Bringing up the basket was arduous work, bringing calluses to the hands and aches to the back. The wheel was stiff, unyielding, and on her own Anne wouldn’t have been able to turn it–but she had her shadow to help her.

She held one handle, her shadow held the other, and together they turned, turned, turned. Slowly, slowly, out of the mist, its long thick chain creaking, came the basket.

Hopping down onto the outcropping, liking the way the mist swirled around her feet, Anne grasped the thick rim of the basket and hauled it onto land. There was raw wool in the basket for carding, and a clay pot of flour, and a still dancing fish, as well as the usuals. A good basket, Anne decided. Yesterday had been an acceptable basket. The day before had been good. Seven days ago the basket had been bad. Today it was good.

Together with her shadow she unpacked the basket before kicking and pushing it back over the edge. They turned the crank and the chain went chung chung chung chung and away it went, plunging down into the mist, out of sight. The chain wobbled, snapped, and was still.

The fish had stopped dancing. That was good. She hadn’t relished the thought of killing it.

Anne put aside the flour and the wood in the old lean to they called the old fisherman’s hut and carried the fish and other perishables down the slope to the village. Their valley was shaped like a shallow bowl; all paths led up to the cliffside, to the baskets, or down to the village, which was a light and easy walk.

She ran the last leg, bare feet slapping on the ground, ready to the show the others the fish. They all agreed it was an excellent fish, with enough meat on it to feed half the village for a night, and all agreed that Anne had the best basket of the day.

The next day, which was Tuesday, she had an ordinary basket; the day after that, which was Tuesday also, her basket contained nothing but raw wool and an empty pot; the day after that she found lots of vegetables, some of which were purple; and the day after that, she found a girl.

Well, not really a girl. She was Anne’s age. But looking at her Anne thought girl, not woman. Perhaps it was her slight figure, like Maeve and Judith, not like Anne with her big breasts and thick arms. Perhaps it was the way she was dressed, the lacy shawl draped around her. Perhaps it was the way she was curled up in the basket like a baby.

“Well,” said Anne, hands on her formidable hips. “This is a pickle.”

Her shadow nodded its dark head.

“What am I to do with her?”

They brought up odd things in their baskets sometimes, still alive things and things no one had ever seen before but agreed were very interesting and useful. No one, to Anne’s knowledge, had ever brought up a girl. But there she was, curled up quite happily on a bed of wool, oblivious to the creaking of the chain and the drop down into the mist below.

“I can’t leave her here.”

Her shadow shook its head.

Together, they lifted the girl out of the basket and set her gently upon the springy grass. Her head lolled back. Her shadow was asleep too, tucked up beneath her like something had given it a fright.

Now what? She gave the girl a shake. She could pour water on her, she supposed, but that seemed unkind. Maybe it was best to let the girl sleep.

She could go down to the village and announce to all the women there ‘I found a girl in my basket this morning,’ and see what they said, but the thought made her uneasy. She supposed she’d always known – all of them had always known – that they couldn’t be the only people in the world, but it was one thing to know something was true and another thing to be confronted with such tangible and compelling proof.

Well, she certainly couldn’t leave the girl lying by the edge, where she might roll over in her sleep and fall. Together they carried the girl to the lean-to and there laid her down.

Anne took the wool, all wadded up, down to the village, where all agreed that she’d had a very bad basket that morning. Not to worry; she’d have a better basket tomorrow. Maude, on the other hand, had had a stupendous basket and they all sat down for a happy breakfast of bread and fruit.

Still wiping her hands on her apron she went back to the fisherman’s hut and found the girl still asleep. And so she sat beside her, and waited.

It was almost the middle of the day when at last the girl’s eyes opened. She looked around herself, gazing hazily at the ramshackle hut. She looked at Anne. She looked, and she looked, looking Anne up and down in bewilderment. “Who are you?”

The question took Anne wholly off guard. She’d never in her life met anyone who didn’t know who she was, just as she’d never met another she didn’t know. “I’m Anne, of course!” she said. “Who are you?”

“What is this place?” The girl squinted up at the rough ceiling, slitted here and there with sunlight.

“This is the old fisherman’s hut,” said Anne. “Do you have an old fisherman’s hut, where you’re from?”

“Do I – what?”

“I said, do you –”

“I heard what you said. I – I don’t understand.” Shakily, the girl began to stand and as she stood Anne was sure there was something strange about her – something she couldn’t put her finger on. “Who are you? How did I get here?”

“I’m Anne,” said Anne. “You came in the basket.”

“In the – basket?”

Perhaps, Anne thought, the girl was just very stupid. “Yes. I found you in my basket.” She took a step towards the girl, meaning to say something comforting, and her shadow stepped with her, stepping into a shaft of sunlight. There it stood, clear as day, hand outstretched as Anne’s was outstretched.

