She returned to the village, and found Luiz.

“What did they want?” she said.

“They need men for some work.”

“Did you agree to this?”

He looked evasive. “They’re coming back tomorrow.”

“Are they going to pay?”

“With food. Look.”

He held out a handful of bread, and she took it from him. It was brown and fresh, smelt good.

“Where did they get this?”

Luiz shrugged. “And they have special food.”

“Did they give you any of that?”

“No.”

She frowned, wondering again who the men might be.

“Anything else?”

“Only this.” He showed her a small bag, and she opened it. Inside was a coarse white powder, and she sniffed at it.

“They said it would make fruit grow.”

“They have more of this?”

“As much as we need.”

She put the bag down, and went back to the church workshop. After a word with Father dos Santos she walked quickly to the stables, and saddled up her own horse.

She rode out of the village by way of the dried-up stream, and followed in the direction of the second man.

2

Beyond the village was a wide area of scrubland, dotted with trees. She soon saw the man some distance ahead of her, heading towards a larger patch of woodland. On the far side of this, she already knew, a river flowed. Beyond that were some low hills.

She kept her distance from the man, not wishing to be seen until she found out where he was heading.

When he entered the woods she lost sight of him, and she dismounted. She led the horse by its reins, keeping a wary eye open for any sign of him. Soon she could hear the sound of the river; shallow at this season, its bed littered with pebbles.

She saw his horse first, tethered to a tree. She tied up her own horse, and walked on alone. It was warm and still under the trees, and she felt dusty from the ride. She wondered again what had prompted her to follow this man, when reason warned of any number of potential risks. But the presence of the two men in the village had been unthreatening enough, their motives peaceable if mysterious.

She moved more cautiously as she approached the edge of the wood. Here she halted, looking down the shallow bank towards the water.

The man was there, and she looked at him with interest.

He had discarded his cloak, and it lay with his boots beside a small pile of equipment. He had waded down into the river, and was clearly relishing the cool sensation. Completely oblivious of her presence, he kicked his feet in the water, sending up showers of glittering spray. In a moment, he bent down, scooped up some water in his hands and splashed it over his face and neck.

He turned, waded out of the water and went over to the equipment. From a black leather case he took a small video camera, then suspended the case by its strap over his shoulder, and connected it to the camera with a short, plastic-coated lead. This done, he adjusted a small ferruled knob on the side.

He put down the camera for a moment, and unfurled a long paper roll, wound like a scroll. He laid this on the ground, looked at it thoughtfully for a few seconds, then picked up the camera and returned to the water’s edge.

Deliberately, he pointed the camera upstream for a second or two, then lowered the camera and turned. He pointed it at the opposite bank, then, startling her, he pointed it in her direction. She ducked down out of sight, and by his lack of reaction she guessed he had not seen her. When she next looked, he was pointing the camera downstream.

He returned to the length of paper, and with great care inscribed a few symbols.

Still moving deliberately, he put the camera back in its case, rolled up the paper and stowed it with the rest of the equipment.

He stretched elaborately, then scratched the back of his head. Listlessly, he returned to the water’s edge, sat down, and dangled his feet in the water. In a moment, he sighed and lay back, his eyes closed.

She regarded him closely. He certainly looked harmless enough. He was a big, well-muscled man, and his face and arms were deeply tanned. His hair was long and shaggy: a great mane of light auburn hair. He wore a beard. She estimated his age somewhere in the middle thirties. In spite of the beard he had a clean-cut, youthful face, grinning at the simple animal bliss of cold wet feet on a hot dry day.

Flies hovered around his face, and from time to time he would swipe at them lazily.

After a few more moments of hesitation she started forward, and half-walked, half-skidded down the bank, pushing a minor avalanche of soil before her.

The man’s reaction was immediate. He sat up, looked round sharply, and scrambled to his feet. In so doing he turned awkwardly, and slipped down on his stomach, his feet thrashing in the water.

She started to laugh.

He recovered his foothold, and dived for his equipment. A few seconds later he had a rifle in his hands.

She stopped laughing… but he did not raise the rifle.

Instead, he said something in Spanish so bad that she could not understand it.

She spoke only a little Spanish herself, so instead she said in the language of the villagers: “I didn’t mean to laugh.”

He shook his head, then looked at her carefully. She spread her hands to prove that she carried no kind of weapon, and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. He seemed satisfied that she presented no threat to him, and put down the rifle.

Again, he said something in atrocious Spanish, then muttered something in English.

“You speak English?” she said.

“Yes. Do you?”

“Like a native.” She laughed again, and said: “Do you mind if I join you?”

She nodded towards the river, but he continued to stare dumbly at her. She slipped off her shoes, and walked down to the bank. She waded in, hitching up her skirt. The water was freezing cold; it made her toes curl with pain, but the sensation was delightful. In a moment, she sat on the ground, keeping her feet in the water.

He came and sat beside her.

“Sorry about the gun. You startled me.”

“I’m sorry too,” she said. “But you looked so blissful.”

“It’s the best thing to do on a day like this.”

Together they stared down at the water flowing over their feet. Beneath the rippling surface, the white flesh appeared to distort like a flame flickering in a draught.

“What’s your name?” she said.

“Helward.”

“Helward.” She tried the sound of the word. “Is that a surname?”

“No. My full name is Helward Mann. What’s yours?”

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Khan. I don’t like being called Elizabeth.”

“I’m sorry.”

She glanced at him. He looked very serious.

She was a little confused by his accent. She had realized he was not a native of this region, and he spoke English naturally and without effort, but he had a strange way of pronouncing his vowels.

“Where do you come from?” she said.

“Round here.” He stood up suddenly. “I’d better water the animal.”

He stumbled again as he climbed the bank, but this time Elizabeth did not laugh. He walked straight into the trees, did not pick up his equipment. The rifle was still there. He looked over his shoulder at her once, and she turned away.

When he returned he was leading both horses. She got up, and led her own down to the water.

Standing between the horses, Elizabeth stroked the neck of Helward’s.

“She’s beautiful,” she said. “Is she yours?”

“Not really. I just ride her more often than any of the others.”

“What do you call her?”

“I… haven’t given her a name. Should I?”

“Only if you want to. Mine hasn’t got a name either.”

“I enjoy riding,” Helward said suddenly. “It’s the best part of my work.”

“That and paddling in rivers. What do you do?”

“I’m a… I mean, it hasn’t really got a label. What about you?”