The War Of The End Of The World - pg. 37

The sun burns the backlands to a cinder, gleams on the greenish-black waters of Itapicuru, reflects off the houses of Queimadas lining the right edge of the river, at the foot of gullies of reddish clay. Sparse trees cast their shadow over the rocky, rolling terrain stretching south eastward, in the direction of Riacho da Onca. The rider -- boots, broad-brimmed hat, black frock coat -- escorted by his shadow and that of his mule, heads unhurriedly toward a thicket of lead-colored bushes. Behind him, already far in the distance, the rooftops of Queimadas still glow like fire. To his left, several hundred meters away, a hut at the top of a rise can be seen.