Mist upon the Marsh: The Story of Nessa and Cassie Read Online Free PDF

Caramon. Yet they started out anyway on their journey, bound for –
    “Half a moment,” said Nessa. “Where exactly are we going?”
    “I thought we might go on into town, and play that game they have there by the supermarket. Now, let me see – plating, is it called?”
    Through the cab swept a roar of laughter at poor Caramon’s expense.
    “It is called bowling, brother,” said Nessa.
    “Ah, well,” said Caramon. “One serving dish or the next. But how about it?”
    “Why do you want to play that silly game?” asked Dechtire. “It’s ridiculous, really.”
    “Then what do you suggest, my dear?”
    “Well, I suppose we could make a stop at the tavern –”
    “Oh, I think not!” interrupted Orin. “I do believe that we had to drag you home the last time by your heels.”
    “You certainly did not! I was only dozing.”
    “We are going bowling,” said Caramon resolutely. “And that is all there is to it.”
    Dechtire lapsed back into a fit of pouting.
     
    ~
     
    After a great victory at the bowling lanes (to which Nessa trailed a close second), Caramon hopped back into the driver’s seat, laughing somewhat giddily. He drove quite as fast as the truck could manage down the main thoroughfare, and pulled without warning into the lot of a bright-looking diner.
    “And what are we doing here?” asked Dechtire.
    “Aren’t you hungry?” asked Caramon.
    “Even if I was – I would not solve that particular problem here.”
    “Oh, come now,” said Orin. “A meal out on the town never hurt anyone.”
    “Thank you very much, Orin!”
    “You’re quite welcome, Caramon.”
    The four recent bowlers made their way into the diner, where they were seated in a corner booth by a girl whose hair was blue, and whose earlobes appeared to have been inflicted with large holes. Dechtire stared quite rudely, and the girl made it fairly apparent that she was not appreciative.
    “Good show, Dechtire,” said Nessa. “Now she’ll spit in our food.”
    “Do people do such things?”
    “To people like you, quite often!”
    Orin sighed. “Can you two not manage to be agreeable, for even a single evening?”
    “Considering who is doing the managing,” offered Caramon, “I would say that they are doing quite well.”
    Luckily enough, it was not the blue-haired girl who came to their table. What with the new arrival’s mousy brown hair, and earrings of an entirely normal size, there was not much about her to fuel the fire of Dechtire’s incorrigible insolence. Rather on the unfortunate side, however, neither was there much to commend concerning her waitressing abilities. The four not-so-recent bowlers received their suppers some five-and-forty minutes after having sat themselves down; and those suppers were cold, stiff, and in some cases gelatinous where they should have been firm. To add to all this cause for discontentment, there was also the fact that, before taking a bite of anything, Dechtire insisted on checking it thoroughly. Nessa became so annoyed with the process, she began to wish that she had spared inspiring in her friend this particular anxiety.
    “This is absolutely ludicrous!” shouted Caramon finally. (The fellow’s demeanour was typically quite joyful and merry, and entirely the antithesis of that of his sister; but his fondness for food was perhaps more than most people’s, and when he encountered a supper whose poor quality could find no words for explanation, he tended to lose his head.) “I shan’t give a penny for this rubbish!” he added.
    Every head in the diner (though there were admittedly few) seemed to turn, then, towards him. Some looked startled; but others seemed simply curious.
    “Hey there, you – English fella!” called a man from across the room, who wore a brown hunting cap atop his head.
    Caramon frowned. “I’m not English.”
    “Fine, then. Strange fella. Why don’t you hush up, so all the rest of us can eat in peace?”
    “Quiet, you,” said Caramon, shaking