He picks up a stone. ‘MOTHGAAA!’ he yells as he hurls it at me. It misses, but only just.

‘Oi!’ I say, but my voice comes out in a little squeak. I grip the spear more tightly. ‘What’re you playing at? I’m trying to help you!’

Where you take my Mothgirl, Bad Spirit? he shouts, picking up another stone, a bigger one.

‘Stop it!’ I squeak. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying!’ I’ve backed away from him so much, I’m ankle-deep in water.

A wood pigeon rises noisily out of the trees behind the boy, the sudden rustle and fluster makes me jump out of my skin. I see the boy jump too; that surprises me.

Something suddenly occurs to me: I take a step forward, towards the boy. He draws back, wide-eyed.

Unbelievable! In spite of all his yelling and his gruff voice and that big rock he’s brandishing, this fierce boy is actually frightened … He’s frightened of me.

CONK CUSHION

The pigeon flies away over the river. We face each other, the boy and I, and our eyes lock. ‘WHHHHOOOOO-WHHHhhooooooo,’ calls the pigeon as it passes over our heads.

The tiniest haziest inkling of a memory flashes in my mind. The boy’s voice. His strange growly voice. I recognise it. I’ve heard that voice before …

The boy’s staring at me differently now too. He slowly lowers the hand with the rock in it and points at me, blinking; he’s mumbling quietly to himself, like he’s in a trance, in a dream world.

You not bad spirit! I know you. I see you before.

I member: I sit in hazel tree. I hunt.

I wait. I wait. I wait.

I sleep?

Sleep story come. I see you in my sleep story.

You stand under hazel tree.

I watch you.

Choll-ie-murr-um.

Yes. I see you before, Cholliemurrum!

Cholliemurrum.

Speaking softly, unsure, I echo the boy’s word back at him. ‘Chollie-murrum?’ It’s the word I heard whispered in Mandel Forest last night. I do recognise that voice; it’s the voice I thought I heard. The voice which almost said my name. ‘Charlie Merriam?’ I say.

Cholliemurrum, agrees the boy, pointing across at me. He looks almost as gobsmacked as I am.

‘Cholliemurrum,’ I say, like it actually is my name. And I get such a funny feeling, deep in my head near my back teeth, like … like … the little click a key makes as it turns perfectly in its lock. I give my head a joggle. It feels like my ears have popped and everything sounds clearer, better.

I point at myself. ‘Cholliemurrum,’ I say again. ‘And who are you?’ I ask, pointing to him now.

He stares down at himself, examines his own big hands, then touches his own face.

His eyes meet mine as he slowly, sadly shakes his head. ‘I not know me,’ he says in a husky whisper. ‘I not member me.’

And I hear him properly. I actually understand him suddenly. Clear as air.