I want to jump up and scream and run. I remember the thonk of the spear, the heavy thud of running feet, the grunt as he pulled the spear out of the tree. Was he trying to kill me? I think of finding Harby yesterday, almost dead in the river, the gash on his head. What if it wasn’t an accident? What if this man tried to kill Harby and kidnapped the baby? What if that was what Harby didn’t want to remember? I drop down, pressing my face into the scratchy bracken, eyes squeezed closed in terror. If only we could wish things away just by not thinking about them.

Across the river, the poor little baby cries and cries. I clap my hands over my ears. Oh, Mothga. Mothga.

Suddenly the yelling stops. I take my hands off my ears and cautiously peep up. The man is on his feet again, chest heaving, staring over at the baby. He wades noisily towards her, his powerful legs moving effortlessly through the water. The baby cries. My blood turns to ice. What’s he going to do?

He reaches the baby. He slides something out of a pouch at his belt. At first I can’t make out what it is. Then I can see it and I gasp. It looks like a kind of knife, made of sharpened stone, like Harby’s spearhead. The man stands over the baby. The baby wails.

With a swift movement, the man lifts the knife high above his head. I see the streaks of blood mixed with water, running down his arm. The baby’s screams pierce my ears.

‘No!’ I whisper. ‘No! Please, not the baby!’

I open my mouth to yell, to scream for him to stop, but terror plugs my throat and no words come. The baby howls harder still. Above Mothga the man holds the knife, his hand shaking. I can’t bear to watch.

Then, as if he’s had a change of heart, he bends over and plunges his knife into the river. He wipes it on his skins and shoves it back in his belt pouch. I breathe out, slowly, quietly, nearly melting with relief.

Mothga’s cries ease to a bleat, as if realising the danger has passed. But my eyes don’t leave the knifeman, not for a second. I watch him as he scans the river once more, then grabs the baby, who wails in protest again, and wades across the water towards the Pinnacle. For the first time I notice what looks like a wooden canoe bobbing about in the water; it’s tethered with rope to a kind of finger-shaped rock. The man lowers the crying baby into the little boat and out of sight. He stands over the baby in the canoe for a few seconds, staring down, fury-faced, hands on hips.

Then the man strides off, upstream towards Deadman’s Cave. I watch him until the trees get in the way and I can’t see him any more. As my breathing steadies, I notice the pain in my legs, all cramped from squatting. I stand up carefully, jiggling them to get the blood flowing.