The forest was cold last night and the earth is still damp. The sun warms me as the day grows full but the ground never dries out. Always there is water in the earth and the air; the green shrubs and leaves are fat with it. I think there could never be drought in this country, nor the baked earth and dusty air that I remember from the dry season at home.
All day I stay hidden. Once, a young man passes near me. His hair is curly and shines red, like fire, in the sun. I hear him splashing in the stream. He comes back later, and I see that he carries two fish, glinting silver, swinging from a length of string.
A long way off I hear bells ringing: bells, and shouting that grows louder. Men come crashing along the path with loud voices and sticks to beat the bushes. Dogs run barking beside them. I hide well away from these enemies, in the stream, where the overhanging branches cover me and the dogs can’t pick up my scent.
I eat the remainder of the bread and meat Jos gave me. When I am sure the men and dogs have gone, I move. Further on, among the trees, I see a hut. A familiar sound comes from it: the ring of metal striking metal. This is a blacksmith’s forge! Now I am afraid. The blacksmith in my village was a powerful sorceror. Sometimes he helped people; sometimes he did harm. People bought charms from him to protect themselves from enemies. Maybe this blacksmith will protect me? But I am afraid and I move further away. I turn towards the west, as Jos told me, and walk on through the forest until I reach the river, and then I take shelter again as night falls.
I wake at dawn to the sound of voices: two men, who speak low and use few words. I hear a crackle of fire, and smell fish cooking. My stomach yearns for food, but I stay out of sight and listen.
The voices come again. These men are not speaking English. They are not the men I heard yesterday, shouting, breaking branches as they searched for me. These two talk like hunters, with no words wasted. I part the leaves of my hiding place and look out.
The men are squatting on the riverbank, wrapped in mantles and sheltered by a windbreak made of branches stuck in the ground. They must have been here all night, close to where I lay.
And now I see something else: drawn up on the riverbank is a canoe.
I creep closer.