...of foreboding

The caravan of trucks entered a forest of pines and cedars through which clear streams ran. The convoy stopped in the village of Latrun and soldiers and immigrants got out to freshen up. There was a fountain and a washtub, the water gurgled out peacefully. The women washed the dust from their faces and arms, the children splashed each other laughing. Esther took a long drink of the cold water, it was delicious. There were bees hanging in the air. The streets of the village were deserted, silent. At times, they could hear something like the rumbling of a storm far away in the mountains.
While the women and children drank, the men stood at the entrance to each street, rifles in hand. The silence was odd, menacing. Esther remembered the day she and Elizabeth had walked into the square in Saint-Martin where everyone was gathering before their departure, the old men in their black coats, the women with black scarves knotted tightly around their faces, the children who were running around innocently, and on that day too there had been the very same silence. Only the rumbling, like thunder.

[Wandering Star, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]