When I regained consciousness, the universe creaked. It was complete darkness.

I was lying face down on the ground in an uncomfortable fetal position. My face was embedded in a rough, damp floor, soaked with the silty smell of the river. With an uncertain mind, it took me a while to reconnect with reality. At first I thought that my whole body had turned into raw pain. Then, my landmarks returning little by little, I managed to identify more precisely the objects of my suffering. I had something in my mouth, a rustic gag soaked in my own saliva, tight as a horse's bit, and even sharper ties joined my feet to my hands.

A spurt of terror seized me in the guts, the instinct of the animal that we put in a cage. The panic took over, and it was as if my mind went blank again. I was possessed, fully possessed by the demons of fear, and for a while there were only them. I know that I was struggling furiously, desperately, screaming with all my might, with nothing but small dull rumblings. I also cried, I think. My efforts spaced out like the jerks of a dying creature. Calm returned little by little and, lucidity did the same. There was nothing voluntary, it was only the effect of fatigue and the fact that my body had no more strength to devote to combat.

Warm humidity soaked the leather of my chaig pants.

Obviously I had wet my pants. It brutally brought back to my mind the events that happened before. The barrel, the murder of Tom Minnow, the slippage of Brindy, the stumps and the assault in the small yard of the Stream. My shirts were cold and soggy, too. I must have reeked of urine. I squirmed again, this time trying to find a more comfortable position. As I did so, I realized that the world was slowly rocking, a discreet roll, hard to distinguish in the dark. I thought I perceived a noise unrelated to the cyclical creaking: the lapping of the water. That's when I understood that I was at the bottom of a ship's hold.

I had no idea how long it could have been since I lost consciousness. I wondered if Brindy was there with me, somewhere in the dark. Maybe Robin was there too? I was hungry, thirsty, my wrists were sore, and the clear feeling that the gag was going shear the corners of my mouth. The forced fetal position made me feel horribly sore. I tried to loosen my ties, this time more calmly, experimenting with twists and turns, but it all seemed to hold terribly well, and I only managed to convince myself that I was going to scrape my skin and break my limbs if I persisted. My gestures, combined with the slight pitching, caused me to hit my head against a hard surface, which, after some effort, I managed to lean against. Panting through the cloth, I let my head go against the wood.

Little by little I understood all the stupidity I had shown. The smugglers had kidnapped me, there was no doubt about it now. Perhaps they had reacted to Brindy's provocations or learned that I was working for Sesh. My resentment towards the first-blade grew a notch, even though I would have gladly given a lot for him to have been there at that moment, with his sword and his cold eyes. Then I made the connection with the other disappearances, and if I had had my hands untied, I would have hit myself for not thinking about it earlier. We had been abducted, too. What I didn't understand was why. All these children had not been able to discover the secret of Tom Minnow's assassination. So why had they been kidnapped? Then I panicked again, thinking back to the threatening warning that Sesh had given me before I ventured into the Stream. "… Otherwise you'll end up sleeping with the catfishes." I could already see myself at the bottom of the river, with the skeletons of the other kids, the limbs nibbled by the fishes. I swallowed, then stupidly I clenched my teeth, and something tore.

I emitted a small grunt of surprise and pain, before I understood that it was not my flesh that had just yielded, but the gag. The difference was tiny, but there it was, a hint of extra freedom. I shook my head, clenched my jaws again, and the cloth cracked again. Encouraged by this result, I began to bite, making as many grimaces as I could, while retracting my neck from front to back, like the ducks on the farm. When the tension of the fabric increased, it would simultaneously tear somewhere near the knot. I rushed into this rift, pulling, pushing and, with a lot of effort, I finally managed to spit out the gag, which fell loosely around my neck. My throat was parchment-like and my tongue was swollen, but things were now a little better. My first reflex was to respond to the anguish of loneliness:

"Brindy? Brindy?"

I croaked several times in the darkness. Apart from the gloomy creaking of the roll, there was no answer. Then I realized that, even if Brindy could hear me, she must surely be gagged as I had been. Perhaps she was trying to call me. The thought filled me with despair. I sighed, and let my head go against the hull. For the moment at least, I had to assume that I was alone in the dark.

I tried again to pull my insensitive hands out of the noose around them, again without success. Nevertheless, I managed, by extending my legs as much as I could, to get my arms between my knees, so that I found myself bent in a kind of uncomfortable position. This pulled my lower back, but at least gave me a semblance of stability: with the pitching, I was struggling to maintain my balance. I recovered my breath again. My stomach rumbled loudly.

