Suddenly it dawns on me.
‘You killed her, didn’t you!’ I say.
The knifeman stares at me; his eyes are cold and empty.
Just by my feet is a patch of deep moss surrounded by big white flowers, almost like a nest. Without taking my eyes off the knifeman, I kiss Mothga’s forehead and lay her down gently on the mossy bed. I loosen the broken spear from my belt and hold it in front of me with both hands.
The knifeman’s eyes widen and his breathing quickens as he looks from the spear to my face and back again.
‘Not. Your. Spea,’ he says, quiet and dangerous.
‘No, it’s not my spea,’ I hiss. ‘It’s Harby’s.’
The knifeman’s body jolts like he’s had an electric shock.
‘It’s HAAAAAARRRBYYYYYYYY’S!’ I yell at the top of my voice, and I leap across the hollow over the dead woman and charge the knifeman, the point of the spear aimed at his belly.
The knifeman catches the shaft of the spear with one hand and yanks it out of my grip. He flings it to the ground and grabs me by the throat. He lowers his face so that it’s right next to mine and I can feel his breath on my skin.
‘WHERE HARBY?’ he yells at me, squeezing so tight I can barely breathe.
The knifeman flings me to the ground. I land on my torn shoulder and pain shoots through me. Coughing, gasping, I rub my throat. I roll over, try to reach Harby’s spear, but the knifeman stamps on my hand. I cry out in pain. He gets off my hand and crouches down next to me. His eyes glint.
‘Where? Harby?’ he says slowly, like he’s talking to a small child. ‘Where Harby?’ he says again, a little louder this time. I see his knuckles turn white as he tightens his grip on his knife.
‘Harby’s dead! And you … he’s dead because of you … because of what you did … it was you he was afraid of … it was you he was running from … you killed him!’ I say. I’m trembling all over with fear and fury.
The knifeman stares at me coldly. Quicker than a snake, he grabs my hair and hauls me to my feet. I scream with pain. He snaps my head back and presses the tip of his knife into my throat. My blood pounds in my ears and I feel as if I’m going to pass out. I look up at the blue blue sky. Images flash before my eyes, fast as a flick book: Mum and Dad and Dara. Beaky and Lamont and Nero. Wolf and Bear and Lynx. Harby and Mothga.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, and close my eyes.
The knifeman’s blade presses in.
WORD
I wait for the blade to pierce my skin, for everything to just stop.
Then I feel the knife tip drop away and the knifeman’s grip loosen.
I open my eyes and look up. He’s heard something. At the same moment he flings me away from him and I fall, coughing, to the ground.
Then I hear it; a voice, faint and fragile and familiar.
‘Cholliemurrum!’
I lift my head up and stare, because stumbling into the glade, cut and bruised and filthy, is Harby. Harby! Harby’s alive!
But the knifeman is charging towards him and I try to scream Harby’s name, to tell him to run FAST! FAST! but all that comes out is coughing. I scramble to my feet and grab Harby’s broken spear but the knifeman has nearly reached him. And Harby’s just standing there, looking at him, not even trying to get away.
‘Run, Harby!’ I wheeze, but it’s too late and I know he’ll never outrun the knifeman.
The knifeman grabs Harby roughly by the shoulders. Still Harby doesn’t move; he just stands there, looking up at him.
Then Harby says one word that changes everything.
‘Pa!’
The knifeman wraps his arms around Harby and hugs him tight.
‘Pa!’ says Harby again. ‘You come home, Pa!’ And Harby hugs the knifeman right back with his bruised and bloody arms, his muddy hands gripping tight to the knifeman’s skins.
The knifeman says something in a strange, choked voice. He rubs his face into Harby’s hair and kisses the top of his head. All I can do is look on in amazement, because the knifeman is … because the knifeman is Harby’s dad.
I watch from a distance as Harby’s dad examines the gash on his son’s head, the bandage gone, lost in the sinkhole. And even though I can’t catch all the words, I know that Harby’s telling him what happened by the river yesterday. Harby points over at me; I smile at him and raise my hand in a half-wave.
‘Cholliemurrum,’ he says to his dad.
Harby’s dad looks over at me across the glade. He doesn’t smile.
I can’t believe it. The knifeman is Harby’s dad!
I shake my head and blow out a big puff of air. One more second and that knifeman would’ve killed me. I know it.
I hear a sad little wail. Mothga. I’d almost forgotten about her. I walk around the hollow and lift her up. She’s limp and yellowish; she doesn’t look right at all. Her little pink mouth opens, wide as a baby bird’s beak, but no sound comes out. I walk over to Harby and his dad.
They stop talking as I approach.
‘Mothga,’ I say, holding her out to Harby.
