The night passed with little sleep, no real rest despite the fact that the woods were as still as an old grave. Their travelling continued uninterrupted, the supplies dwindling. When the water gave out they began boiling the noisome trickle of the forest streams, and when the food ended Cat caught them small creatures to eat. Nennian refused them at first, and even Michael's hardened stomach balked at the tiny carcasses of mice and newts, the glistening hide of the great snails that slimed along the damp stones, but soon they began to look more appetizing and the goat stew, the buttermilk and honey of Nennian's sanctuary became a dream, a brightness at the back of Michael's mind. His belly contracted and he could almost feel the slow but inevitable shrinkage of the muscles that padded his frame, whilst Nennian's face began to take on the aspect of a skull. Only Cat continued to thrive, though her body became more spare, the bones at the back of her hands more prominent.
The horses had trouble bearing the weight of their riders, and so they walked in file leading them. Only Nennian's donkey was still in fair condition, for it could stomach tree bark more readily than Fancy or the grey. It and Nennian took the lead every day, picking their way up steep, rocky slopes that were nonetheless choked with the stunted trees, or wading through the black sludge that accumulated in the hollows between the high places.
Twenty-six-days out of Nennian's sanctuary the rain started again, pouring from the overhead branches and reducing the ground to something like soup. They staggered through it with their eyes fixed on the tail of the steed to the front, sometimes grasping its tail to help them through the thickening mud. Often they had to congregate around one of the two horses to lever and shove it out of the mire, pulling free the embedded hoofs and beating the poor beast onwards. They slipped and slid, falling often and covering themselves with black, tar-like sludge, while the rain continued to pour down without stint. For Michael it assumed the aspect of a nightmare, something that could not possibly be real. He was so tired that even the discomforts he was suffering were far away, back behind the looming need for rest, real sleep, a chance to close his eyes. The tiredness became a physical pain, and he had to fight to keep himself from sobbing aloud as he tottered onwards.
The rain filled the forest with noise, a rushing roar of water hitting the canopy and streaming down from the trees. It ran down his face unheeded, dripping from his nose and filling his eyes. He tried opening his mouth and drinking it in, but it proved to be as filthy as the forest water because it brought with it the taste of the leaves it fell upon. He spat it out, grimacing.
Nennian had halted before what seemed to be an impenetrable thicket of trees and saplings. The priest was bent over clutching his knees whilst his chest heaved. Michael staggered to his side whilst Cat came up, dragging the grey after her. Black hair was plastered over her face, giving her a wild look.
'We can't go on,' the Brother was gasping, the roar of the rain almost drowning out his words. 'We must stop, rest.'
'There's nowhere to rest. The ground is too wet. We can't. We have to get to higher ground,' Michael found himself saying, though he too craved a halt, a pause in their agonizing progress.
'I can't... can't do it. Sweet Jesus...'
Even as they spoke the waters that puddled the surface of the mud were joining up, becoming a lake. The ground seemed to be liquefying under their feet, sucking at their legs. Michael had never seen such rain. It was like a barrage. It stunned the senses. Already the trees were losing limbs. Twigs were floating thick in the widening pools and in the midst of the water roar they could hear the rend and shriek of breaking branches, weak limbs being battered away. Flooding would come next as the water poured down from the hills that surrounded them.
'Michael!' It was Cat, tugging at his arm. 'The trees! Look at the trees!'
'What is it?' He squinted past the rain in his eyes, knuckled it away impatiently. What was she wanting now?
Faces. Faces in the bark.
'Holy God!' He squelched forward with her and left Nennian bent towards the mud. The tree trunks were knobbed and gnarled, shining with wet, but their rough ridges and contours were recognizable as features, faces set in expressions of terror and agony. If he looked closer he could see the vague outlines of hands, arms, legs, an impression of clothing – but the faces were the most clear. Mouths gaped and screamed, the rainwater overflowing from them, and the eyes wept as drops filled their hollows. It was as if men had been engulfed by the wood, fossilized like dinosaurs in rock strata.
The topmost branches began to sway and reach in a gathering wind and drops were flung so hard through the air that they stung Michael's cheeks. He found it hard to see and the air he breathed seemed devoid of oxygen.