The girl’s eyes scan around her and then she points at Hacquelebacq’s goose. ‘That fluffy, white thing with the brilliant beak.’

He shows her his hands, pushing them close to her face. ‘I’ll break its neck with these hands and then we shall flee together,’ he says, jokingly.

The girl draws back in horror. ‘It must go on trial first.’

He thought he could remain abreast with this girl, but she is perhaps too haphazard for his needs, he fears.

‘Trials are a sport for nobles,’ he says. ‘There is no justice in them; it is but meaningless ritual.’

‘I want a trial,’ she says.

She sits down, and crosses her legs, exposing the inner part of her thighs to him. Hacquelebacq looks at them for a moment, and then points his finger at the little, dying goose.

‘You stand accused, goose,’ he says, ‘of bearing the sickness with you on your flights around this country, dropping it below you on the people you have crossed over.’

One of the lambs, he sees, is asleep, its legs tucked under itself.

‘You fly over things don’t you?’ he asks. ‘You consolidate the sickness in your wake? I must stop myself from clutching you by the beak and giving you a good shake I am so angry at you.’

Everything is very still. The heat is making it difficult for him to think, to continue inventing in this obscene manner.

‘Goose,’ he says, ‘it is a lucky thing your wing was broken, stopping you in your path so I could restrain you and bring you under the rule of law. If found guilty of being the sickness you will suffer death, dismemberment, cooking, eating, be vomited out, or passed through the intestines, turned to excrement. It will not be a good way to die.’

The goose is on its side before him, its fluffy front rising and falling slowly. Its long neck lies, unfurled like a rope. It will not, he thinks, live long.

‘You have engaged in usurious practices,’ he says slowly, struggling to continue playacting, ‘stolen children from their mothers; blasphemed; eaten your own kind; engaged in sodomy.’

One of the calves is straining on its rope, arching its thick neck to the side, unsettling the anchoring rock.

‘Tell us, had you accessories? Did any other geese, or any creatures, ease your path into sin? Perhaps a lamb whispered in your ear while you slept, told you that you should do these things? Your offence is great and I warn you that your silence will lead to a verdict against you.’

The girl stands up and begins walking away. ‘Emota,’ he says. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To find witnesses from the town,’ she says. ‘We cannot have a trial without one. This will not do at all. You, who are so just, will wait.’

‘You are the witness,’ he says.

The girl laughs at this. ‘I am the judge,’ she says.