She continues walking away towards the town, and he pulls at his hair in anger, loosing a few orange strands. He wonders if he should follow her. She is not attractive enough to merit my troubles, he thinks, and she is far too volatile to control, but, really, he has nothing else to do.

He looks at the woods, and wonders again if he should wander away. His hands move across the grass. It is made of moss, clover, buttercups, all knotted together. He notices someone has left some kind of banner behind them. It lies in the grass, at some distance from him, but he does not want it at all; it is a very ugly thing. A frog leaps across his lap, startling him a little. It gives an impression of wetness, an oily little creature. The frog then hops away, an uneven trajectory. When it breathes its head doubles in size. Hacquelebacq knows he could not catch it for himself, no matter how much he wants to.

Time, a little of it, does pass. He does not particularly want to see the girl again, she is not worth his efforts, and the thing of crows has once more begun to unsettle him. He tries to remember what the deformed woman with the axe said to him earlier; that certain boundaries could not be passed. Or did she say surpassed? he thinks. The thing of crows is surely some sort of outer limit of something, but it is just another empty ritual, like this disgusting trial of animals he oversees. And then, over a small ridge, he sees the young woman is coming back, with another, smaller girl. He lies back and watches their approach, feigning disinterest, though his breathing grows hurried.

By the time the girls arrive, the goose is dead, and all Hacquelebacq’s doubts have fled.

‘Already, Emota?’ he calls to her when she is within hearing distance.

She waves at him. ‘I found her on the edge of town,’ she calls.

The little girl is blond, too, but much younger. She holds a rock to her chest, raw and whitened from use.

‘What is her name?’

‘She is mute.’

‘Mute?’

‘Yes,’ the older girl says, ‘so she will make a very good witness because she can tell no lies.’

‘Of course.’

The younger girl’s face is passive. Hacquelebacq smiles at her; notices she has not even glanced at the thing of crows

‘Let us recommence the trial,’ the older girl says.

Hacquelebacq shakes his head. ‘You must go back to town,’ he says. ‘We have no lawyer of the defence, and it is not proper. Someone must intercede on the goose’s behalf, or this trial will soon become a farce.’

The older girl’s face drops. ‘I will return promptly.’

‘Hurry,’ he says. ‘We are awaiting you.’

Once she has disappeared from view Hacquelebacq rises and stretches out his limbs.