Blacklands

Chapter 40

THERE WAS BREATHING AND FEET, BREATHING AND FEET.

The moor did its worst.

Twisted roots tripped and tangled, wet heather slapped and gorse whipped and prickled. Mud gripped and slid.

The mist was a thick white veil. Or a shroud. It chilled the eyelids, slid up the nose, and pooled in the gaping mouth—its damp fingers stroking the senses with a seaside memory of childhood and a portent of death.

But through it all there was breathing and feet, breathing and feet.

With a purpose.