Witch's Marsh inquire of the dead on behalf of the living

she moved further north from the creek in the next day or so, her pace sluggish at best, hardly the fleet-footed steps of a self-assured woman. but she was worried, and hardly had faith in herself let alone the strange land around her. it remained barren. the sun baked the dirt where once the grass did grow, and everything seemed so different. had hunger not been a problem for her, hosannah may have viewed things differently. the warmth of her lord was here! she would bask in it, herald the coming of the sun and the heat of summer as the daystar's blessings, but she did not think of him today. she thought of the pain she had endured thus far; of emily, and the white woman's words; of all that she was to endure in the future. and she was afraid.

the woman slipped and stumbled, but made her way. her eyes grew red-rimmed from the drifting dust of the plains and her belly moaned piteously at her. hosannah came to a stop when she felt the dampness in the ground, and after a brief pause wherein she looked perplexed upon the earth, she charged ahead through the marsh until she found a deep patch of water, and from that she drank. it was foul tasting, silt-laden water; yet it was a break from the emptiness, and so she drank her fill regardless. once her belly was round and filled with fluid, she set out to find something to bring back — food, perhaps, or herbs, to tend to their needs.