Niall stared with dismay at Doggins’ face. It was red and swollen, as if he was suffering from severe sunburn. Doggins was scratching frantically at his forearm, and his nails left streaks of blood.
He grimaced. “You were right. This stuff really hurts.” He threw his Reaper on the ground beside his haversack, and hurried towards the river. Niall ran after him.
“Wait! It could be dangerous.” He seized Doggins by the back of the tunic, and had to dig in his heels to prevent him from running straight into the water. “Stand still.”
As Doggins stood there, cursing and massaging his eyes, Niall took his spare tunic from the pack, soaked it in water, then handed it to Doggins, who clapped it to his face with a moan of relief. Niall’s own forehead was burning as if it had been scalded, so he knew what Doggins must be suffering. He took the canvas bucket from the bottom of his pack, punched it into shape, and dipped it into the water. As he did so, he noticed the swirl just below the muddy surface that told him their presence had been observed. He made Doggins bend over, and poured the brown lukewarm water over his head and shoulders. Doggins groaned.
“It’s no good. I’ve got to get into the water. My arms and legs are on fire.”
“No. There’s something in there. Wait.”
He picked up the Reaper, made sure it was on its lowest setting, then fired at the disturbance in the water. There was a hiss of steam that made him jump backwards; as it cleared, he caught a brief glimpse of wide-open jaws and pointed teeth. He fired again, moving the Reaper slowly from side to side; the hiss of the steam almost deafened him; for a few seconds, it was like being in the midst of a thick fog. When it cleared, the surface was still and smooth.
“I think it may be safe now. Try it.” With a cry of relief, Doggins plunged into the water; he immediately sank up to his knees in soft mud. Niall watched the surface, prepared to fire again, as Doggins stooped down and immersed his shoulders in the water. Within ten seconds there was another swirl of water upstream, moving towards them. Without hesitation, he fired. A few seconds later, Doggins gave a scream of agony.
“It’s boiling!”
Niall grabbed him by the wrist and helped him out of the water. He said grimly: “Better to be boiled alive than eaten alive.”
Doggins was covered in brown mud. But when Niall looked more closely, he saw that it was moving. He wiped some of it away with the wet cloth, and saw that it was full of tiny crab-like creatures, almost as transparent as ice, and that Doggins was bleeding from dozens of tiny bites; his pain was so great that he had not even noticed them. Niall filled the canvas bucket with water over and over again, and poured it on Doggins until the mud had been washed off; as soon as they were on the ground, the crab-like creatures made for the river.
For the next half hour, Doggins lay on the ground, his eyes closed and his teeth clenched, while Niall poured bucket after bucket of water over him. As his skin turned red and began to swell, Doggins writhed and cursed. Then, suddenly, he stopped moving. Niall dropped on his knees and place his ear against his chest; to his relief, the heart was pounding fast. Doggins had evidently fainted. Now, for the first time, Niall realised that he was also in pain, and that his forehead was swollen. So was the left side of his face, still sore from the poison of the frog-like creature. But it seemed unimportant.
When Doggins woke up again, he was delirious. He seemed to think that Niall was Simeon, and kept asking for Lucasta and Selima. When Niall tried to soothe him by pouring water over his arms, he screamed that it was boiling. Then he began to twist from side to side; there were flecks of foam on his lips, and his eyes were like the eyes of a terrified animal. On three occasions Niall had to prevent him from rolling into the river. Finally, he became unconscious again. After a while, his breathing grew more regular. The burning sensation in Niall’s forehead was now diminishing, so he guessed that Doggins was no longer in agony. Half an hour later, Doggins was sleeping normally, with only an occasional convulsion; but his arms and legs had swollen to twice their normal size, and his face looked like an over-inflated balloon.
Niall realised suddenly that it was dusk. This surprised him; he had lost track of time, and assumed it was still mid-afternoon. Now, for the first time, he began to assess their situation. To spend the night there would obviously be dangerous; the river was full of living creatures. Niall was aware constantly that they were being observed; but at least this kept him in a state of alertness. But even if he could carry Doggins on his back, there was nowhere they could go. A hundred yards behind them there was the woodland, with its thick layer of yellow pollen. Twenty yards ahead of them was the river, with its unseen predators. But even unseen predators were less dangerous than the yellow dust; at least they could be destroyed with the Reaper, while the dust seemed indestructible. To the south, the river vanished into mangrove swamps and jungle; to the north, it meandered into the marshes before it reached the sea. They had no alternative but to stay where they were.
As the dusk deepened, a cool breeze blew from the sea. Niall laid out his own blankets on the ground, pulled Doggins on top of them, then wrapped them around him. After that, he went to collect Doggins’ haversack and the metallic garment, which still lay close to the trees. Some instinct of caution made him carry his Reaper at the ready. He used a damp cloth to wipe the haversack free of the pollen, then began to wipe the metallic garment. As he did so, he glanced back towards Doggins, and saw to his astonishment that he was moving, sliding towards the river. For a moment he suspected it was a trick of the half-light; then, when the movement became unmistakable, he began to run. From his present position it was impossible to use the Reaper; Doggins lay between himself and the river. Doggins was now within a few feet of the water, and seemed to be moving of his own accord, as if sliding gently down a slippery slope. Niall raised the Reaper, took careful aim, and fired. There was a hiss of steam, and Doggins ceased to move. When Niall reached him a moment later, he saw that Doggins was still asleep, breathing regularly; the movement had been so gentle that he had not even felt it. A few feet away, on the foreshore, lay a severed tentacle. It was very thin, about four feet long, and glistened with slime. When Niall kicked it into the water, it felt as tough as leather and as steely as a whiplash.
Out in the middle of the river there was a splashing sound and the swirl of water. Overcome by a sense of rage and frustration, he raised the Reaper and fired into the river, moving it slowly from side to side, and ignoring the steam that swirled around him and scalded his face. The surface of the water boiled and bubbled; any living thing in its depths would be cooked alive. His teeth still clenched with rage, Niall stared at the dark water for any sign of movement. Filled with a desire to strike and destroy, he was tempted to push the lever to its maximum power level and fire straight into the hill that towered above them. His hand was on the lever when he remembered Doggins; if his action provoked some backlash of violence, Doggins would be helpless. Reluctantly, he lowered the Reaper. The rage evaporated slowly, but it left behind it a curious sensation of latent power tingling in his blood.
He pulled on the metallic garment, then went and sat cross-legged beside Doggins, the Reaper cradled in his lap. He experienced no desire to lie down and sleep, nor any sense of hunger; the emergency seemed to have called upon some deep reserve of endurance. As the light faded from the sky, and the first star appeared in the north, he listened intently to the noise of the river, trying to distinguish its normal sound from the swirl that indicated the presence of living creatures. His heartbeat slowed, and finally became so soft that he could scarcely feel it. Once again he experienced the sensation of being a spider in the centre of its web, aware of every vibration of the night. At this depth of inner stillness, he seemed to be at the heart of an immense silence.