Chilbi went down to the wattle grove beside the creek and selected several branches no thicker than his little finger. These he took back up to the cave below the cliffs, where he had a small fire burning. Sitting by the fire, he chewed the end of each stick, separating the fibres to make paintbrushes. When he was satisfied with his creations, he took them deeper into the cave. The walls were covered with many murals and hand stencils, paintings of animals and spirits, stories of the history of the Jannjirra people.

Squatting beside several wooden bowls of paint, Chilbi continued with his labour of love. The mural on which he worked showed a pale stranger arriving in the midst of his people. The stranger was welcomed and treated as one of the tribe. As the story progressed across the rock, the Djarriba used their magic to infect the people with a great sickness, and everyone died except for three young brothers and the pale stranger. The survivors, led by the pale one, descended into the lands of the Djarriba and took revenge for the sickness. The warriors killed many Djarriba, but one by one they were killed off. Now, only one warrior remains, one last survivor of the people, and this is his mark.

Chilbi picked up a bowl of white paint and tipped it into his mouth. He sloshed it about for a few moments, mixing it with his saliva until he was happy with the consistency. Then he drew a deep breath through his nose and placed his right hand against the rock at the end of the mural. Paint erupted from his mouth in a fine mist, plastering the back of his hand and the rock around it. When he lifted his hand away, its outline remained there on the rock, picked out in white.

His story had ended.

Later, Chilbi wandered to the edge of the escarpment and looked out across the valley. Here and there, lights twinkled in the lowlands, the Djarriba settlements that grew closer to his tribal homeland with each passing season. One day they would reach the escarpment, and Chilbi wondered what would happen to the rock paintings and the sacred places when they did. Would they erase all sign of the Jannjirra people? When Chilbi was gone, would there be anything left to tell of their existence?

He still pondered these questions as he limped back to the campfire. The season was changing, and tomorrow he would move camp to be near the sacred burial grounds where he had other duties to perform. He turned his head in that direction and felt the yearning in his soul, an unmistakable urge drawing him towards the mountains where the remains of his people lay.

The spirits of his ancestors were calling him home.

The day had started out cloudy and grey, but by late afternoon the sullen overcast drifted into the east, carried away by the breeze. The sun chased the chill from the air and the women removed their woollen shawls and draped them over the back of the seat.