WHEN the two of them set out after breakfast next morning, having pressed five dollars upon Brenda—which she seemed strangely reluctant to accept—they saw at once that Brenda’s warning had been correct: it had turned much colder and there were flurries of snow. They were thankful for their warm clothes. The horses seemed eager to break into a canter, so they hurried through the village with­out stopping, and continued at a good pace for several miles, until they were leaving the settled land behind them again, and making for another line of hills.

As they made their way more slowly along the narrow track that wound through the hills, Mark kept his bow strung and ready at his back; Stephanie too. They were anxious in case they encountered another cougar, although Mark said said they’d be less active during the daytime. But he was more worried about bears: he said they could be more dangerous than wild cats: he’d known one man back at his parents’ farm who’d been killed by a bear while out hunting.

They encountered numerous deer that ran across the road in front of them: ‘caribou’, Mark said they were, though Stephanie was un­familiar with the word. The horses, luckily, seemed to be accustomed to deer: at any rate, they didn’t ‘spook’ at them as they had at the cougar. They didn’t encounter any animal, nor any plant, that looked Deviational: they must have been a long way from Wild Country, or the Fringes, by now. That was lucky, said Mark, having had plenty of experience of dangerous Mutants.

They also saw signs of numerous snakes: Mark guessed that they were a kind of ‘copperhead’—a reptile he was familiar with from his days back at the farm. But he was surprised to encounter them so far north and active in such cold weather. Since they were found mostly near water and swampland, he assumed that there must be warm springs nearby, and the snakes must sometimes venture out of the water in search of prey. They were certainly venomous, as Mark took pains to impress upon Stephanie. Luckily most of them didn’t venture onto the track: the one or two that did were easily dodged. Mark mentioned that it would be disastrous for them if one of the horses got badly bitten, but the horses seemed alert and well able to avoid the danger. Still, their lunch stop, atop some boulders, was an anxious time: they kept a good look-out as they ate. The snow had stopped by now but it was still cold and cheerless. They didn’t want to spend time lighting a fire, so they quickly re-mounted and pressed on.

The range of hills appeared to stretch on endlessly before them, and it was clear that they would have to spend another night in the open. There had been no sign of any settlement, not even a house, since the morning, and they were almost resigned to resorting to the tent once more—if they could find anywhere to pitch it amongst the rocks. And there seemed to be nowhere for the horses to graze: they had brought some hay and oats, and they hoped it would be enough. But, just as they had given up searching for a smooth place to camp, Stephanie’s sharp eyes had picked out what looked like a small hut, about half a mile to the left of the track.

“We can go and look, but we must not lose the track!” insisted Mark. “Help me build a cairn: it’s the only way we can mark it.” So they spent a good half hour piling up stones until they had made a cairn which they hoped was tall enough to be visible from half a mile off. Then they led the horses across the rough ground. The building, when they reached it in what was left of the daylight, turned out to be a deserted shepherd’s hut, a very primitive structure with a hole in the roof, a door hanging off its hinges, and rough damp boards across the floor. It appeared to have once had wheels, but they had long since rusted away. Mark tried the floor, and it seemed to be sound. There was also a grassy patch nearby where the horses could graze. So they spread out the groundsheet from the tent and laid out their blankets. It was cold, damp, and miserable, but they could think of nothing better.

There was a small pile of firewood behind the hut, which they were thankful for, and they soon had a blazing fire going. A hot, albeit frugal, supper did much to cheer them up. Having no inclination to stay up after supper, they retired into the hut, barricaded up the door as best they could, wrapped themselves in the blankets and indulged in another night of love…

Their sleep was interrupted during the night by a loud neigh, a scream almost, from one of the horses. In some alarm, Mark sprang up, threw on some clothes, pulled aside the barricade and rushed out of the hut, taking care to have a good look round first. The moon was not far off setting, but there was still light enough. There was no sign of any large animal apart from the horses, but one of them was clearly in distress: it was tugging at its tether and appeared to be unable to put one of its forelegs on the ground. Mark did his best to calm the animal, and carefully examined the injured leg. In the moonlight he could see that it had been severely bitten: he felt gently along the lower leg. To his dismay the bone was broken just above the fetlock.

