The three men depart the village and continue on their way, the rest of the day passes uneventfully if not a little wet with constant drizzle and there is now little traffic on the road...it is soon approaching dusk..
The track winds northwards up a tree covered hill, so sodden that it is more like a muddy river than a road. Cresting the top, you find yourself looking down on the town of Iintombi Intlambo: most of the traders tents are gone now and the town has shrunk to the size of a village. A huddle of ancient wooden dwellings weighed down by sodden thatched roofs, in a valley of dark trees. No glimmer of welcoming firelight can be seen in the windows, or wood-smoke curling from the smokeholes. The town looks deserted. In the centre is a small square, overshadowed by a great long house remarkable for its even greater age. It stands a storey higher than the rest, on huge wooden legs but the area beneath is walled with wattle around row upon row of wooden slabs, giving it an armoured appearance.
Beside the road is a huge boab tree. Its thick boughs, bent by age, almost rest on the ground. Fixed between two of them is a wooden platform with ropes hanging from it. A bedraggled man sits on a third bough, his hands locked into the rough wood shackles. He looks scared.
Dark shapes are circling the foot of the tree—a pack of feral dogs. They stop trying to reach the prisoner, and instead lope towards you, tongues lolling hungrily.
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