He saw a sea of grass: a boundless plain reaching to the horizon. He saw it from above, as though from a bird’s-eye view . . . Or from the top of a hill. A hill, down whose slopes descend a row of vague shapes. When they turned their heads, he saw unmoving faces, unseeing, dead eyes. They’re dead, he suddenly realised. It’s a cortège of the dead . . . Lytta’s fingers squeezed his hand again. With the strength of pliers.