Stephanie had meanwhile appeared at the door, wrapped in a blanket. “It’s bad news, I’m afraid,” called out Mark. “There’s nothing we can do. Can you get dressed and bring me the gun?”

Numb with shock, Stephanie did as she was asked. Mark took the gun, and told Stephanie to hold the other horse and try to keep it calm. Then he loaded and, sadly, aimed at the horse’s head.

“Please look away, Stephanie,” he said quietly, and Stephanie obeyed. There was a loud bang: the other horse was startled but Stephanie was able to keep hold of it and calm it down. Then she turned to Mark, who was sorrowfully removing the dead horse’s harness, and couldn’t avoid bursting into tears. It was the second time she had been witness to a wounded horse being put out of its distress, and the memory of the one Michael had had to shoot, after it had faithfully carried them almost all the way to Waknuk, was still fresh in her mind.

Mark, after assuring himself that the other horse was unharmed and quietened, ushered her back into the hut and they lay down. It was a long time before her sobs subsided, and even longer before her steady breathing told him that she was asleep. He remained awake a lot longer, going over in his mind how on earth they were going to manage with just one horse.

“Damn! Damn! Damn and double-damn!” he couldn’t help muttering. “Of all the rottenest luck!” He was still cursing when finally, he too nodded off.

It was broad daylight when they finally awoke. Neither of them felt in the mood for breakfast, so they just lit a small fire and heated cups of cocoa. Mark said he wanted to examine the dead horse in daylight, to try and find out what had happened. But he urged Stephanie not to accompany him.

“It’s all right now, Mark,” she insisted. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before, and I’ve got over it. Let me come and help.”

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So they had a good look at the horse’s leg. “I’ve absolutely no idea what could have delivered such a dreadful bite,” muttered Mark. “Must have had terribly powerful jaws. A wolf, possibly: but if a wolf pack had turned up we’d surely have heard it, and there’d be more than one bite. And I don’t think a solitary wolf would go for a full-sized horse. Whatever it was, it’d run off before I got out of the hut. I’m beginning to think, a Mutant after all. Wouldn’t expect one this far from the Fringes, but you never know. And with Mutants, any­thing goes: some of them have the most immensely strong jaws.” He was recalling the monster that had attacked Petra’s pony, back in the woods around Waknuk: the event that had brought all Hell tumbling about them a few days later… “Whatever it was, we’re down to one horse, so we must manage as best we can. That man Phil, back at the farm, he said it was two day’s journey to Kamach. We’ve done one of them. I hope he was right.”

Stephanie had nothing to add to that. “Let’s get away from it; it’s horrible to see,” she remarked. “Perhaps it’s lucky that it was my horse; yours is the stronger one and should be able to carry us both—for a while.” She remembered how another horse had carried her and Michael many miles—but it had quickly tired. “But what can we take, and what must we leave behind?”

In the end they agreed to stow the tent and blankets in the hut, along with the dead horse’s saddle and bridle, their cooking gear, and some spare clothes. “We might be able to come back for them some time,” commented Mark. They took their remaining food, of course, and the gun and their bows and arrows. They carefully arranged their packs on Mark’s horse, and led it back to where their cairn marked the track. Mark mounted and Stephanie scrambled up behind and clung on tightly. They started off at a slow pace; the horse seemed able to carry both of them but wasn’t too happy about it.

The horse was visibly tiring by midday, so they stopped for a brief lunch, without incident; then they continued for three or four miles on foot, leading the horse. At last, to their relief, the high ground began to fall away and they could see a cluster of buildings in the valley a few miles ahead.

