“Oh, they weren’t children, though they were small like children. But they’d got – well, it was difficult to see, but they seemed to have muzzles like old Isaac’s, and cat’s ears, and fur on their heads, though I thought they had hands like us.”
There was silence in the boat.
Martha said, “Old Thorne, for whom I worked in Christ Church, was a learned man, though a bit soft in the head. He used to claim that as man was dying off, a new thing was coming up to take his place.”
“A Scotsman perhaps!” Greybeard said laughing, recalling how Towin and Becky Thomas had believed that the Scots would invade from the north.
“Thorne was vague as to what this new thing would be, though he said it might look like a shark with the legs of a tiger. He said there would be hundreds of it, and it would be very grateful to its creator as it moved in and discovered all the little people provided for its fodder.”
“We’ve got enough trouble from our own creator without worrying about rival ones.” Pitt said.
“That’s blasphemy,” Charley said. “You’re getting too old to talk like that, Jeff Pitt. Anyhow, if there was a thing like that, I should think it would prefer to eat duck to us lot. Look at us!”
That evening, they took care to select a site for the night where they would not be too easily taken by surprise.
Next day saw them sailing south, rowing when the freshets failed. The wooded hills that had been visible all the previous day sank slowly out of sight, and the only landmark was a two-humped island ahead. They made this by late afternoon, when the shadow of the boat hung away to one side, and tied up beside a boat already moored in a crudely made inlet.
Much of this land bore signs of cultivation, while farther up the slopes they saw poultry and ducks confined in runs. Some old ladies who had been standing among the poultry came down to the water to inspect the new arrivals, told them this was called Wittenham Island, and grudgingly agreed that they could stay where they were for the night if they made no trouble. Most of the women had with them tame otters, which they said they had trained to catch fish and fowl for them.
They became slightly more friendly when they realized that Greybeard’s party had only peaceful intentions, and proved eager to gossip. It soon emerged that they were a religious community, believing in a Master who appeared among them occasionally and preached of a Second Generation. They would have tried to make converts had not Martha tactfully changed the subject by asking how long they had lived on the island.
One woman told Martha that they came from a town called Dorchester, retreating to these hills with their menfolk when their homes and land were besieged by the rising waters some seven years earlier. Now their old home lay completely under the Sea of Barks.
Much of what this old woman had to say was difficult to understand. It was as if the mist which spread over the water at this season had also spread between human comprehensions; but it was not hard to understand that small groups cut off from their neighbours should increasingly develop an accent and a vocabulary peculiar to themselves. What was suprising was the rate at which this process operated.
Martha and Greybeard discussed the phenomenon when they were between their blankets that night.
“Do you remember that old fellow we met on our way to Oxford, the one that you said had a badger for a wife?” Martha asked.
“It’s a long time ago. Can’t say I do.”
“I remember we slept in a barn with him and his reindeer. Whatever his name was, he was getting treatment from that weird man at that fair – oh, my memory! -”
“Bunny Jingadangelow?”
“That’s it – your friend! The old man talked some nonsense about the years speeding by; he reckoned he was two hundred years old, or some such age. I’ve been thinking about him lately, and at last beginning to understand how he felt. There’s been so much change, Algy, I begin to wonder quite seriously if we haven’t been living for centuries.”