with those of the baby. And in the middle of the floor lay the bones of the dog.Stripped clean. A dance with death. That was what had taken place here. Rosa Lina looked up atWolverhampton, the tall British scientist who had arrived to study what had happenedto this poor family. He was an entomologist, and while the obvious evidence of terror and devastation seemed to fascinate him, he was really here to study the habits of thathorrible hive – the Army Ants.“Once they start,” Rosa Lina told him, “they don’t stop. We avoid them when wehave enough time. If we don’t get the warning…” She shrugged expressively andgestured to the scene.“There’s a legend,” said Denham.“Ah, yes,” agreed Rosa Lina. If anyone should know, it was her. She was Mayan.“They say the army ants can be controlled with the Death Whistle. A whistle cut fromthe finger bone of a child who died by the ants. It is nonsense.”“The whistle is kept in the museum in Guaxupé,” Denham pointed out.“It is nonsense,” she repeated.Rosa Lina was the ideal travel guide for the mysterious scientist. She knew the landlike her own square patch of balcony in town. She had grown up here; but her Spanishwas excellent, as she had been picked out as the most intelligent in her class and hadreceived a merit grant in order to study at the University. She had picked languages,as she was a sensible girl and could see that tourism was a way to keep her mother and father, and several younger brothers, in moderate cashflow while the family battledon in their daily fight for survival. Their patchy hut at the forest edge had been tradedfor a small but nice suburban duplex.This assignment had come from the University itself. Accompany this scientist in hissearch for social insects, for his doctoral thesis. And like all Caucasians, he had thisfascination for the local superstitions. As though there were more to them than his ownvoodoo at home in UK – just because they were foreign to him.She led the way out through the back door, away from that terrible scene of annihilation. There was eerie silence; not a cicada, not a single grasshopper far andwide. The jungle lay green and unperturbed, but the usual symphony of birdsong wasgone. The ants had killed everything that moved.Where were they now? She led the way into the forest, against her own instincts.The mad scientist, highly thrilled that they were so close, pushed past her and followedthe trail of small skeletons – husks of insects, bird droppings, feathers where the antbirds following the swarm had become its next meal. Rosa Lina trailed warily after.