‘My people,’ I murmur.

I look at Harby. ‘Where are your people now?’ I ask.

‘Gone,’ he says, flat, matter-of-fact.

‘Gone? Where?’

‘Gone,’ he says again. With a deep deep sigh he pushes back the branches and walks out of the cave.

I shiver. I don’t understand but I do understand. Poor Harby!

I’m just about to leave the cave after him, when I realise that I’ve forgotten something. I look back at the dim shape of the wolf we killed. ‘I give thanks,’ I whisper sadly. And a guilty weight that sits deep in my belly shifts, then lifts a little.

Between the rustling leaves of the fallen tree I can see the river twinkling in the moonlight. I bend back the branches and hurry to catch up with Harby. He’s standing still as a statue, just ahead of me. He’s making that funny circle telescope shape with his hand again.

I’m just about to call out to him, ask him what he’s up to. Then I notice that in his other hand his spear is raised. I freeze.

SPIRIT SONG

Something moves in the dark undergrowth behind the cave. A stealthy rustle. I think of the wolf, the alpha … My mouth goes dry. Do wolves seek revenge?

Another rustle. From behind me somewhere. The pack?

I look over my shoulder; in the cave, shadows shift and flicker. My heart thuds.

I turn back to Harby. He’s just standing there, poised and ready. So still he reminds me of the painted people in the cave. The nearby creature rustles; it’s edging forward. I bend slowly and pick up a stick. I try to steady my breathing, imagining myself as Cholliemurrum; a survivor, brave and strong with a spear in my hand. The animal creeps closer still.

Then from somewhere I hear a low humming sound. I screw up my face in confusion; I can’t place the noise; what on earth is it? Almost a growl, but no, softer, more like the sound when you’re upstairs and someone downstairs is vacuuming. The noise gets louder and I realise that there’s actually a kind of music to it; it’s … a song … or a chant even … and it’s Harby who’s singing it.

The animal in the undergrowth stops rustling, like it’s standing still to listen. Harby sings louder. I don’t understand the words but they seem to be working. ‘Sing, Cholliemurrum!’ hisses Harby.

So I do. I chant along with Harby, picking up his tune, making my voice low and hummy. The ridiculous thing is that the first song which pops into my head is ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ so those are the words I’m chanting … to Harby’s ominous tune.

‘TWINkle

TWINkle

LITtle

STAR

HOW I

WONder

WHAT you

ARE …’

I don’t even have to get to the up above the world so high bit because something surprising happens before then: the rustling creature is actually frightened by our chanting. I see the tiniest glint of its eyes amongst the dark leaves, then it turns tail and runs crashing through the bushes.