Tetsukichi, Bayan, Bo-Jing, and Bangqiu continued their way up the river. The channel widened and grew more shallow. They pushed the raft forward with long poles that sank deep into soft brown mud. The air was thick and unmoving, and the smell of salt burned in their nostrils. Withered palms and dry reeds were crusted with brownish-white crystals. As the day wore on, a salty film settled on their eyelashes.
Everyone was hungry and thirsty. The water teemed with pale, sluggish fish. Damai speared one, but when he cut it open, worms burst out, and he flung the writhing mass back into the water. The river itself was undrinkable.
At sunset, as the swamp darkened, the party noticed a light ahead. They pushed the raft toward it, sometimes slashing through reeds, sometimes knocking aside rotten, half-submerged trees.
The light came from a wooden hut raised on tall stilts, with a narrow dock below. A ladder led up to a doorway covered by a rough curtain, glowing faintly from within. The travelers tied their raft to the dock. Bayan volunteered to climb first. At the top, she called out. There was no reply.
She drew her sword and stepped inside.
The room was small and bare, with a single window looking out over the dark swamp. Another doorway stood opposite, curtained, with light spilling faintly from within. Bayan pushed the curtain aside with the tip of her blade and peered in.
Another small, empty room.
She returned and called for the others to come up.
A cool breeze stirred outside, and a light rain began to fall. Within minutes, the wind rose and the rain thickened into a fierce storm. The hut swayed on its stilts, but no one wished to remain with the raft below. Without setting a guard, they lay down and slept.
Bangqiu woke first, hot and sweating, and began shouting at the others. Tetsukichi and Bayan stirred. It was bright again—harsh daylight, perhaps near midday. The storm was gone.
Everyone had dreamed.
One of the soldiers did not fully wake. He rose when spoken to and followed simple commands, but he would not speak, and his gaze remained fixed—on nothing, or on something no one else could see.
Damai began to explore the hut. He found no end to the sequence of small rooms, each divided by curtained doorways. He became absorbed in them, searching for differences—tracing the scratches in the floor, mapping their patterns.
Tetsukichi stepped outside.
The raft was gone.
So were most of their remaining provisions.
Bangqiu declared that he could take the form of a hippopotamus and ferry them to safety—but first he would scout ahead as a bird. The sky was overcast and did not clear as he climbed. Flying lower, just above the turgid water, he wove through the reeds toward the horizon.
He saw a structure ahead and quickened his pace.
As he approached, the shape resolved.
The hut.
Bayan said nothing. She began tearing planks from the walls, organizing the others to rebuild the raft.
The day passed in slow misery. Hunger, thirst, and exhaustion pressed down on them. No one spoke more than necessary.
As the sun began to set, someone asked whether it would be safe to sleep—glancing toward Nayan, who had stood all day at the window, unmoving.
It was a fair question.
No one answered it.
Then, from somewhere out in the swamp, they began to hear whispers . . .
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