She had nowhere to go, no direction for Reservation. She had wondered if perhaps Reservation was another word for heaven, which was another word white people used for dead, or ‘We have killed them all! Good show, chaps.’

The ground sloped upwards now, well away from the river lands where the sheep grazed close enough to find water each evening. She had no water bottle, nor did she need one — every few ridges there would be at least one kurrajong tree, planted to show the right direction to take, but also with fat roots that would yield water, or be cooked for food, though they’d be tough and fibrous in this season. She’d eat them only if there was nothing else.

At last they passed a ridge she recognised from years before. The bark that grew on these trees on the shaded side had an inner lining, which if stripped at the right time could be plaited (Mistress Maria had thought she had taught her plaiting! And with only three strands!), then when pulled through the flame of a fire, make a rope that would bear the weight of a man, string that would last for generations and never perish if made into fishing nets.

But the bark scars on the trees were healed over. There were no fresh ones, none since she had been prisoner. Wherever Reservation was, those who lived there either could not come for bark string, or did not want to.

But string was the most useful item in the world, more useful than a spear, though you would not tell a man that. She did not think the women would not want string. That meant they could not come.

Down the slope now, the horse sliding a little on the loose rocks. At least there were no wombat holes here for him to stumble in.

The slope lessened. For some reason the big horse swerved and began to thud uphill, his hoofbeats growing softer as the harsh rock turned to soil. She leaned forwards and grabbed his neck again, trying to cling on. No grass there: just creeping ground covers that looked fragile but survived the lack of rain better than grass. A kookaburra yelled a warning to its clan above her, ‘Human! Human! Horse!’

And then the stallion stopped. She caught her breath, relaxed her grip and looked around.

They were by a creek, little more than a lizard track of moisture. But more water seeped from below a large, lichen-covered rock, tufted with ferns, and below it a pool no larger than the kitchen washing bowl.

She slipped off, as she felt the horse wished her to. She waited while he drank, then began to crop the greenery that grew in a long green smudge below the pool. She drank herself, gratefully, catching it before it fell into the pool where the horse had drunk. Possum scats dusted around the pool. She scraped them away absent-mindedly, then looked at the horse.