On each face, on each forehead, in the centre, was a sore still festering, or a scar that bore witness to a sore that had once been there.
His hand went involuntarily to his own forehead and he felt the smooth skin with relief, momentarily experiencing a twinge of fear that the mysterious power that seemed to hold this people subject had pierced his own forehead in some way since he had entered its realm.
The villagers watched him warily.
The man he had greeted turned to them and spoke at last.
‘He used the old greeting,’ he said with awe. ‘He is not one of them, nor of us. He is a traveller.’
The villagers moved closer, still wary, but their curiosity and the dawning of hope in their hearts driving them on.
‘Where are you from, traveller?’ the old man asked.
‘From the east, from Ha
