Stumpf turned away from Locke and scanned themute assembly. There were so many Indians here, hethought, and though he carried a pistol he was an ineptmarksman. Suppose they rushed Locke, Cherrick andhimself? He would not survive. And yet, looking at theIndians, he could see no sign of aggression amongstthem. Once they had been warriors; now? Like beatenchildren, sullen and wilfully stupid. There was sometrace of beauty in one or two of the younger women;their skins, though grimy, were fine, their eyes black.Had he felt more healthy he might have been aroused bytheir nakedness, tempted to press his hands upon theirshiny bodies. As it was their feigned incomprehensionmerely irritated him. They seemed, in their silence,like another species, as mysterious and unfathomableas mules or birds. Hadn't somebody in Uxituba toldhim that many of these people didn't even give theirchildren proper names? That each was like a limb ofthe tribe, anonymous and therefore unfixable? He couldbelieve that now, meeting the same dark stare in eachpair of eyes; could believe that what they faced here wasnot three dozen individuals but a fluid system of hatredmade flesh. It made him shudder to think of it.

Now, for the first time since their appearance, oneof the assembly moved. He was an ancient; fullythirty years older than most of the tribe. He, likethe rest, was all but naked. The sagging flesh ofhis limbs and breasts resembled tanned hide; hisstep, though the pale eyes suggested blindness, wasperfectly confident. Once standing in front of theinterlopers he opened his mouth - there were noteeth set in his rotted gums - and spoke. Whatemerged from his scraggy throat was not a languagemade of words, but only of sound; a pot-pourri ofjungle noises. There was no discernible pattern tothe outpouring, it was simply a display - awesome inits way - of impersonations. The man could murmurlike a jaguar, screech like a parrot; he could find inhis throat the splash of rain on orchids; the howl ofmonkeys.

The sounds made Stumpf s gorge rise. The junglehad diseased him, dehydrated him and left him wrungout. Now this rheumy-eyed stick-man was vomitingthe whole odious place up at him. The raw heatin the circle of huts made Stumpf s head beat, andhe was sure, as he stood listening to the sage'sdin, that the old man was measuring the rhythmof his nonsense to the thud at his temples andwrists.

'What's he saying?' Locke demanded.

'What does it sound like?' Stumpf replied, irritated byLocke's idiot questions. 'It's all noises.'

'The fucker's cursing us,' Cherrick said.

Stumpf looked round at the third man. Cherrick'seyes were starting from his head.

'It's a curse,' he said to Stumpf.

Locke laughed, unmoved by Cherrick's apprehen-sion. He pushed Stumpf out of the way so as to facethe old man, whose song-speech had now lowered inpitch; it was almost lilting. He was singing twilight,Stumpf thought: that brief ambiguity between thefierce day and the suffocating night. Yes, that wasit. He could hear in the song the purr and thecoo of a drowsy kingdom. It was so persuasive hewanted to lie down on the spot where he stood, andsleep.

Locke broke the spell. 'What are you saying?' he spatin the tribesman's rnazy face. 'Talk sense!'

But the night-noises only whispered on, an unbrokenstream.

'This is our village,' another voice now broke in; theman spoke as if translating the elder's words. Lockesnapped round to locate the speaker. He was a thinyouth, whose skin might once have been golden. 'Ourvillage. Our land.'

'You speak English,' Locke said.

'Some,' the youth replied.

'Why didn't you answer me earlier?' Lockedemanded, his fury exacerbated by the disinterest on theIndian's face.

'Not my place to speak,' the man replied. 'He is theelder.'

'The Chief, you mean?'

'The Chief is dead. All his family is dead. This is thewisest of us -'

'Then you tell him -'

'No need to tell,' the young man broke in. 'He understands you.'

'He speaks English too?'

'No,' the other replied, 'but he understands you. Youare ... transparent.'

Locke half-grasped that the youth was implying aninsult here, but wasn't quite certain. He gave Stumpfa puzzled look. The German shook his head. Lockereturned his attention to the youth. 'Tell him anyway,'he said, 'tell all of them. This is our land. We boughtit.'

'The tribe has always lived here,' the reply came.

'Not any longer,' Cherrick said.

'We've got papers -' Stumpf said mildly, still hopingthat the confrontation might end peacefully,'- from thegovernment.'

'We were here before the government,' the tribesmanreplied.

The old man had stopped talking the forest. Perhaps,Stumpf thought, he's coming to the beginning ofanother day, and stopped. He was turning away now,indifferent to the presence of these unwelcome guests.

'Call him back,' Locke demanded, stabbing his rifletowards the young tribesman. The gesture was unambiguous. 'Make him tell the rest of them they've got togo-'

The young man seemed unimpressed by the threatof Locke's rifle, however, and clearly unwilling to giveorders to his elder, whatever the imperative. He simplywatched the old man walk back towards the hut fromwhich he had emerged. Around the compound, otherswere also turning away. The old man's withdrawalapparently signalled that the show was over.

'No\' said Cherrick, 'you're not listening.' The colourin his cheeks had risen a tone; his voice, an octave. Hepushed forward, rifle raised. 'You fucking scum!'

Despite his hysteria, he was rapidly losing hisaudience. The old man had reached the doorway ofhis hut, and now bent his back and disappeared intoits recesses; the few members of the tribe who were stillshowing some interest in proceedings were viewing theEuropeans with a hint of pity for their lunacy. It onlyenraged Cherrick further.

'Listen to me!' he shrieked, sweat flicking off his browas he jerked his head at one retreating figure and then atanother. 'Listen, you bastards.'

'Easy ...' said Stumpf.

The appeal triggered Cherrick. Without warning heraised his rifle to his shoulder, aimed at the open door ofthe hut into which the old man had vanished and fired.Birds rose from the crowns of adjacent trees; dogs tookto their heels. From within the hut came a tiny shriek,not like the old man's voice at all. As it sounded, Stumpffell to his knees, hugging his belly, his gut in spasm.Face to the ground, he did not see the diminutive figureemerge from the hut and totter into the sunlight. Evenwhen he did look up, and saw how the child with thescarlet face clutched his belly, he hoped his eyes lied.But they did not. It was blood that came from betweenthe child's tiny fingers, and death that had stricken hisface. He fell forward on to the impacted earth of thehut's threshold, twitched, and died.

Somewhere amongst the huts a woman began to sobquietly. For a moment the world spun on a pin-head,balanced exquisitely between silence and the cry thatmust break it, between a truce held and the comingatrocity.

'You stupid bastard,' Locke murmured to Cherrick.Under his condemnation, his voice trembled. 'Back off,'he said. 'Get up, Stumpf. We're not waiting. Get up andcome now, or don't come at all.'

Stumpf was still looking at the body of the child.Suppressing his moans, he got to his feet.

'Help me,' he said. Locke lent him an arm. 'Cover us,'he said to Cherrick.

The man nodded, deathly-pale. Some of the tribehad turned their gaze on the Europeans' retreat, theirexpressions, despite this tragedy, as inscrutable as ever.Only the sobbing woman, presumably the dead child'smother, wove between the silent figures, keening hergrief.