‘The common state of the world is that things are most likely to be what they most look like,’ Harold says, dragging the boy forward, ‘and this does look like a Nobberian demon that will confiscate our souls on entry to the town, so one could surmise it is most likely to be that very thing.’

De Flunkl pauses his steps.

‘You look like a coward,’ Harold says behind him, ‘and you are one. You see? It is a simple thing. My point, having weight and sense, has been immediately proven.’

‘There is no such thing as demons, though some people would have me believe it,’ William says, shaking his head. ‘Not on this land in any case, though I dare not speak of their applicability to the next world. Let us not lose our good faculties. This is not beyond the realms of normality, and will be explicated summarily on closer inspection, and, to my mind, this ill and twisted shape will most likely be the given form of that result of frequent violence that is proper to man.’

Unawares, William realises that they have all stopped walking, and are standing still looking at the shadowy figure.

‘Your certitude is so lofty that I say you should be the man to approach it,’ de Flunkl says.

William licks away the dryness of his cracked lips, and stares at the boy for a moment, tired and unmoving.

‘No, I will do it,’ Harold says, dropping the banner and letting Saint John’s hand go.

He strides towards the figure, his hands up in a show of surrender. The sun is in front of him so the form of the sentry does not become apparent until he is very close to it. On seeing it, he motions the other men forward.

‘What is it?’ de Flunkl calls.

Harold glances at the thing again. ‘I cannot say,’ he shouts back.

They approach and see Harold is standing below a cruciform of wood, nailed together into the shape of a man, but on it, thickly laid like a skeleton’s musculature, are reams of dead crows, and they give the form a certain plumpness and lifelikeness from a distance. The dead crows are strung together with thin sprigs, or nailed into the wood at the outer extremities. Their stony beaks poke out at strange angles like mussels sucking at rocks by the sea. Their eyes are uniformly closed. It is a monstrous, feathery thing, standing two heads taller than a big man. Atop this strange structure, encircling three crows’ bodies, sits a peasant’s cap.

‘Have you ever in all your days seen the likes?’ Harold says, his voice full of wonder.

‘What could it be?’ de Flunkl asks.