The Mud-witch - a short story collaboration | Page 15

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Upstream, where the river is crowded in by brick walls and rickety jetties, Minno hides. He has
found a forgotten rowing boat moored deep in the shadow of the town’s bridge, against the
slimy stone. The shouts and slapping feet of the boys echo from the other side of the river. They
are throwing mud-bombs across the water, to splut amongst the bicycle wheels and dodging
legs on the towpath.
Minno hopes for a careless passer-by to drop a glove, to replace the one lost he in the river.
He watches for the pack of boys to tire of this patch, and prowl elsewhere. He watches for the
Mud-witch. If she comes to get him, will she loom up from the brown water to drag him down?
It is cold under the bridge, and he huddles in the middle of the small boat, moving his one glove
from hand to hand, hiding the naked one beneath his coat.

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