He points at the dark structure, like a heap of twisted nightmares, and sees that the landed crow is pecking at the flesh of one of its dead brothers.

‘I said it was not that,’ William says.

‘I believe we should turn back,’ Harold says. ‘A crow preying on its own kin is a murderous sign.’

‘Ha,’ de Flunkl says, pointing at Harold, delighted to have caught him out. ‘It is you who is the coward.’

‘I am no coward,’ Harold says. ‘I merely respect what I do not understand, that which is set before me. I will go on if you all go on, but I have told you how I feel.’

There is a ruffle from the chest of the tall crow-man, and then a flurry of unexpected movement like the heart of this thing is about to explode, causing the feasting crow to alight, and all the men, saving Saint John who stares on dumbly, leap backwards in shock.

‘It is alive,’ de Flunkl shrieks.

A crow is moving a single wing amidst the structure. It does not comprehend it is tied down, and weakly flaps its wing as though it were the structure’s arrhythmic heartbeat. This crow opens its eyes, and for some reason, the green glare of its irises is so strange amongst the panoply of tightly packed black feathers that William audibly retches.

‘Move on,’ de Flunkl is yelling hysterically. ‘Into the town. We must go on.’

They begin walking, William leading the horses, Harold dragging Saint John and the sack, the banner left behind, and de Flunkl trotting ahead. Before they have passed the crow-man many more wings begin flapping. Tiny, green eyes open, one after another, in no sensible sequence. They have awoken, and it is as though the structure itself is trying to take lopsided flight. It has become a buzzing, blurred thing. Many crows the retinue believed to be dead were asleep. Tied to their dead brothers, the living crows are in a mutually enforced panic so great that they have created a new being unified not in motion but in fear.

‘Run,’ de Flunkl shouts, breaking ahead.

‘Why?’ Harold calls after him. ‘There is no rush. As I understand it, once you arrive in hell, you may dally there a while.’

In his scrambling, de Flunkl trips over, but the crows’ squawking is so enormous that it drowns out Harold’s laughter.

Too many lunatic …