He stood there long after the boy had gone, and then finally began to retrace his steps through the trees. He’d left his kitbag in the cave and needed to rest a while before he completed his final task. Then he would leave Morgan’s Reach behind him for the very last time and begin his own journey along the Great White Way.

He smiled to himself as a dark shadow flitted amid a thick stand of ironbark. ‘He’s on his way home, Django,’ he said. ‘You can stop following me now.’

The black man emerged from behind the tree and eyed him thoughtfully. ‘You still alonga you black fella ears and eyes I teach ’im,’ he said gruffly. ‘We hear you with spirits long time. Why you no alonga home like other white fellas?’

He smiled at the man who had taught him so much about bushcraft. ‘The spirits are calling me, Django. They sing every day now, and soon I must go with them.’

‘Spirits sing alonga you?’ Django’s tawny eyes seemed to penetrate to his very core as he regarded him for a long moment and then unerringly placed his dark hand against his midriff. His expression was sorrowful as he slowly nodded. ‘Spirits sing. You alonga them soon, soon.’

He returned his steady, understanding gaze and then bowed his head in respect. ‘Now you know why I didn’t come home,’ he murmured. ‘Watch over them for me, Django.’ At the other man’s nod, he grasped his hand. ‘Goodbye, old friend.’

Django watched as he turned away. The rain began to spatter through the trees and finally drew a fine curtain between him and the man he’d been proud to call friend, and he felt a great sorrow. His friend was already walking with the Ancestor Spirits – he could see them guiding him to where they must sing their final song and gather him up to take him on that last starry journey through the sky.

Django began to softly intone the ritual mourning song as the rain pattered down through the trees. When he had completed the last note, he turned away and headed for the street. He would keep his friend’s secret.

19

The flow of casualties had slowed to a trickle, the walking wounded had returned home if they could, and apart from three or four of the more serious cases who must remain, the hospital was now quiet and almost deserted.

Amy had taken George over to Gwyneth’s to help her feed and water the animals, Terence and Sandra were snatching a few quiet moments on the back veranda and the spinster sisters had gone home for a well-earned rest. The pastor from Blackall had arrived and would stay with Frances Baker, for the funerals were planned for later that afternoon.