Now it’s only a few hundred yards away and the words of the man in the house begin spelling out in my head just what there is to be frightened of as I get a smell of something rancid. The charm seems a very distinct shape in my pocket. For a moment I clutch it surreptitiously, and then nearly drop it, afraid to crush it, afraid to drop it. I peek at it hastily, a feeling of unaccountable terror welling up in me because I can sense yawning beside me the empty forsakenness I will feel if it’s a cheat—but the small man inside turns and points away, very deliberately, back toward the road. As if it understood my confusion and wanted to explain, the figure turns and points to the east. I follow its pointer, and for an instant I see a remote cloud of churning, shimmering motes, which fades at once. The air formed a lens there for a moment. Now the pointer again turns to point away up the road where we came. Shaking, breathing with gratitude, I hide the charm and run up to Makemin. I repeat what I was told, as though I were the man who spoke.

“After the mountains you will come to the Lake of Broken Glass. There’s only one path through, and its location changes with each storm—without warning, terrible winds gush down from the mountains and stir up a blizzard of glass shards that can mince a man bones and all in the blink of an eye.”

Then I revert to my own voice again.

“Sir, there’s a storm coming,” I point to the east. “We must pull back until it passes.”

Makemin peers at me as if I’d run up to wish him a happy birthday. He glances at the glittering field.

“There’s no wind. Return to your place.”

“I’m not guessing and I’m not being nervous,” I say levelly. “I know the signs. The wind is already on its way down the mountains.”

“I see no storm.”

“No one sees them!” I say sternly.

The loonies’ eyes are trained on me. Their heads rise like a field of heavy blossoms in a breeze. They’re listen to me.

Makemin pulls down his goggles and turns.

“Show me, then!”

I point to the spot where the motes had been.

“I see nothing.”

“Look!”

“I see nothing.” He pulls down on the lensed visor and releases it—it chunks back up into his helmet. “We advance.”

“I won’t go.”

“Then we’ll drag you,” he sneers, turns to two of the men standing near. “If he won’t walk, carry him—and keep his mouth shut!”