It was sharp and prickly, but it was dry, and better than their ghastly course across the Butcher’s reservoir. Roots ripped his hands. Chemda held on to Jake’s arms, Rittisak was a sherpa of nimbleness, choosing rocks as footholds, helping them up, adeptly pointing at branches they could use to ascend. Jake wondered why Rittisak was so assiduous in his assistance: the villagers here were much friendlier than so many other places. Maybe they just hated authority, like Chemda said: and a couple of outlaws, like he and Chemda, appealed to their rebel spirit. Ten strenuous and sweaty minutes later they were on top of the cliff, near a concrete shack. The moon shone on more dead trees, burned trees; maybe slashed and burned by the swidden farmers. There was a definite sense of dawn in the air, a virginal stirring, as birds timidly chirruped. Jake said: ‘We need to rest a few hours. Chemda. Tell Rittisak?’ The two Khmers spoke Khmer. Jake saw Rittisak shrug, uncomfortably – then accede.
