I flex my claws into the thick swampy bog. They’re already black, they're always black, always full of mud. It’s more watery today than normal. The rain has been so heavy, the colony has been worried about flooding. If this place were to flood… it would spell disaster. Not only for me, for my kin, but for everything that lives here. I stare into the unyielding murk of the inky sludge beneath me. It doesn’t betray any hint that there’s another world below, and yet there’s an energy here. I know there’s something there. The dead are here, they’re trying to convene with me. Not just my own, but others as well. All manner of species, they all fall to the majesty and power of the bog. None are impervious to its wishes. If I strain my ears, I think I can hear the whispering. But it might just be the wind in the trees. I hear Blackmire’s paws before I see her. My mother is the largest cat I know, and though she knows the bog like her own tail- but she’s never been able to keep herself light upon it. 

Her eyes narrow in on me, sharp amber pools through which her cruelty, cunning and scrutiny are channeled.

“Have you felt any change in the bog, Moon? Can you hear them, you’ll need to in order to become a proper bogwalker.” 

I feel my skin itch, my fur begins to rise. A long breath flows from my nose as I shake my thick, curly mane out, I’m only able to release some of the frustration she brings. “I know Blackmire. I do feel something. I still cannot truly connect with the bog- I fear if I step in now, I will not come out the other side but… there’s something in the trees. They’re here. I feel them.” 

Her gaze becomes unreadable as she searches my features. Once she’s done, Blackmire turns, flicking her ears and positioning herself towards the flat black expanse, and the entrenched twining trees dispersed throughout it. I wonder sometimes how long those trees have lived. Are they part of the bog, or merely connected to it somehow? Are they like me? Do they think? Blackmire speaks again, pulling me from the bog’s draw. 

“You cannot be afraid of its swallowing depths. You will never walk into the bog’s plane if you are. If you can hear our ancestors whispering to you, then you are ready. They are calling you, and you must answer.”

I’m surprised by her earnest response. I’d expected my mother to hiss and swat at my head; to call me small-minded, and foolish for fearing what I was born to do. I wonder why this topic has her mewing to me so quietly. Maybe it’s just the seriousness of it all. I have to walk, or the colony will suffer for it. I knead nervously at the ground, allowing my paws to become stickier, and darker with a thick coat of mud. The feeling is comforting, even if the wetness can be cold. 

“How do I submerge fearlessly? How will I know that I will emerge, and not flail helplessly in its merciless claws?”

Blackmire sets a large paw between mine, dark mud gives way to her weight with a wet squelch. I imagine the pressure her weight can emit, it makes my muscles ache just a little. Her eyes burn as she stares into the side of my face.

“You don’t know, but you have to trust that our ancestors will lead you safely through to the bog’s realm. They will, if you release your ties to living, to mortality. Our time here is short and fleeting, they know of the greatness that lies beyond, in the bog’s realm. We walk it to connect mortal cats to those who have passed. You know all this, I know. But I need you to accept it. It’s why I repeat it. Accept it, Moon, and you will walk the bog like me, and my mother, and her mother. Someday I will be amongst our ancestors' souls, I cannot connect the mortal and immortal alone, forever.”

I turn to her, trying to hide my disbelief with a grateful expression. I’d only felt such kindness from her after having succeeded at something. My chest is tight, I know what I have to do, I can’t wait any longer. I remember our disagreement just earlier, when the sun was high enough to be visible from the small gap between the pines at camp. How she spat at me, how nobody even bothered to look, and how I still flinch. There’s no point in sitting around being scared. Blackmire can’t be why I walk. If she is, I’ll surely become one of its many swallowed souls. Then it’s for my colony, but no, I don't truly care for them; nor they for me. Then… It's for the bog itself. For the dead that reside in it, and the benefit of the land itself. It blesses me each day with prey, and shelter. It comforts me, when no cat will. I have a duty to ensure the bog, the forest and its balance is not disturbed. I step past her, tipping my chin up and looking out past the marsh’s limits. There’s a low fog swirling and swaying between the trees, hovering above the dark mud. Its ominous nature always attributed to my fear. I won't let it stop me now. 

My paws move forward on their own, dipping into the bog. It’s thinner than I expected, like water. I keep going, walking deer into the bog, allowing its waves to lap against my fur, and soak against my skin. It envelops me, absorbs into me, it becomes a part of me. I know at that moment, even if I haven’t come to the other side yet, that it accepts me as a bogwalker, I will come out the other end. I just have to keep walking.