Joseph evaded Garth’s eyes and dismissed his concerns with a casual wave of his hand. “Venetia only ever wants some of the herbal powders that she can’t obtain within the swamp itself, and her message indicated the problem was not serious. Don’t worry, boy, she won’t bite. Now, I suggest that you take…”
And he leaned forward and gave his son detailed instructions. So it was that an hour later Garth found himself atop his brown gelding plodding steadily north along the road. Behind him bumped plump saddlebags—Joseph had not been entirely sure what it might be Venetia required, and so Garth had brought packets of half a dozen different powders.
The marsh people mostly lived to themselves. They rarely came into Narbon itself; if they required something then they either sent for it—as Venetia had—or pestered passing travellers to get it for them. They had a bad name among the Narbonese, many unfairly accused them of petty stealing, and Garth had more than a few qualms in his stomach as he turned his horse’s head towards the indistinct track that led off the main road.
Before him the marshlands steamed. The trees were stunted, growing only a little taller than the height of a mounted man, and at the moment their roots arched a full arm’s length out of the mud; at high tide they were fully submerged. The track wound between the trees on a narrow, raised gravel ridge; every so often the horse slipped and Garth’s heart lurched into his mouth, thinking he was about to be catapulted into the mud. But his horse managed to keep his feet, and Garth rode further into the marsh.
Although Venetia’s home was little more than a hundred paces from the main road, the track wound about through the trees for fully six hundred paces before Garth even caught sight of the tumbledown house. Biting insects hummed among the vegetation, and Garth was grateful he had taken his father’s advice and worn a cloak even on this warm day. Strange spiky flowers, some grey, some gold, poked here and there from the mud, and a thin layer of scum covered the exposed roots of the trees.
Even the light fell on the mud and through the trees in uneven splotches, as if it were diseased itself. Ropes of mist clung to leaves and roots, thick and stagnant. The distant cries of the seabirds sounded like the mournful sobs of souls lost in the maze of eternity.
Garth could not understand why anyone would want to live in the marshes. He’d heard that the town fathers had once planned to drain the marshlands and turn them into profitable farming land, but the project had been deemed too expensive to undertake, and so the marshes still spread along the coast, and still, if Garth’s eyes and nose were any judge, teemed with a variety of noxious vegetation and insect life.
A great fish lurched half out of the mud to his right, then fell back in with a sucking plop.
Garth’s gorge rose, and he wished he’d not eaten the third muffin his mother had pressed on him.
A movement in the trees beyond where the fish had displayed itself caught his attention, and he stared briefly. But whatever, it was now either gone or still, and Garth turned his head back to the narrow path, feeling as though a thousand different eyes watched him from the trees and mud.
Eventually Venetia’s hut loomed out of the trees, standing in the centre of a small island amid the mud. Her home was a ramshackle affair, built of odd pieces of timber nailed to a basic framework. Whoever had erected it had not done a particularly good job; gaps showed through in numerous places, and a thin chimney leaned precariously from the back wall. There was a door—standing half open—and two windows, small and dark, shaded by colourless hessian cloth.
Garth pulled his horse to a stop and slid to the ground. “Hello?” he called. “Is anyone home?”
Silence—except for the persistent hum of the insects.
“Hello?” Garth tied his horse to a post at one corner of the hut, and hoped the horse would not shy at anything and pull the entire structure to the ground. “Hello? I’m Garth Baxtor. Joseph’s son. Come with the herbal powders.”
There was movement within the dark interior, and the next moment a woman emerged.
Garth, who had been in the process of pulling the saddlebags from the horse’s back, paused in amazement.
She was the loveliest woman he had ever seen—even the exotic dancers who accompanied the travelling troupes through the major cities of Escator could not compare with this woman in beauty.
She was about his own mother’s age, and with the same dark hair, but there the similarity ended. She retained a girlish slimness, and a paleness and firmness of complexion. Her eyes were the lightest grey that Garth had ever seen, and ringed with thick dark lashes, while her bone structure was so exquisite that Garth did not think even the most skilful sculptor could match it. She walked forward, her movements subtle and graceful.
She stared at him, then held out a long-fingered hand, palm uppermost. “So you are Baxtor’s son. He mentioned some years past he had a son who would take up the trade.”
“I…ah, my name is Garth.”
She smiled, and Garth made a faltering attempt to return it. If he had thought her lovely before, then it was nothing to what he thought her now.
“My name is Venetia.”
“Yes,” Garth managed.
Her smile widened, and for an instant Garth thought it slightly predatory. No wonder his father felt uncomfortable about coming out here.
“Will you come inside?” Her hand slowly fell to her side.
Garth nodded, and finally managed to pull the bags from the horse’s back.
She stared at him for a moment longer, then turned in one sinuous movement and disappeared into the hut.
Garth hesitated at the doorway. The hut was only small, yet the dimness of its interior gave the impression of spaciousness.
“Come,” Venetia’s voice called, slightly impatient.
Garth hefted the saddlebags over his arm, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
He blinked as he entered, his eyes struggling to compensate for the hut’s gloomy interior. For one moment he thought he stood in some vast, misty cavern, but then his eyesight cleared, and he saw that the interior of the hut was as listless and woebegone as its exterior. Did the woman make no attempt to clean or brighten her home? Apart from a rickety bed to one side, the only furnishings were a table, scratched and marred with countless knife-scores, and two old stools about a dusty hearth. How did she manage to live here?
“You’ve brought herbals?” the woman asked softly to one side, and Garth started, embarrassed at the thought that his face had so clearly mirrored his disgust.
“Yes, father wasn’t sure what you wanted, so…” his voice trailed off. For one heartbeat he thought the back wall had faded into nothingness, revealing yet more nothingness beyond, but the instant passed, and Garth stepped over and placed the saddlebags on top of the table. “I’ve brought a number of different herbal powders.”
Venetia smiled slightly, her pale eyes brilliant even in this gloom, and Garth bent over the bags, starting to undo their straps.
The woman glided to his side, her slim white fingers brushing his aside and undoing the straps with barely concealed impatience. Garth stood back quickly, his fingers tingling with her touch.
Again his vision blurred, and the back wall appeared to fade until only vastness replaced it.
Garth took a quick intake of breath, and Venetia looked up sharply. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Garth said hastily. “A little overheated from the ride, that’s all.”
Venetia stared at him, her eyes searching, then she pulled the first few packages out of the saddlebags. “Ah,” she breathed, “fultate, and here is some norstail. Your father has remembered my needs well.”
Garth finally found the courage to initiate some conversation himself. “What do you do with the powders? Do you use them to heal?”
Venetia smoothed the packs out before her, then raised her eyes. “Heal? Oh, occasionally, Garth Baxtor. Occasionally. Mostly I use them to dream.”
Garth took a sharp breath. “Dream?”
Venetia sighed, and Garth could see she was impatient. She had emptied the other packages out, and now had two or three of them clutched to her breast. She turned to look at him fully, her pupils dilating. “Thank you, Garth Baxtor. Tell your father that I’ll pay him in the usual—”
But Garth was no longer paying attention. “What?” he whispered, appalled, and grabbed for the edge of the table as a wave of faintness swept over him. “What’s happening?”
The table was no longer there, and Garth barely managed to keep himself from overbalancing. In the space of the blink of an eye the interior of the hut had changed—and now nothing made sense.