Dante dug his paddle in hard, reached deep into the twisting water and dragged, leaning back with the handle against his chest. In the nose, his boy Aranjo did the same. The canoe almost smashed into a knuckle of rock but scraped over the top and righted itself, regained its line through the current. Father and son began to paddle as fast as they could, Dante yelling, his voice drowned by the roar and hissing foam.

The canoe rushed down terrifying slopes of cold muscled water. Still Dante shouted through the bursting spray, but Krüger couldn’t understand a thing he said. Then the canoe suddenly fell away beneath them and for a moment everything hung in the air. They smacked the water again, the canoe was twisted and churned by the mad current; they barely managed to stay afloat. Dante and the boy paddled and tried to hold the river off, but then they hit another drop and this time it seemed to go on forever.

The canoe tipped. Krüger flew through the air. There was a momentary sensation of weightlessness, then a hard, jarring crash that went right through his spine. The river exploded around him, reared up, fell away and splashed high, white-capped, roiled and roared. The river was alive, animal. He realised with terror that he was in the water and there was nothing below his feet.

The current had him by the boots and the river turned him over and over and Krüger thrashed his arms and legs in unthinking fear. Nothing happened except that he was sucked down into the river; nothing happened except that he gasped and kicked in terror and then the water was over his head and he clamped his mouth shut and held his breath.

The light dimmed. It was green, silted light, and he looked down deeper and under him the water was brown, and there were dark shadow shapes in it, too. Krüger tried his arms and legs again but they were so heavy. The river pummelled his body and dragged him lower and lower into its depths.

Ahead of him, a form took shape in the water. When he saw it clearer, Krüger thrust out again in panic. Tilted against a ledge of rock was a wooden cross. There was an Indian tied to its beams. His long hair waved in the water. His body was bloated and the skin was blue-white and there were dark cancerous bruises spreading from the armpits. There were nails in his wrists and in his feet. The Indian’s eyes were open, but there were no eyes there, only rough holes, puckered and trailing thin veins and strands of pale flesh.

Krüger kicked desperately with his legs. His feet caught the ledge of rock where the cross was wedged and he pushed up off it, eyes on the light above him, reaching for it, the light.

Oh God.

He let go his last burning breath.