"The mud's closing over my shoulders now, surrounding my neck, cupping round the back of my upturned head. I lift my face to the sun and the trees and the sky, hold up eyes and nose to smell and watch the world for as long as I can before the swamp takes me. It already has my ears; goodbye to the calls of birds, the small noises of the forest. There are other sounds in the mud: irregular thumpings and gurgles that could be from springs or streams or the human's famous monster.

"I've been snooty about the cliff lemmings. I was a bit irked that they get all the press; humans don't know lemmings come in any other kinds. Now, though, cliff and swamp don't seem altogether different. I'm slipping down with nothing beneath me to stop me, nothing to grab hold of, falling slowly to unknown depths. The banks of the quicksand pit are as unreachable to me now as the cliff-edge is to the faller. There must be something of the same thrill and joy in each descent. If the old tribes were right and we do keep going around, I might take the cliff next time. Just once."

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