‘Mothga!’ he says, and I put the baby carefully in his filthy arms. He cuddles her close. My heart feels like it might burst with wishing that I’d cuddled Dara when I had the chance.
Harby smiles, his eyes fixed on the baby’s face. Then he seems to notice what I noticed, how limp and floppy she looks, and his smile vanishes. ‘Mothga sick?’ He looks at his dad.
‘Mothga not sick,’ says the man, shaking his head. ‘Mothga hungry.’
Harby and his dad lock eyes, as if they are communicating just by looking at each other.
‘Ma not give milk,’ whispers Harby. ‘Ma in spirit sleep, Pa.’ Harby’s face crumples, his shoulders shake.
Harby’s dad nods and repeats Harby’s words. ‘Ma in spirit sleep,’ says the huge man softly. Then he wraps Harby and Mothga in his big big arms; a tear rolls down his cheek and into Harby’s hair.
I stand in the shadows at the edge of the glade and watch while they hold each other and cry, Harby and his dad. Together they walk over to the hollow where the dead woman lies on her bed of flowers and feathers. Harby limps; his dad helps him. Harby sits on the edge of the hollow with Mothga in his arms and lets himself remember, saying nothing, just looking; looking at the woman because she’s beautiful, and because she’s gone, and because she’s his mum.
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.
‘We give thanks,’ echoes Harby.
‘We give thanks,’ I whisper too.
Harby’s dad lays the spear next to her, then reaches forward towards her face. I strain my neck to see what he’s doing. Harby’s ma is wearing a deertooth on her necklace too. Harby’s pa lifts her deertooth carefully and presses his thumb to its point.
A bead of blood forms. He draws a line of blood across his forehead and softly draws one on hers.
‘Make safe,’ he says, and he leans over and kisses her.
Harby climbs down and kneels beside his dad. He pricks his own thumb, draws his own blood lines, kisses his mum.
‘Make safe,’ he says.
I sit on the grass next to Mothga, stroking her little hand. She holds my finger tightly as she sleeps.
‘Make safe,’ I whisper too.
I look at Harby and his dad and his mum, all curled up together in the hollow. I think of the wolf pack and how they all slept as one, how they howled together and looked after each other. Like a family would.
Like my family would. My family. Where are they now? Mum in the hospital. Dad in our house. Dara in his little incubator after his operation. Me here. I want to go home. I want to go home and wrap my arms tight around them all. I want to make safe.
‘I give thanks,’ I whisper to my family, far far away.
Gently, gently I unwrap Mothga’s hand from my finger.
The low rhythmic hum of spirit song fills the air as Harby and his dad sing quietly to Harby’s mum, taking it in turns. Now and then I can make out some words I know.
‘Ma,’ they sing, and ‘spea’, and ‘Pa’, and ‘Mothga’. Like they’re singing the story of themselves.
A movement amongst the dappled leaves catches my eye; someone else is watching.
HARTBOY
At the edge of the glade the leaves shiver and a hart steps out into the glade. He’s huge and golden in the sunshine. His magnificent antlers are like the branches of a winter tree. I keep very still.
The hart looks at me. He raises his chin, sniffs the air, flicks his ears.
‘I won’t hurt you,’ I whisper. But I don’t think he believes me. He holds my gaze as he stamps his front foot on the ground. At his warning, the forest comes alive with the sound of his herd running away to safety. I glimpse flashes of white tails vanishing into the trees.
The hart watches me until the last of his herd has fled. He blinks, turns tail and leaps away into the shadows.
‘Hart,’ I whisper. I stand in the huge wildness of this place and just for a moment I let it be mine.
Over in the hollow, I hear Harby sing my name, ‘Cholliemurrum.’
‘Hartboy,’ sings Harby’s dad. He reaches out and strokes his son’s hair. His eyes are full of love. The spirit song is over.
‘Hartboy,’ I whisper softly because I know that’s who Harby really is. That’s his real name: Hartboy.
Hartboy turns to me and smiles his small lost smile.
He climbs out of the hollow and we sit together on a branch of the fallen willow tree, swinging our legs. The morning birds sing noisily all around.
‘You Hartboy,’ I say.
He shrugs.
‘I Hartboy.’ Then he smiles at me again, a little twinkle in his eye. ‘I Harby.’
He looks at me searchingly. ‘Who you, Cholliemurrum? Pa says you blue blue spirit. Pa says Ma find you in spirit sleep. Pa says Ma send you here. Ma send you here to make me safe.’
‘I’m not a spirit, Harby,’ I say, but for a second I almost doubt myself.
