The dark and dank atmosphere of the marshlands pervades throughout this tale of power and survival. It's 990 AD and the convent is falling into despair. There has been a poor harvest, fewer pilgrims bringing their favour and now a young boy missing in the mere. These omens combined with harsh religious practices and folkloric superstition feed the sense of foreboding amongst the sisters. A cure for the curse must be sought by any means.
I look to Sweet, who still does not move. Something about this tale scares her. Sweet, who is often about our convent lands with her rushlights aloft so that the others mistook her for a ghost-light. Sweet, who taught me all the marsh's hidden paths and secret magics, how to pick woundwort and aster and dittany. And yet, she has always warned me against walking the mere alone and I have always obeyed. I thought it only good sense, for it is easy enough to lose bearings in the mist and stumble into a slow drowning.
I feel fear then. Not my nightmares of wolves and raiders, blood and axes. Deeper, as it there lies a great giant beneath us, sleeping and wating and hungry.
