My eyes fill with tears. She’s his mum.

I wonder what happened to her. Maybe … she just died, maybe the baby was born and something went wrong. I think about how things aren’t always what they seem; how bad things can sometimes just happen and there’s nothing you can do about it, no matter how hard you try to forget … or how far you run.

As I watch Harby cry for his ma, I cry too. I cry for Harby and I cry for Mothga and I cry for myself too, wishing my own mum was here with me.

MAKE SAFE

I look up. Harby’s dad is coming towards me. I sit tall, sniffing, and wipe my teary cheeks. But he’s not coming for me. He strides past me to the edge of the glade. I watch him, hacking his way through the undergrowth, half in awe, half in fear. Even if he is Harby’s dad I still don’t trust him one bit. I can’t unremember the image of him with his stone knife in the river … I can’t forget what he so nearly did to poor little Mothga. Why? She’s just a tiny baby. Then Harby’s dad does something I don’t expect. He stoops down and starts gathering flowers: those big white honeysuckle-ish flowers the size of my hand. He straightens up and sees me looking at him.

‘Milk flower,’ he says gruffly.

He goes back to Harby and Mothga and sits down with them on the edge of the hollow. I expect him to lay the flowers next to Harby’s mum, but he doesn’t. One by one he hands them to Harby, who feeds the baby nectar from the flowers. She suckles blossom after blossom until she’s had enough, then she sleeps.

‘Milk flower,’ I whisper in wonder. I wonder how many milk flowers a tiny baby needs in a day … a week … a month. And what about winter? I bite my lip. Harby’s dad looks over at me; for a long hard second we hold each other’s look.

Then Harby takes something from the little pouch at his waist: it’s the deertooth, the one I found in the hut. He shows it to his dad.

‘For Mothga, Pa. Ma make deertooth for Mothga,’ says Harby.

Harby’s pa nods, smiling sadly. He rummages in his own leather pouch, pulls out some twine and cuts it with his stone knife before handing it to Harby.

Harby threads the deertooth on to the twine through its little hole and ties it loosely around his sister’s neck. ‘Make safe, Mothga,’ he says, drawing an invisible circle around the deertooth on the baby’s chest.

Harby hands the baby to his pa.

I watch the huge fierce man stroke a gentle circle too. ‘Make safe, Mothga,’ he echoes. Then he gets up and lays her gently back down on the mossy bed I found for her. As he turns, I notice that he’s wearing a deertooth round his neck too, but his looks older, yellower, more scratched and weather-worn. Harby’s dad walks back to the hollow and lowers himself carefully down to kneel next to Harby’s mum. He lifts the beautiful spear made from moon-pale wood and runs his hand along it, stopping for a moment in the worn-smooth place where Harby’s mum must’ve always held it. When she was alive. He closes his eyes. ‘We give thanks,’ he says.