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The Fenland has always been a mysterious place,
where odd things are more likely to happen than
ordinary ones. Old Fisher Sly knew this perfectly
well, and so he didn’t immediately have a heart
attack when he saw, just where the northern
marsh meets the sea, a Viking longship gliding
past him in the mist. He knew this was impossible
– Viking raiders had stopped terrorising the coast
over a hundred years ago. So it could only be a
ghost ship. That much was certain. Sly had seen
lots of ghosts over the years, and knew how to
deal with them. The important thing was not him
seeing them – the important thing was making
absolutely certain sure they didn’t see him!
He waited quietly in the mist a while
longer, and then poled carefully away, in the
opposite direction . . .
*
Fosse was not entirely a Fenman. He lived on
the southern edges of the great marsh, a sort
of half-and-half existence. He was primarily a
peat-digger, but when the King’s man offered to
pay if he’d take him in his boat to Ely, he didn’t
say no. But then, he hadn’t expected the man to
fall ill like that . . .
As he punted along through the mist, he
was wondering to himself, What do I do if he dies
before I can get him to Ely?! What if they think I
murdered him? Who would believe me if I said I
didn’t? I wonder how much money he has in his belt?
He was not an optimistic man at the best of times,
and this journey was beginning to give him
the creeps. He was so keyed up he almost fell
out of the punt when, without warning, a thing
came flying out of the fog, right over his head. It
looked exactly like an airborne stone dragon, and
when it caught sight of him, it jinxed sideways
with a cry of ‘Whoops!’ before disappearing again
– but of course that was impossible.
He crossed himself hurriedly, and made the
sign against the evil eye as well, just for good
measure. The sick man groaned in the bottom of
the boat, but his eyes were still tight shut – he
wouldn’t have seen anything. Fosse noticed he’d
thrown off his cloak again, but there was no way
he was stopping to cover him up! With a muttered
prayer, he dug the punting pole down into the
mud and pushed hard – only managing to miss
the boat that suddenly appeared from the other
direction by inches.
‘God’s Teeth – where the devil did you pop up
from?!’ he yelled.
‘Wickit!’
Both boats had done nose-dives into the
opposite reed beds, and were now swinging
together backwards across the channel. Fosse
saw the other punter was only a boy – who was
looking at least as scared as he felt at the near miss
in the mist.
‘From Wickit? You’re from the Abbey, eh?’
Fosse said in a much calmer voice, but before he
could ask anything else, the sick man reared up
suddenly and croaked, ‘Wickit? Wickit?’ before
collapsing into the bottom of the boat again.
The boy’s eyes went even wider, and
his mouth made a round O in his face.
Fosse laughed, feeling superior, and also
relieved now he had an answer to his dilemma.
‘I’ve got a strange cargo today, and no mistake!
I’m meant to take him to Ely, but Wickit’s a lot
closer. That’s where I’ll take him, and no blame to
me. And I’d like to deliver him soon – the Fever’s
got into him, as you can see.’
‘I can show you the way,’ the boy said. ‘Follow
me!’
It took a bit of flailing and grunting to
loosen the mud’s hold on the two boats and get
them facing the right way round. By the time they
were safely underway, Fosse had decided not to
mention the ‘thing’ he thought he’d seen fly over
his head. He knew well enough the fog could play
tricks with your eyes (he chose not to think about
the ‘Whoops!’ he’d heard), and there was no point
worrying the lad.
‘By the way, boy,’ he called to him instead.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Pip,’ the answer came back, like a drift of
mist. ‘I’m Pip.’ |
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