In the world that was lost, she would of been called a scientist. Then there was Ursala-from-Elsewhere, who you might call a healer except that healing was the smallest part of what she did. My name tells you what my fortunes was at that time: cast out of my village, which was Mythen Rood in the Calder Valley, with my name stripped off of me and nothing left to do now but walk the world until the world swallowed me down and et me. I put myself first on account of it’s me that’s writing this, not for no vaunting reason for there is not much I got to vaunt. There was three of us, or else there was four, depending how you counted. With Winter coming on, there was some days when that was nothing at all. We had some supplies with us – biscuit and oat mash and jerky – but mostly we et what we catched. It was not easy on the nerves, and on a long march your nerves work as hard as your feet do. Five miles of ducking for cover if something moved, watching where our feet come down in case of mole snakes or melt-bugs, and not ever saying a word in case the sound brung something up out of the ground or down out of the sky to pick us off. It was five miles of trudging this way and that, stopping whenever the sun come out or even threatened to. On our best day, we made five miles by the drudge’s reckoning. The going had been slow all the way along. There come a time, by and by, when I feared we was not going to get to London at all.
0 kommentar(er)
