Thrushchurl half-climbs a trunk to look at a hanging man. The body is covered with a thin integument of clear, shiny material, like clear amber, that seems to have dripped from the branch, down the rope. The swollen, discolored face shimmers like a bright mask. They’ll be preserved here forever.

Makemin’s voice splinters the quiet, again and again. His barked orders press down on our exhausted heads and we blunder further, blunder further again. We are becoming stupid and forgetful. We are losing ourselves. Soldiers drawn away by the beckoning sunlight of golden afternoon that seemed to melt the trunks of the trees from behind, melt them into softness like candles. The soldiers melt into empty space that sucks up cries of “Come back, will you—come back!” One woman who fell ill said she saw a little wild pig, all naked, snuffling at the roots of the trees. Its brief grunts were loud there, as if she and the pig were alone together in a small room. She shot the pig in the head, and it flopped over on its side instantly limp; slaughtered the pig and tried to eat it, but the meat was bad. The flesh was layered with flakes of rust. Her skin turned a dingy yellow and she weakened, but she survived and marches on with us now, though all her hair has fallen out.

Saskia stares out into the trees, by the carts—turns to me abruptly as I come up.

“What do you want?” she snaps. I came to serve myself and wanted nothing from her. Jil Punkinflake stands, I notice, nearby, eyes on the ground; shot his dog and then became her’s. I choose to point to one of the bundles of rifles. She stares at me, then turns, removes one, inspects it with a glance, and holds it out to me. Her eyes probe me with a look so knowing or expectant I almost don’t take it from her. There’s the butt of the gun, steady in the air; my hand floats up and closes on it. The weight is transferred to my hand and arm, so that the top of my forearm goes taut. The trace of satisfaction in her eyes puts me off.

She is the least changed of us all—or is she? I can’t tell. But her face is, it now strikes me, white, and drawn; the doughty oratorial spirit of her is frayed to threads.

Something unnameable, with many layers or many heads, suddenly returns my gaze from her eyes; her brow contracts a little as she turns to go.

Jil Punkinflake’s face is blank, like a corpse’s, eyes glazed. He snaps his arm out and punches me. His fist drives into my chest making a disc of pain there, and I go down, off balance.