Some thirty of them, all standing in silent respect for their teacher, the warrior Burradella, and in big-eyed adoration of Red Kangaroo. Gravely Burradella commenced the lesson, and all that day Red Kangaroo followed along with the lesson, to the delight of the boys. But they little guessed all that was behind his grave demeanour, his appreciative eyes, and encouraging smile. For all his towering height, youth, strength, and warriorhood, he now felt very small indeed. Frightened, too—and lonely. Never had he felt so before. Towards sundown they were strolling back to the camp. The old familiar sounds—never before had they come so clearly to his ears. A ringing “Coo-ee-eee!” floating through the bush, tidings of success from a returning hunting party; the soft voice of Turilawa the Waterlily talking to her son Kuliya as she led him back to camp by the hand, the toddler looking tired after the long day’s hunting. Screech of cockatoos, shrill call of a girl, laughing reply from a friend returning to camp with dilly-bag laden with good things to eat, snatch of a hunting song in the warrior Kuribri’s deep voice. Yell of children hurling reed spears in mimic warfare, old Bungadoon’s boastful laughter as he threw down a wallaby to be admired by Pumbul and their appreciative “children”. Hilarious laughter of kookaburras high up on a branch where one was killing a snake, dropping it and snatching it up just before it smacked upon the ground, dashing it against the branch. Ah, now their loud laughter broke into bird fury as far up in the branch half a dozen snatched the nearest portion in their powerful beaks and began a tug-of-war, three pulling back on the neck, three pulling back on the tail shaking their heads in fury while tugging against the others. Sooner or later they would tear the stretched out thing to pieces and fiercely fight to gobble whatever part was clenched in their beaks.

Ah yes, the familiar old sights and sounds of the camp. Now he could see the girls gossiping as they winnowed grass-seed; they were threshing it, separating the husk from the seed, grinding it between stones into flour to be baked in cakes on the coals. Some chatted as they worked, others sang a lilting song about the black swans’ flight by night. How sweetly the haunting refrain now sounded to Red Kangaroo, how clearly he smelt the fresh smoke from newly lit fires!

He murmured to Burradella, “I thank you for opening my eyes, that I may see a little way ahead. You have taught me many things, but never so much as today. And,” he added, “1 promise to talk less, and think more.”

“It is well!” replied the warrior Burradella gravely.

XII

THE VENGEANCE PARTY

He kept his word. And learnt other things—among them that his dignified uncle Tulumi was with him, too, though he did not—could not—mention these things when he had occasion to speak to the young warrior.

“There are others!” murmured Burradella one evening.