He wants Bili. That glimpse, that apparition has him aching again. She’ll know. She’ll know how to make a picture of these pieces.

Bili. His stomach gives a cramp of longing.

That night, when he lies down to sleep, the rumbling in his gut becomes louder and the brooding returns, the unanswerable questions. He’s planted a seed, and he has no idea if it can grow. And if it does, what will be the consequences? He feels afraid as the talk goes on and the hopes of the young men rise, and the chiefs remain silent. Will they embrace the selling of the cloth? Will they say, ‘No, the cloth, it belongs to the mountain’? Will they save him and Hector from this folly?

All night he lies awake beside the sleeping form of Hector. He hears the rain start. The hours wear on. There is nowhere to go but out into the rain. There is no latrine in this village. Last time he went for a shit in the bush, he’d hardly finished when a pig, a blind pig, scooped it up and ate it. That was a bad moment, not something he wants to think about as he goes out into the rain and the dark now. He finds a place he thinks is away from the paths and the amorire, and with nothing to listen to but the hammering inside his head, he deposits the watery, stinking substance that gushes from his bowels.

At dawn, when the first cockerel crows, he falls into a fretful sleep, brought out of it by Hector beside him with water in a bamboo container, and a dry yam.

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘You are not alone. Mountain man.’

THE MOON IS CLOSE TO FULL WHEN THE CLANS FROM JERICHO’S village arrive for the dance which will go from the next day’s dusk to the following dawn. The large contingent comes up the steep path at a run, the men with their drums, the women with switches cut from the bush, which move above their heads in time with their step. All afternoon clans from other villages arrive at the gate to the village, their voices joining the singing and the kundus, until the ridge dance ground is so filled with movement that Jericho fears the outer circles of dancers will fly off its edge. The clans of the host village, who have been preparing for days, dance in welcome. Jericho takes his place beside Hector, circling the amorire until the movement stills and the formal welcome of the chiefs is finished, and the men who’ve made the long journey from distant villages lie on the platforms built to shelter them. The tempo of the afternoon changes as large earth ovens are filled with sweet potato and yams. Hector and Jericho walk across to the gatherings of women from their clan. Nelly is there with Lilla, and they come to meet them with Hector’s wife, his children running ahead. Ai, ai.

Lilla leans to Jericho and smiles. ‘Nelly,’ she says. ‘She will marry soon. Boja’s grandson. Leonard’s namesake.’