There were five bodies bobbing in the water, their horrified, hallowed faces bouncing gently against the camera before floating away. Em was only one of them.

FAULKNER (Distantly): Marco! CARPENTER (With increasing reluctance): Polo

The first thing we hear is a pair of boots, sloshing with difficulty through muddy water.

This is a holy mission, Sister. This is pilgrimage up the sacred river. My first pilgrimage. And you keep sneering at me, as if none of this means anything

She’d grown up amongst the lobster-catchers and the ferrymen - great bearded men, the picture of virility and hearty male arrogance - and she’d watched the river swallow them up one by one. Fathers and sons.

And we’d run back to the solid ground that was a place of safety, away from the river that was the Trawler-man’s crawling, sodden garden. Once you were back on the dry land, we told ourselves - that meant he couldn’t get you.

The birds got to his eyes. There’s no bloating in the stomach. This was a natural death. Someone made a sacrifice, but the angels never came.

Over the long years, she pierced her ears and cheeks and lips with seventeen barbed hooks of varying shapes and sizes in devotion to the Trawler-man, and she wore them proudly in public without concern that any of our neighbours would dare to rat her out to the lawful authorities

I have spent my life in the shadow of this great and winding river. I have always dwelt in the shadow of my god

People don’t hold to our faith around here any more, Faulkner. They have fisher-gods and money-gods and fryer-gods and lanterns-in-darkness. If you want to know what they believe, go drop a coin in the Jolly King Kipper’s all-singing-all-dancing blessing machine out back.

CARPENTER: Probably it’s a regional sign of worship. Under the circumstances, an oblative mark. FAULKNER: A sacrifice. CARPENTER: Exactly.

I do remember when I was called. In the Little Angels of Mending reform house, a squat brick compound with high walls and barred windows in the southern reaches of Glottage. Two or three years after the fateful day when the police came for Nana Glass.

The Second Circle of Silt. The Rime Submerged, The Lock-Keeper’s Canticle. The secret marks of our faith that signified invitation, and sacrifice.

The first thing we hear is a pair of boots, sloshing with difficulty through muddy water.

We were taught the names of safe, sterile modern gods. We thanked the Saint Electric for the gift of light and our working television. We praised Augustus, our back yard’s pond god, for trickling so sweetly and keeping the gentle goldfish swimming in his waters.

I can tell you from experience that the ‘holy mission’ part comes later on, when we deliver our report and the High Katabasian blesses a successful pilgrimage and we reflect in private on how it all didn’t go to hell.

Trawler-Man of Tide and Flesh. Father in the Water.. You are the Mouth Devouring and the Mouth Returning, You stand tall at the High Tide and crawl on your belly at the Low Tide.

Once the cells had been drained and the grotesque corpses cleared away, the guards realised what he had done, although the scratches on the wall were now faint and smeared and impossible to read. My brother had covered the wall in prayer-marks.

Silence. We hear FAULKNER sigh as he remains where he is, gazing down at the sacrifice.

It’s the least we can do for whoever made the sacrifice. We leave no trace that can’t be swallowed up in white silt and black water.