They pushed on until the birds sang of the approaching dawn. A squawking and whistling spread into whoops, caws and shrieks. Light began to penetrate the chiaroscuro kaleidoscope of the canopy. Their feet plunged through the moist litter, leaving steaming footprints in the chill air. Signs of habitation appeared: tracks and axe holds on trees; a suspension bridge made of bamboo, timber and rattan.

In familiar territory, the men began to chat happily. They came to a glade, and Mia recognised the outskirts of the village. Chief Kinsame’s house sat in the centre of thirty or so huts, interspersed and sheltered by trees, an elevated building made of rough-hewn timber-slab walls and a bark roof. It reminded Mia that they were deep in the foothills of the mountain range, with the swampy riverine flats far behind them.

Although life was short in Papua, Mia was shocked by how much Kinsame had aged. At forty-five, he was grey and emaciated, worn down by parasitic infections, especially malaria, which was rife.

He simply said, ‘Yu bilong hia.’

The words went straight to her heart.

‘Thank you, Kinsame. I would talk longer with you, but I must go to the mission first and get medicine for my friend.’

‘Misin finis.’ His face was mournful. ‘Soldia stil close.’

‘I understand. But I must go.’

He agreed that Paomente would take her once they had rested. She had known he would because, as wantoks, there was no other choice.

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

A thin rectangle of amber sky revealed both the coming dawn and the extraordinary vertical narrowness of the Hoosenbeck Gorge. Viewed from below, it gave the impression of being trapped at the bottom of an immensely deep mineshaft, the sense of foreboding enhanced by a deep and oppressive silence.

Trussed up in a sleeping bag, Nash watched Hartono stiffly clamber out of the chopper and take a piss. Terrified of creepy-crawlies, he’d rejected a perfectly good swag, the structural integrity of which Sura and Boerman had confirmed around midnight. The lovebirds were still sleeping it off on the other side of the now-smouldering fire.

They kitted up after a breakfast of canned beef sausages, powdered eggs and Javanese coffee, ensuring time for ablutions, because once they were suited up there were no acceptable options.

Thankfully, Boerman was familiar with a membrane drysuit and needed no instruction. After squeezing his way into the insulated undersuit, the big man fought his way into the outer skin. Nash had to zip up the overstretched suit for him, because Sura didn’t have the strength. Nash was wearing a more modern suit. Its semi-rigid matrix construction resisted compression, thus maintaining a thicker layer of warmer air between him and the outside membrane when under pressure. The closeness of the suit had never been a problem before, but now he felt smothered by what was essentially a high-tech plastic bag.