“With any luck, that’s Kamach,” said Mark, hopefully. The horse seemed to have recovered a bit, so they re-mounted and picked their way down the track to the lower ground. Daylight was failing fast when they reached the town, which was a bit smaller than Kentak. So, after having made enquiries and confirmed that this was indeed Kamach, they decided to make for an inn and have the horse tended to—it was almost dead-beat by now.

“And no mishaps tonight, with any luck,” chuckled Stephanie. “Don’t worry, Mark, I’m still upset about my horse, but I’m, getting over it. You know, it’s been an extraordinary journey, a right old mixture of good luck and bad luck. We got on all right with our big pussy-cat, and that woman Brenda came up trumps (we mustn’t make that mistake again!) —but then last night…! I still can’t believe we got here…”

“We’re here, and alive, and we’ll check out the prison tomorrow, if they’ll tell us. But I’m hopeful: the guys back in Kentak were very helpful and friendly and that.”

They found the inn without difficulty, and secured a room for the night and stabling for the horse. After a hearty meal—for they had eaten little during the day—they turned in to their beds. And nothing interrupted them during the night.

The next morning they asked the landlord where the prison was, and learned that it was outside the town, about two miles off. Mark proposed that he should go there alone, leaving Stephanie at the inn, as they had done before. Besides, it was not fair on the tired horse for either of them to ride it any more. Accordingly, Mark set out on foot after breakfast and, following the landlord’s directions, soon came to the prison. It was an imposing but grim-looking building, set in a barren rocky area like the terrain they had just crossed. After explaining his mission, Mark was admitted to the Governor’s office. The Governor was an imposing, square-jawed woman, with short fair hair, who looked as if she could have floored Mark with a single punch: he guessed that most of the prison staff would be like that. But she was cordial to Mark and agreed to help him out.

“Wender—eh? ‘Martha Wender’. Let me see,” and she thumbed through a large record-book. After turning many pages she looked up. “Yes, here she is. Discharged just under three years ago. We only record the first address a prisoner goes to after discharge, so if she’s moved about since then, you’ll have to enquire elsewhere. Yes, you’re lucky here, she settled at an address right here in Kamach.” And she wrote down the address on a slip of paper. “If she’s moved, it won’t be far away: she’ll still be under a travel restriction order.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Mark. “Very helpful. You don’t have any information about her husband, John Wender, by any chance?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there. As you can see, this is a women-only prison, and we don’t have the discharge records for any other prison. Do you know which prison Mr Wender was sent to?”

“Yes I do—Menichik. They told me it’s a long way off.” The Governor nodded. “Oh well,” he continued, “I’ll have to start by seeking out Mrs Wender. Thanks awfully for your help.” And with that he took his leave and walked quickly back to the inn.

Stephanie was thrilled at his news. “Oh Mark, we must try the address straight away. I can’t bear to wait any longer.”

“She may not be there,” Mark warned. “You’ve got to be prepared for disappointment.”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s go. Right now!”

So they set out on foot, threading through the streets, some of them narrow, until they found themselves in front of a cottage with a garden in which some hens were clucking. Nervously, they knocked on the door.

It was opened by a thin, bent, rather elderly-looking lady with grey hair, wearing a black dress, leaning on a stick. Mark’s face fell when he saw her. He had never, of course, met Mrs Wender, but David had described her as a tall, slim, quite good-looking woman in her mid thirties. This could not be she! But Stephanie was looking at her intently.

“Mrs Wender?” she enquired, tentatively.

“Yes?”

“Mrs Martha Wender?”

“Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

“You don’t recognise me, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid…”

“You don’t recognise me, perhaps… Mother?”

The lady gave a sudden start, and peered at Stephanie more care­fully. “But you can’t be? That’s impossible! You couldn’t be! She was sent away… she couldn’t have come back could she… my own little Sophie? But you’re grown up… it’s not possible…”

Stephanie made no reply: she simply kicked off one of her shoes and put her foot forward. Martha stared at it for a moment, lost for words.

“It is you! My darling Sophie, come back to me! After all these years. No, I can’t believe it—”

And with that she sank into Mark’s arms in a dead faint.