第8章 The Slate

They walked the marsh in the second hour of light, and the marsh was brown and the mud was flat and the water was far behind them and the air had a taste to it that Nissa had never had on the marsh, a taste of salt and something else, something cold and old, something that had been in the mud for longer than Harnsey Wick had been a village. The boy walked ahead of her. He did not walk fast, but he walked steadily, and he did not look back, and he did not say where he was going, and Nissa did not ask. She walked behind him, and she looked at the mud under her boots, and she looked at the flat running out in front of her, and she did not see the child. They walked for an hour, and the boy walked on, and Nissa walked behind him, and neither of them spoke, and at the end of the hour the boy stopped and stood still and did not turn around, and Nissa walked up to him and looked where he was looking, and there was a slate. The slate was lying on the mud, flat, with its writing face up, and the writing was in a child's hand, and the writing was not yet dried, and the slate was warm, and the slate was on the mud where the mud had been drier than the rest, and around the slate was a ring of grass that had not been in the marsh a moment ago. Nissa stood over the slate. She did not touch it. She looked at the boy. He was looking at the slate, and his face was the face of a boy who had been waiting three days to see something and had not known whether he would see it, and now he had seen it, and he did not want to pick it up. "She was here," he said. "Yes," Nissa said. "She put it down." "Yes." "She is not here." "Nissa," the boy said, "she is not here." Nissa put her hand flat on the mud next to the slate. The mud was dry under her hand, drier than the mud around the slate, and the mud was warm, and the slate was warm, and the slate had the smell of chalk and of a child's fingers, and Nissa picked the slate up with both hands and held it against her chest and did not look at the writing. The boy did not speak. He did not ask her to look at it. He did not ask her to read it. He stood where he had stood, looking at the place where the slate had been, and he did not move, and Nissa stood where she had stood, holding the slate, and she did not look at it, and they stood in the marsh for a long time, and the marsh was flat, and the marsh was brown, and the water was coming in from somewhere they could not see, and the air was cold, and the slate was warm. "Barsham's slate," the boy said at last. "I wrote on Barsham's slate this morning. I wrote it in her hand, because I know her hand, and I know her words, because she's taught me her words on Barsham's slate." "You taught her words?" "I taught her words." He did not elaborate. "She didn't teach them to me. I learned them. I learned them in the schoolhouse. I learned them because Barsham kept the third ledger, and Barsham wrote every word she said on his slate, and I read Barsham's slate, and Barsham's slate had her words on it, and I learned her words." Nissa stood over the slate in the marsh. She did not look at it. She held it against her chest. "She's gone," she said. "She's gone." "She walked out of the marsh and she did not come back." "She walked out of the marsh and she did not come back." "She walked to the steps." "She walked to the steps." "She walked to the ninth step." "She walked to the ninth step." He did not move. "She walked to the ninth step and she put the slate down and she walked on and she did not come back." Nissa put the slate under her arm. She looked at the boy. He was looking at the marsh, and he did not say anything more. "She is not dead," Nissa said. "I don't know if she is dead." "She is not dead." "I don't know if she is dead." He did not move. "I know she is not here. I know the slate is here. I know she is not here. I don't know if she is dead." They walked back to the Saltwyke house in the last hour of light, and the boy carried a bucket of marsh water on the way, and Nissa carried the slate, and they did not speak, and when they came to the house they found Isaac Threave in the doorway with his coat off and his arms folded, and he looked at Nissa and he looked at the boy and he looked at the slate and he said nothing, and he stood aside and let them in, and he put a cup of tea on the kitchen table, and he did not ask questions, and he went out to his boat. Nissa put the slate on the table in front of her. She looked at the boy. He was standing at the door with his hat in his hand, and he did not sit down, and she did not tell him to. "Bring the slate to Barsham," she said. "He sent me for it." "He sent you for the slate. Bring the slate back." The boy looked at her. He looked at the slate. He put his hat on his head and he did not pick up the slate, and he went out into the cold, and Nissa stood at the table with her hand on the slate and she looked at the writing, and the writing said, in a child's hand, over six lines, and the six lines were the same as the five lines Barsham had written on his own slate in the schoolroom that afternoon. The seventh line on the slate was not written yet. The seventh line was empty. Nissa took up the pen Barsham had used, and she wrote on the seventh line, in the child's hand as near as she could make it, *the marsh is going to Barsham.* She did not sign it. She did not date it. She set the slate face up on the table and she went out to the marsh and she stood on the first step and she did not go further, and the tide came in and the tide went out, and the bell did not ring that night, and the marsh was quiet, and Nissa went home to bed and did not sleep. ---