Cautiously, I creep back across the river beach towards him, feet squelching in my wet trainers. I feel braver now, with this spear in my hand.

I stand by the boy. A lizard darts across the sand, past the boy’s bare foot. His feet are like his hands, broad and strong. His right ankle is all puffed up and swollen. His long hair has fallen half across his face, revealing a big oozing cut on his forehead. He has a wide nose and high cheekbones and his eyes are closed. He has long, dark eyelashes. With my toe I nudge his foot, ever so gently, but he just lies there motionless. I bite my lip.

Slowly I crouch down next to him, heart thudding with dread.

BAD SPIRIT?

A shrill cry pierces the still air. I jump out of my skin. The cry comes again; a bird, but not one I recognise; it sounds just like a tiny baby. Just like Dara. The bird cries again.

The boy does a huge jolt like he’s been electrified. It gives me such a shock, I fall back on to the sand. He starts thrashing his head from side to side. He’s alive!

Relief floods through me. Relief mingled with fear. I grip the spear more tightly and shuffle out of his reach, in case he wakes up properly.

‘Mmmmmmffffaaa,’ mumbles the boy, his eyes still closed. ‘Mmmmmfffggaa.’

Then he gets louder, calling out deliriously in his sleep in his language that I don’t understand.

MOTHGIRL!

Mothgirl! Make safe! MAKE SAFE! MOTHGIRL!

‘Mothga?’ I murmur, shaking my head. What does Mothga mean?

His eyes shoot open. He sees me. My heart starts to thud. I shuffle away from him fast, holding white-knuckle-tight to the spear.

‘Hey!’ I say, trying to keep my voice level. ‘Hey! Just be calm. It’s OK.’

But the boy doesn’t look OK. He scuffles to his feet and skitters away from me towards the ridge which separates the beach from the forest. He’s making a circle shape, like a telescope, with one fist and shouting words I don’t understand in his strange gruff voice:

WHO YOU? I not know you.

You bad? You bad bad spirit?

BAD SPIRIT!

You take my spea!

You put your bad spirit curses on me!

GO YOU! Go you, Bad Spirit! Leave me!

Go back to your bad bad land!

He yells and yells at me, but his voice is more like growls. Furious. Ferocious. Wild.

Suddenly he stops shouting and stands stock-still, like we all used to do when we played musical statues at birthday parties. What’s he doing?

A shrill cry pierces the air – it’s that bird that sounds like a baby. The cry fades. The boy turns back to me and, fire-eyed, he roars:

WHERE MOTHGIRL?

I hear Mothgirl cry!

Where you take my Mothgirl?

Tell me now, Bad Spirit!

Tell me now or I kill you dead!

Where MY Mothgirl?

‘Moth-ga?’ I say. It’s that word again. ‘I don’t understand you.’