THE PATH TO THE VILLAGES HIGHER ON THE MOUNTAIN TAKES THEM past the garden they’ve cleared, to the borders of their clan-land. As he walks with his brother-cousins, the forest beyond no longer seems impenetrable jungle. Jericho can’t read the sky as Hector does, and he can’t interpret the passing of birds or the change in wind. But when he walks, he sees trees with names he knows; he sees the shapes and colours of the bark-cloth, and however much the path turns, he knows where Huvaemo is. He no longer needs a hand to haul him over a ridge; he no longer soaks himself in the rivers and creeks that tumble down the mountain. He splashes his face with the others, replaces his cap and walks on.

Two hours pass, and he begins to tire. Two more, and he’s trailing behind, first with Obi and Hector, then with Obi. Patient Obi. Ahead, Hector is smoking on a ridge top with the other men, and when Jericho comes into view, they stand and shout down to him. Town man, they laugh, not unkindly, sharing the joke, running on down the path, disappearing through the trees. And there they are, waiting in the sunlight at the next river. ‘Ah, he comes! Brother of ours! London man!’ Jericho’s smile wears thin. He knows Leonard and Rika both came up here but he gives them no thought. There is no thought to give, just the placing of his feet, one after the other, as if he’s in the control of some other force, and all he consists of is unceasing movement.

When the sun is full overhead, they stop for a smoke, all of them together. They sit on a high outcrop of rock, and the men use their cigarettes to burn the leeches from their ankles. Across the valley is a scarp of bare rock. They can hear the sound of a river crashing below. The village they are heading for is across that rocky chasm, daunting as a Kiefer landscape.

‘It’s okay,’ Hector says to Jericho. ‘I’ll show you.’ He stays beside him as the path narrows to a ledge above the river that foams white across the rocks. The path winds down, steep and precarious, until briefly it becomes level with the river, which smooths out into a bowl. There is a plump bank, a stand of trees, boughs hanging out over water that is fast-flowing, but no longer savage, before it tumbles again. They cross, one by one, single file, wading chest-deep into the current. Jericho’s hat disappears, washed from his head. Hector grabs it, puts out a hand and catches Jericho as he loses his footing. ‘White-man boots,’ he says.

On the other side, even the boys of eighteen are too tired to joke. They look at their feet, rub their ankles. Under the trees the air is cool. Jericho’s head aches and there’s a faint shudder in his legs that he can’t still. He looks up into the branches and sees spots of colour. He points. ‘Orchids,’ Hector says, and Jericho registers that he is in a small oasis, a resting place. Above the sheltering trees and the flowers, the cliff rises to rock again, trees dwindling to the few that cling here and there, until, way above, the forest begins again. There are no clouds this day. A few gather around the highest peaks and though Huvaemo is nearer, and they are higher, still it is far. They begin the hot trek up across rock. Napo’s feet are bleeding. When they reach the forest, he wipes them on soft leaves. The roar of the river is gone; above, the familiar whirrings and rustlings of the forest.