The old man closes his eyes, leans his head against his chest and whispers another prayer. His wrinkles are so profound that some of his tears have caught in them, cleared the dirt from them; one small drop below his eye almost glimmers. When he is finished he stares at Hacquelebacq. ‘I thought I wasn’t, but I was still sick,’ he says.

He lays two fingers on his own forehead.

‘The sickness is here, and it will never leave. I broke out last night, through the door with this very spade, and fled, but I got lost, and I thought as well here as any other place. This is a good place, no?’

‘Of course,’ Hacquelebacq says.

‘You are a good man for saying so,’ the old man says. ‘Even if I go to hell do you think I will be let see my daughter every now and again?’

‘I think so.’

‘Thank you,’ he says.

The man lies back down in the hole and begins piling dirt on himself, starting with his thighs. Hacquelebacq leans against a tree, watching him for a while.

‘I hope you will say a prayer over me,’ the old man says. ‘My name is Séamus. Say it when you pray for me. My family won’t need your prayers; I was the only sinner amongst them. They were good. I am very sorry I could not help you, but I am quite old and not much use for anything. My mind is all in fragments.’

Hacquelebacq walks over to the big pile of earth and sits on it, so that he is directly above the old man. A worm, cut by the spade, is now two worms, and they wriggle blindly as though dancing together across his chest. After a while, the old man grows tired and stops, lying down fully, his eyes facing upwards.

‘The foliage is thick,’ he says, ‘but perhaps I will see a star or two tonight.’

‘Would you like some help?’ Hacquelebacq asks.

The man turns his eyes to him without moving his neck, and they widen as though seeing Hacquelebacq for the first time.

‘Are you my nightmare?’ he says.

‘I am not the nightmare.’

‘You are the nightmare of a child,’ he says.

Hacquelebacq goes on his hands and knees beside the pile and begins scooping large mounds of earth onto the man’s chest and legs. He does this until the man’s whole body is covered with a thin layer of dirt, only his head left exposed.

The moist smells of the forest’s undergrowth are so thick in Hacquelebacq’s nose from the strength of his exertions that he must stop for a moment. He coughs at the strength of the scent. When he looks back at the old man’s face, he sees a pink butterfly has landed on his cheek, its wings high and shivering, as though it is poised for something.