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would come. He just needed to see who it was.
    He took out the piece of paper and scanned his notes: MAX , a date in someone else’s writing, an inventory of things in his pocket. HAWKERS ,
he had written. DRAUGHTSMAN . Next to the word SAGAN he had added the symbol he’d found beneath it on the map: III .
He’d found other Roman numerals by other places. He didn’t know what they meant.
    He kept expecting to see his brother or his father, or hear Cedar’s bark as he bounded out through the ferns and tore down the slope to him, snuffling up the scents.
    For pity’s sake, there you are
.
    He was not a child now though. He was a man older than his years who would retrace his steps and find his way home, picking up the pieces of him as he went. He would put himself back together.
All he needed was to remember.
    The lad was tall and lanky, wearing a grubby charcoal jacket with a different coloured patch on each elbow, dusty brown trousers and a bag thrown over his shoulder. He stumbled
through the sun-soaked leaves with an upturned cap in his hand, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm, and a tin canister that he swung by its handle, the contents sloshing inside. He made his way
down the slope, sliding down on his heels to the pool’s shore, careful not to spill whatever was collected in the cap.
    Was this the same boy? He didn’t know. The boy nodded at the white-painted chair as if Owen had constructed it himself while he had been away.
    ‘Good,’ he said, praising Owen for his handicraft.
    Must be the same boy, Owen thought. He seemed friendly enough.
    The boy thrust the cap into Owen’s hands. It was full of thin-stemmed mushrooms.
    Owen poked at them. ‘Are you sure you can eat these?’
    The boy put the loaf down on the chair and unscrewed the lid from the canister to show Owen the milk.
    ‘Where did you get all of this?’
    The boy grinned, then pressed the canister against Owen for him to hold. He made his way, stepping light-footed from stone to stone, to the waterfall, where he stood, balanced precariously on a
rock, and vigorously washed his hands.
    ‘
To je krása,
’ he shouted, still grinning, as he looked up at the pouring sunlight. ‘Eh?’
    Owen didn’t know but nodded.
    The boy pointed at the overhanging branches and smiled. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Yes?’
    The broth was watery and tasted stale, but the mushrooms weren’t bad and the bread, although dry, was perfectly palatable if dunked long enough and chewed on for a while.
They shared the canister of milk, passing a smile between them at each other’s moustaches.
    ‘Owen,’ Owen said, leaning forward a little and tapping at his chest. ‘English. And you? Your name?’
    The boy smiled again and raised the canister as if it were a glass. He took a generous swig, his cheeks full, then put it down between his feet and swallowed.
    ‘Janek,’ he said. He stood up and opened his arms to display himself. ‘Janek V ě nceslav Sokol.’ He took a bow and sat down again. ‘Janek. Janek –
Owen,’ he said, motioning to them both and nodding. ‘Good.
Dob ř e
.’
    Owen pulled the paper and pencil out of his pocket and finished the equation:
    BOY = CZECH = BREAKFAST = YANECK
    ‘Well . . . hello.’ He smiled awkwardly, and then tipped his bowl upside down. ‘Empty again. Thank you.’ Because he now remembered the boy had fed him once before.
‘That was very good.’
    ‘Petr,’ Janek said. ‘I . . . er . . .’ His eyes roved about, seemingly trying to find the word hanging somewhere from a tree. ‘
To m ě nau č il Petr
.
Teach me.’
    ‘Oh. To cook? I see,’ said Owen. ‘Yes. Very good.’
    ‘
Petr je m ů j bratr
. My . . . er . . .’ He paused again, his hand turning as if flipping through a list of words until he found the right one. ‘Um . . .
Bruder. Bruder?
’
    ‘Ah, German,’ said Owen.
    The boy nodded. ‘Little.’
    ‘You mean brother.’
    ‘
Ano
. Brother. Petr is . . . er . . .’
    ‘Your