I get to my feet. But when I catch sight of the shadow that’s running through the dark forest towards me, I drop instantly back down again. The shadow is strong and fast and absolutely massive; the shadow is NOT one bit like Harby’s; the shadow is the shadow I saw in the storm.

ATTACK

I press myself into the earth, squeeze my eyes tight shut. The thump-thump of heavy footfalls vibrates up through my body.

Crazily I think of the frogs that Howard Carter brings into the garden back home, how they sit, still as still on the grass, playing dead even when Howard Carter pats and paws them, until he loses interest and they hop back into the flower bed. But I’m way too scared to play dead. I’m just about to leap up and make a run for it when I realise the pounding feet have gone right past me. I hear a grunt and the rip of the spear being pulled out of the tree trunk. A pause, then the thump of running feet again, snapping branches, swooshing grasses. The sounds fade and are gone.

In a daze, my head spinning, I stagger slowly to my feet. I stare in the direction the footsteps went: downhill, away from the Spirit Stone, curving back round towards the river. I breathe a shaky sigh of relief.

But who was that man throwing his spear at anyway? Was he hunting the lynx … or me? Somewhere, far away in the forest, a wolf howls. I shudder, looking towards the sound, and notice that the sky over there is brightening slowly. Dawn … morning … a new day …

Then I remember. Harby! No! That shadow man was running in the very direction Harby went off in. I give myself a shake. What am I doing, just standing here? I have to warn Harby! I have to get to him before that man does! I charge in the direction of the river.

Thorns rip my bare legs and tangle my hair, but I tear through them as fast I can. Gasping for breath, I trip into a hollow and as I right myself, I notice something familiar lying next to me.

Heart pounding, I pick it up. My hand fits the smooth indent Harby’s hand has made. I touch the splintery broken end, remembering the snapping sound of the wood when Harby saved me from the wolf. I press my thumb gently to the sharp flint tip. ‘Spea!’ I whisper, gazing all about me. The forest is pale pale blue in the first morning light. Somewhere a blackbird starts to sing. This is Harby’s spear … but where’s Harby?

Harby would never just leave his spear behind. His spear is part of him; he needs it for hunting, for protection. ‘Make safe,’ I murmur. Harby must be close by.

‘Harby!’ I call softly; that man could be close by too. My eyes dart from tree to tree: What if Harby’s been attacked already? Captured? I swallow. Killed? I listen hard, but all I hear is birdsong as the dawn forest wakes itself up. Peering about in the eerie early light, I realise I’m next to that massive pale tree we stopped beside in the night. It’s definitely the one, I recognise the branch where Dad’s shirt was caught. I edge around the huge tree trunk and I’m in a funny, bare patch of forest, it reminds me of a gap where a wobbly tooth has fallen out. I don’t remember this; where are all those gigantic white honeysuckle flowers?