A small red car stopped abruptly just up ahead, the driver leant out of the open window and shouted a warning to beware the trucks on this road, the kerb of which we were flaunting. He said they go like the blazes down here, and he was probably right; it was a good new road along the riverbank, straight and clear.
It was the seventh day. All the tedious initial labours of the Creation had been dispensed with, so it was the day of rest, even for the trucks. But it was sound advice, so we looked both ways, then crossed to the hill which rose before us out of the marshscape. On the map there was no hill at all, only some indeterminate markings of yards and workings. It was a cartographic anomaly, like the white spaces on Victorian maps which drew the explorers into deepest Africa. We had faith in the solidity of the visible world all around us, and so we ascended; it was no illusion, it was firm underfoot.