I start to hum, swaying slightly. Just how Dad always used to.

The lynx’s ears are pricked.

I keep humming, creeping backwards, slowly, slowly.

I lock the lynx’s honey-yellow eyes with my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I sing my spirit song. I don’t chant like Harby. I sing it. I sing it slow and soft, like a lullaby.

‘Row, row, row your boat …’

The lynx holds her about-to-pounce pose like she’s turned to stone.

‘Off into the night …’

My voice wavers slightly, but as I stare into the lynx’s eyes my heart fills with an ancient wildness that feels like it’s hers, but mine too somehow.

‘… and if you meet a wild cat …

… don’t give her a fright …’

The lynx blinks.

I swallow, then I put my hand over my own strong heart and I sing again.

‘Row, row …’

My spirit song rises into the dark, like it’s made of more than me, and as I sing I half hear Dad singing too … and Mum … like how when one wolf howls all the wolves howl together, answering each other’s call.

‘… row your boat,

Off into the night …’

As I stare into the lynx’s eyes, tangled images flash through my mind: Dad and me fishing in our star-sparkled river. Dad’s warm safe cuddle. A moth flying moon-bound and white in the dark of night. A birthday wish. A brother.

‘… and if you meet a wild lynx …’

The lynx starts to back away; slow elegant steps, like a dancer. Her movements mirror mine.

It’s working! It’s working! My spirit song is actually working! I almost laugh in shock and amazement, but I keep singing instead.

‘… don’t give her a fright …’

I blink at the lynx through the shadows, holding out a tremulous hand, understanding suddenly. ‘I’m frightened of you,’ I whisper, dry-mouthed. ‘And you’re … you’re frightened of me.’

The lynx steals backwards, her bones and muscles rippling beneath her glossy coat. I hum my spirit song. Maybe that’s what spirit song is made of – it’s not made of words or even of music – it’s made of the spirits of us creatures who are brave enough to look each other square in the eye and say this is me and this is you and we’re both fierce and we’re both afraid. Equals. As one.

I sing on, steady and strong; I sing from somewhere deep deep down in me, the place where growls and giggles and unstoppable tears come from.

Suddenly the lynx flattens her body to the ground. I gasp.

A thin whistling noise. I look up. Something thrums through the air just above my head and thonks into a tree behind the lynx.

Instantly, she springs away, her dappled body vanishing into the moon-dimpled undergrowth.

I press myself to the ground. What just happened?

Then I hear feet, human feet, crashing through the forest towards me. It must be Harby, he must’ve thrown his spear to rescue me again. A flash of anger rears in my belly. I didn’t actually need rescuing; I was saving myself quite nicely, thank you very much.