He sits in the obscurity, leaning a little forward, his eyes closed, head a little back, speaking without pausing. It’s a series of admonitions about the interior. I begin to translate: don’t drink any water that isn’t clear and that means perfectly clear, don’t cut or burn green wood, don’t trust anything seen from a distance, only fruit from plants with white blossoms is safe to eat, don’t catch or eat game, don’t in any way molest any hares we might see, no fires bigger than a few feet across and never set one before dusk ... a bewildering stream of mumbled advice coming out too fast for me to catch it all. The recitation is relentless, the speaker and the others, who continue to mutter amongst themselves, seem bored. Perhaps they don’t believe we’ll venture to go after all. Or they might set so little store on our chances that they don’t think there’s much point in concerning themselves with our safety. The effort of hearing and translating drains me quickly, and I begin to feel so tired I want to plop forward onto the steps. I can’t possibly catch everything I hear.

Saskia shakes my shoulder nearly knocking me down.

“You’re babbling!” she says with a jab of her head.

... Further down the road, the column has gathered. Another group of Clappers appears as we rejoin the other soldiers. They have a cart filled with long rolls, one for each of us. They’re thick leather bags, big enough to hold a man.

“What are these?” Makemin asks incredulously.

One of the locals seems appointed to speak to us, introduces himself to me and gives Mushwit as his name. I translate.

“You will need them. We have that on the word of the last one to come back.”

“Someone came back?” Makemin’s eyes harden, looking first to me and then to the other. “Who? Where is he?”

Mushwit’s face alters in slight surprise as I relay the question. “I heard he strangled himself—didn’t he?” He turns to his companions. They nod slowly.

“Did he say anything else?”

“No, not that I remember.” Again Mushwit looks to the others, who remain long-facedly silent. “He didn’t speak much to anyone when he got back.”

Makemin seems uncertain, looks at me. He gathers his mouth up.

“They’re not heavy. All right. Silichieh, see to it everyone gets one.”

I take mine, watch Silichieh dole out the others. These preparations for what we’re about to do only make it more unreal. The early morning light, my lack of sleep, my hatred for Makemin, seem to flay me. Last night I dreamt of her round arms again—a woman I never knew. I am gazing into soft eyes through a veil.

Now we’re marching again, and the grey men by the house are watching us go with blank baffled faces. I think of the story I was told, and I don’t believe they get it right when they say the Pepecaui left war behind to go into the interior. Perhaps it was different then.