The mist still clung to the mountain in ribbons and Misha, walking down the path, was taken aback to see a huntsman coming towards him. The young man was out of breath. He stopped and, mopping his forehead, asked Misha if he had seen a shepherd this way.

Misha didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he’d heard him right for it seemed a strange request. He felt certain that Demetrius would have said if he’d been employed to help with a hunt.

‘A shepherd,’ the huntsman repeated, ‘you fool.’

Misha shrugged and walked away. He heard and didn’t hear the young man shout at him again. He went on, imagining how happy the letter would make Edith. The sun was bright, the mist had disappeared, the day was already hot.

The more he thought about the huntsman, the more Misha realised something was wrong. Where was the rest of the hunting party? The few huntsmen that came this way always hunted in twos or threes; some had dogs, some didn’t, but they never hunted alone. He turned round and set off to follow the huntsman. Misha was fast on his feet and soon he saw the huntsman just above him, near where he and Demetrius had spent the evening.

Misha called out to him.

The sun was higher and blinding him. A shadow came in the shape of a giant.

‘What are you doing up here?’ said his grandfather.

‘I’ve just seen a huntsman,’ said Misha. ‘I think he’s lost.’

‘He’s not lost, he’s with me,’ said the butcher.

‘But there’s no good hunting up here,’ said Misha. Remembering the letter in his hand, he tried to slip it into his pocket.

‘What have you got there?’ said his grandfather. ‘Give it to me.’

‘No,’ said Misha. ‘It’s not for you.’

His grandfather slowly took his gun off his shoulder and aimed it at Misha.

‘I’d say it was a hunting accident. The sun was in my eyes and I thought it was…’ He stopped. ‘Give me the letter.’

Misha felt the blood drain from his face and lips, every bone in his body ready for flight.

The barrel of the gun hit him as he started to run. As he passed out he heard a single shot.

He had woken in the dark, blood in his mouth, his head whirling and a strange roaring in his ears. Instinct took hold and he crawled into a cave and slept. It was the sound of the rain that woke him, flooding his senses. He’d never heard the music of rain before, not like this, an orchestra of droplets of water falling on the rocks, dripping into the cave.

Misha went back to the village and never told anyone what had happened.