It was cold and this feeling was accentuated by my wet clothes and the fact that I couldn't move. I shivered, while turning my head in every directions. How long had it been since my capture? What was to become of me? The rough presence of the gag around my neck began to itch horribly. When I could no longer hold it, I tilted forward to rub myself against the planks of the hold. It was then that I felt, pressed against my chest, the smooth bone of the pendant that Ucar had offered me. It hadn't been taken from me. I suddenly visualized the short blade it contained, and I immediatly thought about escaping. I had to act quickly, before my captors returned, and so I worked as quickly as possible, ignoring the shocks of pain on my wrists.

My first task was to free the necklace from my shirts. With my buttocks in the air, upside down, I moved back and forth several times, shaking my body as much as I could. The operation lasted a while, then I finally heard the carved bone clicking against the boards. Then, dragging the necklace on the bottom of the hold and palpating the darkness with the tip of my lips, I managed to bring it to my mouth. I had become accustomed to nibbling the talisman when, hidden in the corners of the Stream, I spied on the discussions of passers-by, and I already knew that the leather strap was long enough for the work in progress.

I was straightening up somehow, encouraged by my progress, but I quickly lost my balance and fell back to my side. I diligently pulled the blade out of its cold sheath with the tips of my teeth, and the removable part of the pendant came off. I finally felt the taste of iron and its cutting edge, terribly accentuated by the sensitivity of the tongue and mucous membranes. I manoeuvred the blade between my lips with care, knowing only too well that I would have to use it. I had already cut myself with it when I was trying to carve a piece of wood for Dera, and had realized at the same time that I was lucky not to lose a phalanx. Finally, I managed to grasp the tip between my teeth. I took a few moments to breathe, squeezing the bone more than I should have, for fear of having to start all over again in the dark, with the bare blade.

Then came the most difficult part. Fortunately, like many children, and perhaps more than most, I was as flexible as an eel.

So I rolled on my back, wedging my feet against the planks of the hull, and bowed with the blade forward, looking for the ties. The effort was intense and my head was spinning, but I managed to reach the ropes. Stuck in this strange position, pulling as much as I could with my hands to my mouth and doing my best to ignore the pain, I began to shear. The blows were ineffective and several times I felt the bite of the knife on my palms, but the small blade of the pendant was razor sharp and, in this context, the tension of the strings played in my favor.

Nothing happened for a while, then I heard the tiny click of a yielding fiber. I redoubled my efforts, my face sweating in spite of the cold, and the strings suddenly relaxed. I regained the freedom of my hands in a few gestures, crying as much from relief as from suffering, for the blood that flowed back into my numb fingers hurt a lot. In comparison, when I had enough confidence in my hands to hold the blade, it was child's play to free my shackled feet. I was still shaking enough to cut into my ankles several times and it took me a while before I could stand on my wobbly legs. The next step, in my mind, was groping along the hold looking for a way out. I took about ten cautious steps before putting the shoe on a soft object that was lying on the ground. I slumped down in the dark.

My anxious hands discovered that it was a person, shackled as I had been. My heart leapt into my chest. I could easily recognize the fabric of my cloak, and the smell of these long hair. It was Brindy. To my great despair, she did not react to my touch, nor to my murmurs. Panicked, I checked her breathing, which was calm and regular. A sweet perfume impregnated her gag. Carefully, I cut out the rag, being careful to touch it as little as possible, before throwing it away. I never knew why my own gag had not been impregnated in the same way. For some time, I solicited Brindy without getting any answer apart from the quiet rhythm of her deep inspirations. Finally, I stood up and resumed my obscure exploration.

I realized quickly that we were in a small area between the hull and the deck, but that this space was obviously not part of the hold as such. The compartment was perfectly empty, except for the woodwork of the hull, which was rectangular, about six by four spans in my opinion, and I could touch the ceiling (which I considered to be the underside of the deck) without much effort, simply by extending my arms. I had groped around three times, using Brindy as a reference point, without being able to discern the slightest exit, and my fingers were getting splintered from dragging them around all the surfaces looking for a handle or a door. Nothing seemed to indicate that we had not been walled up alive in a wooden prison. I ended up sitting next to Brindy, perfectly desperate about my abortive escape attempt and fearful of the repercussions my efforts might have when my captors would inevitably discover them.

I held my little blade against me, while making a frightened oath to stab at least one before they threw us to the fishes. Then I pressed myself against Brindy, and lulled by the roll, I cried a little more.

