They had gone through Matale into a thinly populated district of forested mountains, scattered tea and rubber plantations, gleaming reservoirs built by kings long dead. Here and there in the tangled vegetation of the valleys were ruins attesting to ancient glories of kings who built temples and palaces, now forgotten or ignored. The lights of the Rolls briefly touched on a startled herd oi white deer, who bounded away immediately, leaving Durell to wonder if it had been an illusion. The road was rough as they climbed farther beyond the small town of Rattota and turned east again. None of them had eaten, but Aspara had several flasks of water in a kit in the back of the Rolls, and it eased their thirst. When Durell was finally certain they had lost all pursuit, he said, “Stop at the first clearing we come to, Aspara.” She was driving carefully, showing little fatigue. “Why here? This is truly nowhere, dear Sam.” They crossed a flimsy bridge that creaked under the weight of the car.
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