Yet there was something about the silence that puzzled him. It was some time before he understood what it was. He was no longer being watched. Ever since they had arrived in the Delta, he had felt that he was being observed. It was not an uncomfortable or oppressive sensation, such as he had occasionally felt when being watched by an unseen enemy; merely a feeling that the Delta was aware of his presence. Now this had suddenly vanished.
He reached inside his tunic, and slowly turned the thought mirror. This time there was no conflict; only a feeling of intensity and power that blended perfectly with the stillness. Then, as his concentration hardened, and his senses expanded into the night, he understood what had happened. The silence was a reaction to his sudden rage. The Delta was afraid of him. As he sat cross-legged, cradling the Reaper in his lap, he was like a poisonous snake, coiled and ready to strike. The Delta was holding its breath, terrified of what he might do next.
Then, suddenly, he knew what he had to do. He stood up and pulled down the slide fastener of the metallic garment, allowing it to fall around his feet. Then he picked up both the Reapers and walked towards the river. As he did so, his logical self rebelled, pointing out to him that what he was about to do was suicidal. Some deeper impulse overruled it. He stopped at the edge of the water then, one after the other, threw both Reapers into the centre of the stream. In the strange silence the splashes sounded very loud. Then he stood there waiting for what would happen next.
What happened was at once unexpected and banal. There was a gurgling sound in the river, as if some large creature had been disturbed, and a few drops of water struck his face. Then the night was full of normal sounds: the flow of the water, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the squeak of bats, the distant cry of some nocturnal animal. Outwardly, nothing had changed; he was still a solitary human being in the heart of the Delta. But he sensed he was no longer an intruder. His gesture of good faith had been received with approval. The Delta had accepted him.
He groped his way back in the darkness, and again sat down by Doggins. Now he felt curiously calm and patient. He had done his part; there was nothing to do but wait. He sat with his hands on his knees, listening to the sounds of the night without concern or anxiety. The Delta had made a truce with him, and he knew he had nothing to fear.
Half an hour later the moon rose, and he was again able to see his surroundings. The sky was cloudless and the stars very bright. The light was so bright that he could see the marshes to the north and the jungle to the south, both looking calm in the moonlight. The southern face of the hill was also clearly visible, and from this angle it again bore a resemblance to a face. As he looked at it, he became consciously aware of something he had known for the past twenty-four hours: that this was not a hill but a giant plant, and that he was looking at the creature Simeon had called Nuada, the goddess of the Delta.
The command came about an hour later, when the moon was high in the sky. He was sitting there, relaxed and receptive, when he experienced an impulse to stand up and remove his boots. If he had been an animal he might have accepted this as his own decision; but because he was human, another part of him looked down with detachment on the animal that responded to its own desires, and recognised that it was obeying an order.
After he had removed the boots, he took the thought mirror from round his neck and laid it down beside them. Then he took the expanding rod from his pocket, and placed it on the ground. Doggins was fast asleep, lying on his back; his face looked pale in the moonlight, but was no longer badly swollen. He wheezed slightly as he breathed. Niall covered him over with the metallic garment and tucked it under his chin. Then, still obeying the command, he began to walk parallel to the river.
He tramped along the sun-baked mud for perhaps a mile. To his left the twisted trunks of the trees looked as if they were made of iron; their branches were perfectly still in the faint breeze, and made no sound. On his other side, the river flowed sluggishly in the moonlight, with occasional gurgling noises as some large creature came close to the surface and dived again. He saw only one living thing: a big cayman that seemed to be floating rather than swimming downstream, its nostrils just above the surface of the water; its wicked eyes followed Niall as he went past, but he had no sense of danger.
He reached a point where the river became wider, and was partly blocked with leaves and branches. Without hesitation, Niall stepped into it. His feet sank for about six inches in the slimy mud, then reached hard shingle. Small creatures wriggled between his toes. He waded in slowly, leaning forward, until the water was above his waist. A branch twisted under his foot and scratched his leg, and some lithe and soft creature shot out from under it and slid past his leg, making his heart beat faster. He waded on slowly, a few inches at a time, until the water became shallow and he struggled out on to the opposite bank.
Here the same inner compulsion made him turn north again and return in the direction from which he had come. The vegetation on this side of the river was thick, and in many places came close to the water’s edge; in the black shadows cast by the moonlight he had to step cautiously. A startled bird flew out from a bush and flapped into the trees with a curious whirring noise; some heavy body began to crash through the undergrowth; Niall ignored them. When he could once again see Doggins sleeping in the moonlight, he experienced an impulse to turn left into the trees. Here the moonlight was unable to penetrate, and he had to grope his way forward by touch alone; yet he was able to move almost as fast as in the moonlight. A sixth sense seemed to warn him when he was about to fall over some twisted root or walk into a bush.
Then, suddenly, the ground at his feet was clear, and felt again as solid as the baked mud of the river bank. He began to ascend. Within a few minutes he was out again in the moonlight, looking down on the river and on the tree-tops. He was about half-way up the southern face of the hill. On his other side there was a tangle of thick undergrowth that looked impassable; but soon he was high enough to see beyond it to the river that flowed to the west of the hill. This was far broader than the river he had crossed, and the ripples on the moonlit surface revealed that it was flowing more swiftly.
As he climbed higher the path became steeper; he was forced to clamber with the aid of bushes and tufts of grass. Half an hour later, as he approached the top, the ascent became so steep that he decided to look for another way. He moved cautiously sideways until he found a place where the vegetation was thick enough to afford hand and foothold. This final ascent was about fifty feet high, and was so steep that, when he turned and looked backwards, he felt dizzy and afraid, aware that the will that was directing his movements had no power to prevent him from falling and breaking his neck.
Then, suddenly, he was at the top, scrambling over the edge of a sloping plateau, at the center of which was the object he had mistaken for a tower. Now he could see that it was neither a tower nor a broken tree. There were no visible roots, and no clean distinction between its base and the ground on which it stood. It seemed to be made of some grey, fibrous material and, when he ran his hand over its rough surface, felt like the bark of a tree. On its western side, which was bathed in moonlight, a long strip of this “bark” had been torn away and had curled up at the foot of the stump; it was brown and scorched, and the deep furrow from which it had been torn looked like a wound. This damage had clearly been caused by lightning. The ragged splinters at the top, some thirty feet above his head, were also twisted and scorched.