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easy to lose one’s way, mistake a landmark, become
disoriented on the plains or to go wrong at a crossroads. Whenever that happened, the bird swooped down with a loud screech. Then it flew back and forth between the bewildered traveller and the
right path, showing him the right way to go. In addition, the eagle often carried fleshy leaves in its beak that were filled with a comforting juice. These helped augment the traveller’s
scarce supply of water, which he could only replenish in the rare oases he came across near the coast.
    So they travelled together for countless days. ‘She in the sky, me in the sands; never the other way round.’
    The desert seemed endless. Days of scorching heat; icy nights. Days and nights, nights and days, the landscape always the same. Every so often, the figure on his own in the desert threw a pebble
in front of him just to convince himself he was advancing. ‘You’ve caught up with the pebble you threw. Calm down, you are moving. And with any luck, you’re moving in the right
direction,’ he told himself in consolation.
    The Supreme Astronomers had instructed him how to plan his time: when to make an effort, and when to rest, so that he would survive the desert. While he was in the Land Without Shadow, he had to
start walking at sunset. ‘To wrap myself in my cloak and walk. To make progress at night and in the early hours of the morning, because as soon as the sun rose in the sky I had to set up my
tent in the meagre shade of the thorn bushes, drink my water, and get some sleep. Sleep and then wake at the red sunset, bathe in the sea, and then go on with my journey.’
    Often at night a sandstorm arose, stinging his body. Then there was no chance of going on. His eyes tight shut, his mouth set in a taut line while he sheltered under his cloak waiting for the
wind to drop, his mind went back to the smell of that tortilla he had eaten when he left Beleram. The wind took a long time to drop, but gradually the grains hurt less; the sand returned to the
sand. It was only then that he could set off again.
    ‘The Land Without Shadow is a strange place! The sea and the desert meet at the coast, but there is no telling which of them is dying and which is doing the killing!’
    Then one dawn, a day before his belt had a hundred and forty knots on it, he reached the Marshy River. The traveller knew that once he had crossed it he would be entering the Ends of the Earth,
the lands where the Husihuilkes lived. The air here was different, and the first few clumps of vegetation started to appear.
    In order to cross the Marshy River he had to leave the coastline, because the river estuary was one huge swamp. If he did not do so, he would be bound to sink in the mud. His map showed he
should head inland. And even though this held its risks as well, they were not as deadly or as unavoidable as the ones he faced in the swamp. Leaving the coast meant he might be spotted by the
Pastors of the Desert, who often came down to the estuary for their flocks to drink and graze. They also crossed the river to trade. Their llamels were greatly sought after in Husihuilke villages,
and the Pastors exchanged them for four, medicinal herbs, and other things they could not obtain in their oases. This meant there was a greater chance the traveller would be discovered, as he had
to use the same bridge as they did.
    He had just set out across the river when the eagle started to circle round his head, screeching loudly. What was it trying to tell him? He could not be going the wrong way this time. The river
was the river. The bridge was the bridge, and only offered two possibilities: to the south lay his final destination, to the north was the way back. ‘My friend, you can’t want me to
return to the desert, can you?’ He peered in the direction of the eagle’s flapping wings, and soon understood why the bird was making such a fuss. A big flock of llamels was heading for
the river. He could only make