My sniffing stopped, giving way to yawning and a throbbing headache. Despite the exhaustion, I reasoned that I would have to find a solution quickly, while I still had some strength left. Without seeing an immediate alternative, I started thinking again.

I was terribly hungry and especially thirsty, and I realized that I could use these sensations as a rough measure of the time I had spent in the hold. I knew hunger well, and one day felt right. I went around the compartment several times, without success. What struck me was the absolute silence. There was, of course, the regular creaking of the planks, a rhythm so quiet that it seemed like a lullaby, and the muffled lapping of the water. But apart from that, not a sound. Even though I had never been aboard a boat, I was in close contact with them, and I knew the commotion that existed on board, between the screams of the crew, the whip of the wind in the sail, and the drum skimming the oars. But here, there was none of that.

We might as well have been on board of a ghost ship, and I didn't like this thought. As I listened, I could also make out a distant rumbling sound that vaguely evoked something, but I couldn't make out what it was.

My soiled pants were wet and sticky. I had sat down in the dark, brooding desperately, and watched over Brindy, when the lighting began to change. It was faint, but noticeable to those who were used to total darkness. My puffy eyes wiggled, looking for a clue, and when I looked up, I realized it was coming from somewhere directly above me. I wrinkled my eyelids and saw a thin line, barely lighter than the rest, a single gray line oozing in the darkness. My heart leapt. I hadn't thought to probe the ceiling.

I slowly straightened up and put both hands on the line. I pushed.

Something heavy stirred, and the glow grew. Encouraged, I renewed my efforts. It was a hatch. I pushed again with my head, my feet slipping on the hull, my hands clinging to the edge. A fresh and humid air filled the compartment. I looked in the opened space. In front of me, as I had thought, the bow of a boat was taking shape in the gray darkness of the early morning. I pulled myself up even more and cleared my bust, my heart beating at the thought that I might be discovered. The rumble became louder to my right, and this time I recognized it without difficulty.

It was the thunder of the sawmill.

My happiness to be out in the open air again, in a place that was familiar to me, was suddenly overwhelmed by a major dilemma. I couldn't take Brindy with me. I had neither the strength to pull her out of the cell nor to carry her to safety. Moreover, the day was coming soon, so time was running out. Despite the remorse and anxiety, I had no doubt that I had to abandon Brindy. If I acted quickly, assuming that no one would intercept me once I was outside, I could get to the guard before they even woke up. Another more calculating thought overlayed my reluctance to leave Brindy. Without proof, who would believe me? Perhaps Sesh. And again, it wasn't certain. Our captors had to be caught red-handed, and for that, Brindy had to stay. I sniffed, half disgusted by my reasoning, then I climbed on the deck.

Crouching on the boards, I silently closed the hatch, vowing to return as soon as possible. The fog was thick, so thick that I could barely make out the river around me. Without moving an inch, I scanned my surroundings. I was at the front of the boat, behind me the deck seemed empty, the fog lazily wrapped around the ghostly mast. The ship was moored at the sawmill pier, whose black mass was standing out to my right. Brown's wharf must, by deduction, have been less than a mile ahead. It was easier for the boats to load planks directly at the source, and this prevented the workers to have to carry twice the fruit of their labor.

I moved furtively towards the sawmill, which was located on a bank protrusion that had been transformed into an island when the foamy spillway that turned the two troughs had been dug. It was near here that Ucar had taken his giant catfish. A stone pontoon now connected the mill to the riverbank. The wharf was open to the river to the east and equipped with small pulley cranes for loading merchant ships. I leaned overboard. The front of the boat was not in line with the wharf, but with a small section of bank sloping down to the edge of the island, and I had no desire to turn around, nor indeed to approach the wharves themselves where, perhaps, despite the apparent calm, I could come across a crew member. The deck of the boat must have been two spans above the water. I jumped not without hesitation, and hit the bank so hard that my teeth snapped. Behind me, the boat creaked gently. The thunder of the spillway was increasing.

Then the glow of a torch and several voices appeared near the docks and blocked my way towards the deck of the sawmill. Terrified, I stepped back and put one foot in the icy water. The light flickered, coming closer to the deserted loading dock. I backed away again. The cold grabbed me by the shins and, with death in my soul, I understood that I no longer had a choice. There was usually a watchman on deck, the sawmill was about to start, and after the events of the night I felt I could not trust any adult in the area. So I turned around and, being careful not to make a splash, I walked into the water shivering. I lost my footing after a few fathoms. With my mind filled with atrocious images, schools of voracious carps, I started to swim, despite the fatigue and the piercing cold.

The current of the spillway seized me, and the black water carried me downstream.