A few minutes later he was trudging through the long grass in the field to the west of the farm. He went past the shed with the rusting tractor in it. The horse – he had forgotten about the horse. He paused to make sure he had food and water, and that the stable was clean. The whiskery, warm breath made him feel better, and he let him out to exercise, filling up his bucket. From far off he heard dogs barking.

Underneath the trees, Leana kept close to him. The path to the mound had not been mowed in years, and Tom could barely make it out, but he stumbled through the undergrowth, falling once over a log and scraping his palms.

The mound suddenly loomed ahead of him. It was covered in grass, and waving wildflowers, and Tom began to scramble up it. Something seemed to get into the lurcher, and she started looping madly around it, running up and down in zigzags as if chasing invisible prey.

Tom reached the top. He could see the wood stretching out on either side of him, and to the east, he could just about make out the top of the farmhouse, and to the north, the comforting sight of the weathervane on top of the church spire.

He took his mobile phone out. Then he shook it in frustration. The signal bar was still empty. Not only was there none but the phone’s screen began to shimmer and glitch. There was nothing, no link to the outside world.

He had not felt so alone since he had been at school at the end of the holidays. He turned the phone off and put it away. Behind him was the farm, and Jack, and all his horror. And he could not escape.

In despair, he knelt down on the top of the mound.

The flute, with its carved hare’s head, was warm in his pocket. Maybe now was the time to play it. It seemed right, standing here on the mound, with Leana at his side and the trees waving in the breeze. What did he have to lose? The Samdhya might come and take him away. He might even, he thought crazily, become one of them, like Margaret Ravenswood.

It came easily to his hand, almost as if it wanted to be there, and as he put it to his lips, he sensed the life of the tree it had come from. It might almost start to sprout leaves, he thought. He blew gently through it, allowing a slow, gentle melody to disperse on the breeze, four simple notes, rising up and then sinking, and then again, and again, as if it were a hymn, or a mantra, or a call.

The shadow of a hawk passed over him. In the far fields, the long grass rustled, as if a deer were running away.