Jane Hardstaff - River Daughter

They were friends.

He was watching her now.

‘Do you have to go right to the middle?’ he called. ‘Those great hooves’ll scare the fish all the way to Silbury!’

‘Don’t worry about me, Smudgeface!’

‘I ain’t worried about you! I’m fishin later. Just don’t want me catch driven away that’s all.’

Moss grinned. ‘Well, catch this, fisher boy!’ She ducked under and swam to the bank, bobbing up in front of Salter’s face with a splash.

‘See.’

‘I don’t see nothin.’

‘I can swim, or hadn’t you noticed?’

She could see his smile coming. A little crows-feet crinkle in the corner of his eyes. She flipped a handful of water at his face and ducked back down, kicking strong strokes back out into the river. But when her head broke the surface, Salter wasn’t looking at her any more. He was staring downriver.

‘Hey!’ she called, ‘Come on in!’

He stood up, still peering into the distance.

‘What is it?’ she said.

‘Dunno.’

Moss waded a few paces to the middle of the river where she had a clear view past the bend. She screwed up her eyes and stared.

There was something.

A dark ripple, moving slowly towards her. In front of it, specks of silver darted from the river to the bank, lightning quick, threading the grass with a shining mesh.

‘What is that?’ said Moss.

Salter squinted into the sunlight. ‘Pope’s earholes! It’s the fish!’

‘Fish?’

‘The fish are jumpin. Out of the river.’

Moss stared at the bizarre sight before her. Salter was right. Driven forward by the dark ripple in the water, the fish seemed to be panicking. Leaping high out of the river and throwing themselves on to the banks. Landing in a silver heap where they gasped and jerked, helpless in the grass. She watched, mesmerised by the jumping fish and by the strange shape behind them, getting closer and closer.

‘Fish leapin to their deaths . . .’ Salter was shaking his head. ‘Ain’t never seen nothin like it.’

‘It’s like they can’t stand to be in the water,’ said Moss. ‘Like they can’t get out fast enough.’

Salter jumped, as though someone had whacked the back of his head.

‘Get out of the water. Now !’

‘What?’

‘Don’t argue, Leatherboots! Do as I say. Quick!’

Moss dived down again, her arms pulling against the current. But something was wrong. She’d hardly moved.

‘Swim!’ Salter’s muffled voice yelled above her.

There was a splash. Salter was still shouting. ‘I’m comin! Keep swimmin, Leatherboots! Don’t stop!’

All at once Moss’s eyes filled with silt. She spluttered to the surface and saw Salter in the river, staggering towards her. The water was thickening with mud. It pressed in on her body, slowing her arms and legs. She tried to reach down with her feet to touch the solid river bed, but it was gone. In its place was shifting mud that oozed between her toes. All around her, the river was brown and choking, a muddy rag stuffed down its throat.

‘Don’t stop!’ Salter was still yelling, ‘Keep goin!’

But her feet wouldn’t move. The mud gripped her, warm and sticky, holding her fast.

‘Salter! I’m stuck!’

‘Wait!’ He lunged forward, arm outstretched. As if in some slow dream, Moss watched the water drag him under.

‘SALTER!’

He was gone.

Now the mud beneath her began to tug at her feet. Sucking her down. Inch by inch. And the more she thrashed, the deeper she sank. Her flailing arms beat the surface to brown froth as her head was pulled slowly under.

Something brushed against her body. Through the stew of water she saw lashing fronds of water crowfoot, felt it against her legs, coiling and tightening. But instead of dragging her further down, the crowfoot seemed to be pulling upwards, as though trying to free her from the mud. Then a mighty rush of current snatched her up and she felt herself bowl over and over until all at once it stopped. Her feet found the stony river bed and she pushed with all the force she could muster, exploding to the surface in choking breaths.

On the opposite side of the river, Salter was heaving himself towards the bank.

The mud had gone. The water was clear, the crowfoot swaying gently, great, trailing tendrils, stretching towards her. She kicked out for the bank and the crowfoot seemed to pull back. But as it did, a shadow curled underneath. Too big for a fish.

For a flit of a second, the shadow showed itself. In the tangle of weeds.

What she saw almost stopped her heart.

A hand. Then a face. Then it was gone.

Moss dived back into the river, floundering through the weed, dragging it out in great clumps, pulling it apart.

Nothing. The shadow had vanished, and with it, the face.

It was a face she’d never seen before. Yet it was familiar. Green eyes, a tangle of hair. So like her own. But older, sadder.

She couldn’t be sure. She’d never seen her.

Her mother’s face.

It was dusk by the time Moss and Salter made it back to the village. She had stashed her apple sack in the hollow of the willow as usual, changing back into her dry dress in the bushes. Salter was wet through. But despite his sodden clothes, he kept up a cheery banter all the way from the fields to the lane. Every time Moss tried to mention the river, he changed the subject, so in the end she gave up and slunk into her own thoughts. In her head, a picture shimmered. She’d only seen it for a moment. But she had seen it.

The face. Her mother’s face? Was it possible? But her mother was dead. Could that have been her spirit in the river today? She turned the thought over and over. A year and a half ago, she’d seen with her own eyes how the dead could be given life by the cold waters. The Riverwitch had revealed herself. A restless spirit who haunted the rivers, looking for children to snatch.

Ignoring Pa’s pleas to stay away from the river, Moss had left him and made her way out of the Tower. And on Moss’s twelfth birthday the Riverwitch had come for her, just as she’d promised on the day Moss was born. She’d dragged Moss down to the depths of the murky Thames. But there in the swirl and suck of the river, Moss succeeded in changing her fate. And the Riverwitch had let her go.

Moss, Pa and Salter had walked away from their old lives in London and settled in a country village where Pa was welcomed as the new blacksmith. During those early days, Moss had wondered whether the Witch would come for her again. But the more she’d swum in the gentle village river, the bolder she’d become, until the strangeness of that winter had seemed so far away it was almost unreal. She’d buried those memories deep, hoping she’d never have to dig them up. The Riverwitch was gone from their thoughts and their lives. But today . . . what had she seen? The coiling weeds had filled her head with thoughts of the Witch. Yet the face in the water was not the face of the Riverwitch.