Faye was almost at the path when she saw the scarred tree. At first, she thought the series of strange stripes on its bark were lichen. As she drew closer, she saw that it was as if someone had taken an axe to the tree, striking it in several groups of four or five longitudinal, parallel blows halfway up the tree. Halfway up the tree? Wasn’t that where Clare said leopards clawed tree trunks? She peered closer. Yes. Claw marks. They were the claw marks of the leopard Clare had spoken of. Faye’s heart raced as if she’d drunk too much coffee. She looked around. The forest was still but the shadows were long and the light dimming.

“I am not a fearful woman. I can be alone and do things. I am capable and I am brave,” she said, almost running from the trees.

Once out of the forest and in the open, where the shadows were shorter and fewer, Faye felt calmer. It was, she thought, an evening as still and clear as the first night the group had spent on the trail. She thought about that night and how she’d sat outside, alone, after Derek had gone to bed, annoyed with her for reasons she’d forgotten. How she’d envied Clare’s bravery. She’d almost come full circle. No. She’d gone much further than that. She’d reached a place she didn’t know existed.

The path to Heuningbos was familiar and, even by night, she could anticipate the rise and fall of the earth beneath her feet, when the surface went from smooth to rough, where the large boulders were and at what point the grass and shrubs would brush against her legs. She looked across the veld and felt the thuds of her boots beating to the rhythm of her heart. She couldn’t remember ever having felt as connected to the world. The hours of isolation and the time she’d spent with Clare had altered her. The wilderness, which at first had frightened her, had become her ally.

There was no moon to light the way, but Faye didn’t use the torch Gcina had given her. Instead, she kept her eyes on the path which unfolded before her like a sandy ribbon. The night air was rich with the minty scent of wild rosemary. Rosemary. Faye remembered Zach chopping fresh rosemary from the garden as he helped her prepare Sunday lunch.

“It’ll add a lemony-pine taste,” he’d explained, sprinkling the herbs over the potatoes, which were ready for roasting.

She felt a tug at her chest and imagined her son’s strong, welcoming embrace. She knew she could rely on him.