was getting dark. The sky was thick with cloud, and twilight was fast approaching. Good. I would be that much harder to see. I circled round to the track that ran in front of the house, keeping my distance so that no one would hear my footfalls. Swiftly I crossed the track and set out across the marsh. When I had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile, I stopped and made myself stand quite still. I strained my ears for any sound other than the driving rain and the rising wind, and then set my other senses to work, trying to detect if anyone had followed me or was watching me.
Nobody was there. The certainty Iâd experienced earlier that I was not alone had gone, as if it had never been. Whoever he was, heâd obviously had enough of the foul weather and, very wisely, had sloped away to find shelter.
I smiled in grim satisfaction and continued my quest.
The island where our ancestors lie buried is only a short distance from the fen edge, rising like the humped back of some sleeping animal out of the black water. Some time in the distant past, my kinsmen drove stakes of alder wood down into the mud and, when access is required, struts and timbers are fitted to them to make a temporary walkway to the island. The timbers were not now in place, for it was months since anybody had visited the island.
I stood on the bank looking out over the water. Although it was raining now and the levels were visibly rising, the past few weeks had been dry. I could wade out to the island, and the water would only come up to my thighs.
Probably.
There was no point standing there thinking about it. The sooner I went, the sooner it would be over. I lifted up the skirts of my robe and under gown and secured them around my waist. I took off my boots and tied them round my neck. Then I went down the steep, slippery bank and walked into the water.
It was
so cold
. Iâd thought I was wet and uncomfortable before, but it was nothing compared to this. The mud beneath my feet was slimy, thick and very slippery, and I had to lurch from one stake to the next to avoid falling. As it was, the water quickly rose up to my knees, thighs and my belly. I hitched my clothes higher, although they were so wet already that I didnât really know why I was bothering.
After an eternity, the claggy marsh bed began to rise again and I