This dangerous relic was Nundoba the witchdoctor, the rainmaker and medicine man. In clawlike hand he carried his bag of charms—queer musty things, and with them his Kuradyi, his doctor’s spirit stones. He hobbled quietly away in the direction of Porcupine Ridge. He would climb up to the big scrub and within its gloomy depths hunt for secret herbs for medicines, and poisons of sap and evil-tasting berries, and fungus that glowed sickly green and blue upon rotted logs in the dripping gloom on a dark night.

The witchdoctor with his herbs, his magic stones, his mumbling spells and auto-suggestion can cure, but—he can more definitely kill. From under lowered eyes the people watched his hunched back as he went. Feared indeed was Nundoba the witch-doctor, whose name means “the deadly black snake with the red belly”!

“The Black Snake moves early towards the Poison Scrub,” murmured Mullionkale the play-maker to his assistant.

But Kayari only grunted softly as he bent over his work, fearful lest an evil spirit overhear indiscreet words and carry them to the ready ear of the witchdoctor. For all knew that witchdoctors encourage their familiars, those spiteful ones among the evil spirits that listen in to the conversation of humans, then fly to the ear of the witchdoctor when unhappily they overhear something whispered against him.

IV

THE TRIBE TRAINS ITS FUTURE WARRIORS

The bush was alive with bird calls as Burradella led his boys away from the camp. A few little white clouds far away up were playing chasings with the wind, some vagrant wind not felt down here upon earth. Under a gnarled old blue-gum Burradella halted.

“We shall imagine,” he said gravely to Gilwan and Wanawah, “that you both have now crept out to the edge of the scrub in which the women are hidden. Before you is the open bush. Enemy scouts are prowling somewhere—anywhere! You have no hunting gear of any sort. You must bring back food to the women, must not be seen or leave betraying tracks. Now go!”

Gilwan and Wanawah jumped ahead and, bending low, seemed to vanish amongst the bushes and grasses.

“Come!” ordered Burradella, and strode forward while the other boys followed eagerly, leaping into the air to try to fault the two hunters by keeping them in sight. They caught an occasional glimpse of the dark head of Gilwan or the buttocks of Wanawah as he vanished down into a depression or beside a fallen tree. Then they disappeared.

Burradella stopped. The boys gathered round him, craning their necks, listening. But there came only the hoarse, booming call of a swamp pheasant, the rustle of a pademelon through the kangaroo grass, the sigh of the breeze, the distant call of water-fowl, the drone of insects.

“Well?” asked Burradella quietly.

For some moments the boys pondered, trying hard to reason out the direction the two had taken, and why.

Young Gurah spoke softly. “Not the way we are looking, for there is a butcher-bird watching in the wilga-tree and he has seen no more than a snake.”