Chapter Four
Dahlia and Paul left the highway at the village of Pipe Clay Creek, and at once the way began to narrow and harden. The westward road along the creek was little more than a set of wagon ruts. The surface was firm since it was still the dry season, but little had been done to remove stones or tree roots from the way, and their little buckboard wagon bounced along crazily. With each passing quarter mile, it seemed, the mountains and jungles to north and south loomed a little closer, as if mother and son were dropping into a deep green funnel – or down a caiman’s gullet, Dahlia thought with a shudder. Dahlia drove, their horse plodded along obediently, and Paul sat quietly, his crossbow in his lap, a quarrel in the groove.
There were a few small plantations at first. After a mi
