Claire followed Owen through the narrow gap in the trees, which were wading in manioc and cassava to a small open field of fescue grasses. Fifty yards in front of her was a ring of thatched shelters. Gathered in front of them and looking her way was a scattering of curious men, women, and children. Some were dressed in muted loin clothes, others, not at all. But what caught her eye was what was behind the village. She ogled the eroded stone ruin built into the side of the steep valley wall.
A tap on the arm startled her. She glanced at Owen who was nodding toward a withered dark figure heading their way. She studied the man. He wore a tan sheath over his thin boney shoulders. Around his neck was a strand of bone tiles. A bright red streak of paint ran from the tip of his nose to a crinkle
