Tobin was nine years old in the Reed-House boat, and he wanted to be called Tobin by everyone in the Hold except the Chamber, which could call him whatever it liked, because the Chamber had never once got his name right on the first try.
Wren rowed. She rowed the way the marsh people did, with the oar held low and the blade going in and out of the water without a sound, as if the river had agreed to be quiet for her sake. She had been born in the reeds, she said, and a person born in the reeds learned to row before she learned to walk, and to expect to be asked for a toll before she learned to row. Tobin had asked her once what the toll was for. She had said it was for the water, and that the water did not care who paid it, only that somebody did. He had thought about that for a whole day.
The reed-channel ran below the Hold’s east wall, between the causeway’s old stone footings and the wet green bank where the marsh-herons stood on one leg and pretended not to watch. It was narrow. The reeds on either side were taller than the boat, and their feathery heads brushed the gunwales and left a fine dust on Tobin’s sleeves. The water was the colour of strong tea and it smelt of mud and of the sweet green smell that comes up off a marsh in spring…
