Sparling’s aerial map had shown them the cracks of white clay that ran through the green, and distinguished the bad fields from the good, where deep-rooted stone kept them aside from the harvest. But the land meant nothing without the people.

Ben’s aches and the bruises that marbled his skin from his shoulders to his calves were relieved by that old excitement. He had visited more villages than he could recall, like a travelling magpie searching for shiny trinkets. But this one promised a unique experience. He expected to happen upon a hive of activity, of sound and colour, and personality – a window into the chores and amusements of a time gone by.

‘Okay,’ Ben whispered in Chloe’s ear, ‘I’ll do the introductions and then…’

They both stopped mid step.

‘Jesus,’ Chloe said, her hand grabbing on to Ben’s jacket.

Everyone was standing outside their homes – men, women, children – waiting for them like corpses nailed into the ground, imitating the living. Their faces were deathly still. Eyes as opaque marbles; lightless and veiled with shadow. Ben counted thirty of them. Maybe more.

Impoverishment, ill health, and oddity; their collective impression was startling. Unwashed bodies were clad in the simplest rags. Only a few of the men wore shoes. The children, including the boys, wore dresses similar in rough cut and colour to the girl from earlier. They shared the same filth and gormlessness. Women held tattered shawls to their shoulders. Some wore them as hoods, with their beady eyes peering out from the shadows like jewels in muddy water. The men were dressed as the one who had brought them there, and their bodies were as his, contorted from labour or defect of birth.

Two of the older women looked to be blind. They were nestled between the others, their cloudy eyes turned skyward, listening for some sound to soften their curiosity.

Disease and injury must have thrived in such an environment. No medicines to cure. No knowledge to nurse even the simplest affliction. This wasn’t living. This was survival, and even that couldn’t have come easy.

Every countenance carried some feature awry or ever so slightly askew. Though not overly conspicuous in some cases, such peculiarities were ever present. The distance between the eyes perhaps, or a wrinkled dome of a forehead that swamped the face below. There was tiredness and there was sadness, and there was also distrust amidst the ugliness.

Ben felt like a trespasser caught standing where he shouldn’t, uninvited and unwelcome. He and Chloe stood apart from the crowd, bewildered by the many dead eyes and their silent, lurking expectations.

His limbs froze up. All sleight of tongue was tied. Ben had no clue as to what he should do or say, and so he just stood there.

The man from the field had shifted through the crowd, whispering like the devil in their ears. When his words had been spread amongst them, he returned to Ben.