The doctor looked to Ben and then to Chloe, almost nervously. And though his lips imitated a smile, the eyes remained glazed and mirthless. ‘If you would kindly return your attention to the wall, you will see another map. I have highlighted the network of paths and laneways that run through the village.’

These were defined by red lines, trickling like blood between a dozen or so cottages coloured in yellow blocks. They broke into longer veins that touched the surrounding fields. There was no order to any of it. The lay of the land and its seasonal yielding were the roots of its design. Ben gleaned some comfort from Sparling’s diligence. But he wondered if the doctor ever stopped to appreciate who had made the path they were to follow. So focused was he on their course, his agenda seemed to bypass what awaited them at their destination.

‘You will enter here,’ he continued, ‘from the north. This small woodland should lead you directly into the village.’

‘How would you like us to approach them?’ Ben asked. ‘We don’t know how they’re going to react to us.’

‘You’re the one who’s going to make best friends with them,’ Chloe put in with a smile.

‘With an open mind, Mr French,’ the doctor replied, as though he hadn’t heard her. ‘Be patient and attentive, and sensitive to their circumstances. This is the reason why I chose you. I’m told you have a way with people.’

*

Ben and Chloe worked their way through Sparling’s small woodland – kicking through the sticky stems that grew from all sides – trying to follow what once might have been a pathway, so tight that a slender fox would strain to break it. It was the only way through that Ben could see. Not that he could see a whole lot. Nervous birds rustled the sparse leaves above, most likely terrified of the chaotic giants breaking through their hometown, flattening anything that stood in their way.

Sparling’s map had shown them the sun-kissed treetops and their stubby shadows, but it had kept the murky seabed of vine and thorn beneath the surface.

Chloe was frowning at her phone. Whatever she was trying to do, it wasn’t working, and the swipes soon turned to stabs.

‘There’s no coverage,’ she sighed. ‘I suppose the Tír Mallachts aren’t exactly renowned for their social media presence. There’ll be no tagging on this trip.’

‘But the GPS still works, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah, don’t you worry. We’re not completely lost. I inputted all the information from Sparling’s gazillion maps. We’re nearly there. Less than a…’

Clang!

A bell tolled in the tallest tree, scattering all wings to the sky, deafeningly loud amidst the lifeless, veined leaves of autumn. The shock of it came like a volley of gunfire, nearly knocking Ben off his feet.