‘Not spirit!’ Harby calls over to his dad. He sounds slightly pleased with himself, like he’s won an argument. ‘I say to Pa you not spirit,’ he whispers to me. ‘I say to Pa you not know good spirit song. I say to Pa you not throw good spea.’
‘Thanks, Harby!’ I say sarcastically.
Harby shrugs.
‘Why did he think I was a spirit anyway?’
Harby looks at me like I’m very stupid. Then he shakes his head despairingly and taps me on the chest. ‘You not have deertooth, Cholliemurrum!’ he says, like it’s the most obvious answer of them all.
I tap Harby’s chest, laughing. ‘What are you on about, Harby? You don’t have a deertooth necklace either?’
Harby hangs his head. ‘My deertooth gone,’ he murmurs. ‘My deertooth lost.’ He sounds so heartbroken I feel really bad.
‘Sorry, Harby,’ I say softly. ‘What happened?’
He takes a big shaky breath. Then he tells me the story he didn’t want to remember.
‘Pa go to hunting grounds. Ma big belly. Baby come soon.
I wait with Ma. We wait baby.
Ma face white like moon. Ma need eat boar?
I hunt boar! I climb hazel tree. I wait.
I wait. I wait. I wait. Sleep come. Sleep-story come.
I see you, Cholliemurrum!’ He prods me in the side with his hard pokey finger.
‘I see you in my sleep-story.
I speak your name.’
‘I remember,’ I whisper with a little smile.
‘I fraid you, Cholliemurrum.’ Harby has a little sheepish smile on his lips.
I nudge him. ‘I was afraid of you as well! I ran home as fast as I could!’
Harby’s eyes twinkle. ‘I run home fast fast. I need tell …’ His eyes darken, like a cloud passes over his remembering. ‘… I need tell … Ma …’
Harby’s voice wobbles. He does a big swallow then continues.
‘Night. Ma cry. I wake.
Baby come. Baby come fast fast fast.
Mothga.’ He looks across at his baby sister. He sighs and closes his eyes, squeezing them tight shut. I wonder if this is it, if he can’t go on remembering. But then Harby speaks again, eyes closed, quiet as a prayer.
‘Morning come. Ma sick. Ma lie in forest.
I need make safe.
I not know how make safe.
Ma own deertooth not make safe?
I give my deertooth to Ma.
My deertooth strong.
My deertooth only twelve summers old.
“Make safe, Ma,” I speak.
Ma not make breath. No breath. No Ma.
Ma in spirit sleep.
I run.
I run down hill.
I run cross river …
fast fast fast …
I fall …’
Harby opens his eyes so suddenly I jump. We stare at each other for a long moment.
‘… I wake next to river …’ He touches the gash on his head where the blue bandage used to be. ‘… I wake … I see you, Cholliemurrum …’ he whispers.
DEERTOOTH
My mind swims. I f
eel sick and dizzy and lost.
The mysteries, all the things I didn’t understand, all the whys and hows and maybes, they swirl about like letters in a word search and then, suddenly, they start to make a kind of sense of themselves.
‘Harby …’ I say, my voice wobbling.
But what can I say? No wonder Harby didn’t want to remember what happened to him. No wonder he wanted to forget. No wonder he tried to push it all away.
But you can’t just avoid stuff forever, can you? No matter how sad it is.
A beam of sunshine streaks down through the leaves. Two white butterflies spiral each other in its golden light.
Something strikes me – even though Harby’s mum died because Mothga was born he still doesn’t blame his sister for that. That amazes me. I look at the baby: Harby’s squirmy, wriggly, eyes-closed, fast-breath, tiny little sister. ‘Mothga,’ I say quietly. But it’s not her fault, is it – she’s too little for anything to be her fault. She just needs to be looked after. And Harby will look after her. No matter what.
‘Dara,’ I whisper, and I picture my tiny brother, squirmy and wriggly in his fish-tank bed. Things change, I suppose, things just change and change and keep on changing. And, I sigh, it’s nobody’s fault at all.
‘Harby?’ I say, facing him. ‘I need to go home.”
‘Where home, Cholliemurrum?’
‘Home? Home is far … far far …’ I stop, because in another way my home isn’t far at all; it’s right here.
‘Far far far,’ he repeats.
He looks up into the sky. He points up at the pale ghost of moon, still lingering in the blue.
‘Home?’ he asks, and I can hear the joke in his voice.
Harby does his funny puffy laugh. I elbow him in the ribs.
‘Oi, Cholliemurrum!’ he says, rubbing his side. He nudges me back.
‘Oi, yourself!’ I say.
A bird darts out of the trees above us, shrieking; it’s a jay. I see the flash of blue as he dips over the hollow where Harby’s ma lies and then he vanishes once more.
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