As I swerve tree trunks and nip under branches and hop over logs, I get a feeling I’ve had a million times before when I’ve been playing in my Mandel Forest, with Lamont and Beaky. I know exactly where I am and where I’m going; I’m going home. We plough through a patch of mint and the fresh chewing gum smell fills the night air; I laugh as I run through the soft leaves – it’s the mint that Nero likes to chew on; the mint that must’ve always grown here, its roots buried deep.

‘Tooth-leaf,’ mumbles Harby, putting some in his mouth as he runs.

‘Tooth-leaf!’ I say, and I chew some too – it’s peach-fuzz soft and tastes all green and tingly.

The ground gets steeper as we reach the mound that surrounds the Spirit Stone. The Spirit Stone that is ‘home’ in all our games. Panting, we reach the top.

We stand, still hidden amongst the trees, and stare into the little clearing. We’re here.

Harby wasn’t kidding – the Spirit Stone actually is home in his world too: a real home. There’s a camp up here, all lit by moonlight: a kind of igloo-shaped tent, and the dull embers of a fire whose smoke mingles with the cloud-wisped, star-speckled sky.

Nothing moves. There’s no human sound. Only the breath of the wind in the leaves.

‘Home?’ I whisper to Harby.

Harby doesn’t answer, but he stares at the camp, his face full of searching.

I swallow. ‘Come on then, let’s have a proper look; I’m sure you’ll remember it all in a minute.’

Harby just stares, transfixed, but he follows me as I creep cautiously closer. We keep low to the ground, like invaders, as we edge round the clearing until we reach the Spirit Stone and crouch down behind it. ‘Home,’ I whisper, laying my palm low on the cool grey rock. A warm breeze rises. I lean into the Spirit Stone and peer out across the endless moonlit forest that is not my home at all.

‘Harby? Home?’ I whisper, giving him a little nudge.

No answer. No cries from Mothga either. Nothing. The camp is ominously still.

The fire crackles and pops, sending a shimmer of sparks into the air. My heart leaps, then I gesture to Harby and we move closer towards the heat and light.

Above the fire is a tall trestle; thin strips of dark meat dangle off it, swaying gently as they cook in the smoke. My empty tummy rumbles. Apart from the tooth-leaf, we haven’t eaten for ages; not since Harby’s hots. I check over my shoulder, then I lean across, snatch a piece of smoky meat, sniff it and stuff it in my mouth. It’s so tender I hardly have to chew and it’s delicious, like ham would be if ham was less pink and more wild. I grab another strip of meat and give it to Harby – he eats it silently. Closing his eyes to chew.