They crossed the ancient wetlands before dawn, their feet shrouded in undulant mists diffusing the light from their flickering lamps. Gethin, older brother of his companion, Arvel – led the way with their sister Branwen between them as they trod carefully along the path, its uncertain surface greeting their boots with raised roots and crumbling stones, each impeding their progress as the clock ticked down.
“We need to move faster,” declared Gethin, “in another two hours, the path will shift.”
Branwen, who stood a head taller than her brothers, glanced uneasily at the stocky, leather-clad Gethin, “I’m more worried about the tide. We can navigate a new path, but once the tide comes in, we are lost.”
Arvel bit his lip and stammered, “We WILL make it, won’t we, Bran?”
She reached out and wiped a sodden red lock from his face, his features already looking ten years younger than when they started on their quest a week ago.
Bitten by a snake-frog, Arvel contracted what the native Lifar called “Mathra-Dhule”, which had no direct analogue in English, but conveyed a sense of getting younger while getting older. To the Lifar, this was a gift as they gracefully retreated from old age to youth over decades, but in humans it was accelerated and a twenty-year-old like Arvel could expect to regress to an embryonic form in a little more than a month.
“Yes, we will, Arv,” she said. She hugged him and not for the first time wished for a land-car to swiftly transport them to the Lifar’s medical village in the heart of the great swamp, but like the rest of their supplies, such luxuries were lost in the crash of the ark lander which plummeted into the Northern Ocean, leaving the colony group with just a few tents and hand tools.
“The Lifar and their redemption-through-trial philosophy will be the end of us,” Gethin grumbled, “I mean, who parks a hospital in the least hospitable place on the planet?”
“Guide us oh thy Great Redeemer,” Branwen said and smiled broadly, “C’mon, we’re not going to get anywhere standing around bumping gums.”
They strode on as the second sun rose and the wash of the tide crept closer. They could feel the ground shifting as micro-tectonics responded to the great white orb’s gravitational tugs.
“Hurry,” gasped Branwen as she broke into a steady run, “I can see the rocks of the mountain island.”
They ran, leaping over the barrier wall as the marsh descended into chaos, reforming itself under the pull of the new day’s sun. Ahead, at the foot of the mountain was the village… and salvation… just a few more metres, so tantalisingly close, yet so far away as the sweep of a dimensional rift ripped the village from their continuum and away to some unknown destination. They stood at the foot of the mountain, panting and heaving, their hearts hollow with grief as Arvel shrank into childhood, his pleading face ripe with panic. He was lost.