The girl looked at Anne’s shadow. Her eyes went wide, like a fish. She screamed.

And she bolted.

Anne had half a mind to let her run, for where could she run to? There was only the village. But then she remembered that the girl might be stupid, perhaps stupid enough to run clean over the cliff. “Wait!” she cried, and ran after her.

The girl hadn’t gone far. She was standing on the path, looking this way and that, at the way to the village, the way to the clifftop, each way screened by low trees.

“Mind the cliffs!” cried Anne.

“What?” said the girl.

And it was then that Anne realised what was so strange about her. The girl’s shadow was lying flat on the ground, as if she was asleep even though she was wide awake. It was flat – limp – dead. The sight of it appalled her. She clapped both hands to her mouth and stared, though she knew it was rude to stare.

“What is this place?” said the girl. “What is that?” She pointed a shaking finger at Anne’s shadow.

Anne’s shadow shrank back, stepping behind her, half out of sight. “That’s my shadow.”

The girl was shaking her head. “That isn’t right,” she said. “That – that’s horrid.”

Anne was beginning to understand, and behind her her shadow was quaking. The girl wasn’t stupid – not at all. It was just that, wherever she had come from in the basket, things were profoundly different and profoundly strange. Wherever she came from, everyone’s shadow was limp and flat and lay on the ground like it was dead.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, half to the girl, half to her poor shadow.

“Where does that go?” said the girl, pointing down the hill.

“To the village?”

“Are all the people there – like you?”

“They all have shadows,” Anne said.

“What’s that way?” The girl pointed up the rise.

“The clifftop,” said Anne. “There’s no one up there.”

“Right,” said the girl, and ran up the hill.

Anne lifted her skirt and jogged up after her, just in case she did fall. She found the girl standing near the cliff edge, staring down, down at the mist. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Is this a dream? Am I dreaming?”

“Oh, no!” said Anne. She thought about it. “Unless you usually dream when you’re awake.”

“Of course I don’t!” snapped the girl.

“That’s where I found you.” Anne pointed at the shifting chain.

“All the way down there?” said the girl. “Underneath the clouds?”

“Clouds?”

“The fog,” said the girl.

“Well, me and my shadow hauled the basket up first,” said Ane. Her shadow nodded, proud of its contribution.

The girl was staring down at the fog-sea. It was curious; Anne had seen people gaze out like that, out at the distance peaks of other hills, but never down. Why look down, unless you were bringing up a basket? There was nothing to see.

“But where is this? How did I get here?”

“You don’t have baskets where you come from,” said Anne, tentatively certain.

“Well, of course we have baskets!” snapped the girl. “But we don’t carry people in them.”

“Oh, neither do we!” said Anne. “This has never happened before.”

“But where am I?”

“This is our mountain,” said Anne.

“And you brought me here,” said the girl, “you brought me here – in the basket.” She was gibbering like someone waking up from a nightmare.

“Well, I didn’t bring you here,” said Anne. “I just hauled you up. Don’t know how.”

“Well, you can bloody well haul me back down!”

When Anne said nothing, she went to the crank and began to push and pull on it.

“You won’t shift it on your own.” Anne bit her lip. If only the girl had a shadow that could help her – though perhaps it was just as well she didn’t.

“I – can – try,” said the girl through gritted teeth. “If this is how – I came here – then I can – go back.”

Anne looked up at the clear blue sky, wondering what to do. Things didn’t get put in baskets, only taken out again; but then, girls didn’t usually come in baskets. Maybe this was all some mistake. Maybe she should send the girl back.

Resigned, she put her hands on the other side of the crank, and heaved.

With a long, sad rattle of chain, the basket rose, clunk, clunk, clunk, into view. It was odd, seeing it come up empty, empty, empty.

The girl wiped her brow and gave Anne a curious look. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Reaching out together with her shadow, Anne pulled the basket onto the grass. “I suppose you’d better hop in.”

The girl hung back, hugging herself. “And then what happens?”

“I’ve no idea!” said Anne, astonished that the girl thought she’d know. “This has never happened before.” She looked at the wicker bottom of the basket. “I suppose you get in – and I lower you down – and then you disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“Well, back to where you came from,” said Anne.

“Alright,” said the girl. “Alright.” Resting her hands on the edge of the basket, she clambered in, tumbling with an oof and a fumble onto the hard wicker weave.

“Comfy?” said Anne.

The girl put her back to the wall of the basket. “As comfy as I’m getting. Lower me.”

“Are you sure?” said Anne. What if the basket tipped – what if she fell?

“I’ll take my chances,” said the girl. “Lower me!”

Anne gave the basket an almighty shove – and went to the crank – and turned. It was hard work and all the while she thought, wistfully, of that funny girl with her dead shadow, descending steadily away from the mountaintop, out of her life.