Tuki nodded, his eyes big and shining, his gaze had never left his sister’s face. She smiled softly, reached her hands to his head, gently pressed his cheeks to hers.

“Little brother,” she whispered, “the elders will soon take you from the women to start your early training for the first Bora warriorhood. But if you can only safely warn the warrior Burradella of these enemies now creeping down upon the camp then old Mullionkale the play-maker himself will make the story. Your deed will be sung in corroboree long before you are made a warrior. Now go!”

With one last, long look at Weetah Tuki turned and crawled away. Weetah gazed at the dense leaves, her heart hurting as she listened to the faint rustle which in a moment died into silence.

XXVIII

ABANDON CAMP

Weetah crept back towards the river almost to the bank, where the thistles died away before the big river trees. As she peered out from the thistles her heart leapt at sight of two painted warriors sitting on a log by the crossing bank, her log, the log on which she had sat with the baby and left her dilly-bag. It was not only that they were enemies, it was that they were the most feared enemies of all. There was no mistaking those vivid circles of white ochre emphasising the fierce, deep-set eyes, the queer dash across the forehead, the strange splash down the cheeks that caused the shaggy faces to stand out like living skulls. Cassilis warriors!

Leaning across the log were their long, cruelly barbed spears, wommera and shield to hand, war boomerangs, nulla, fighting axe and bone dagger looped by thong to their belts. Such weapons told Weetah at a glance that these men were not just hit-and-run raiders. She listened for sound of others coming. They had spread out the contents of her dilly-bag between them on the log, were examining the little treasures with interest and an occasional guttural joke.

Then one held up the little bag—the precious little bag—they laughed as at a great joke. He tipped the contents out on to the log and Weetah’s heart missed a beat as he held up the little charm. They examined it curiously, then contemptuously he flipped it out towards the river. Weetah watched the flight of that little pebble as never before she had followed the flight of a wild bee to its nest. She was with it at its tiny splash and her heart leapt with joy as she knew it was in the shallows—she knew she would never forget that exact spot. The charm was of the river and had gone back to the river, but Weetah knew the charm was of her, too, and the river would give it back to her, because she had given back to the river the spirit of the big old jewfish through its eyes. And in a flash she knew she need never fear the river, their tribal river, the “great big awful river” of the Gunn-e-darr. No matter what else befell, neither she, nor Giluram, nor the baby would ever drown.