CHAPTER 8

The crow has observed the man in the bush for two whole days now. It arrived as he slept in the shade of a stately bloodwood, then it took a perch and hunched like an old sage above his head. As the man awoke, the bird let out a throaty hackle, followed by an ah-ah-ah that bled so easily across the plains.

The man foraged, then ate, and the crow had bent to watch him with its stark, white eye. Then, as he set off through the trees, it had drifted with tattered wings from branch to branch behind him.

There have been no signs yet of those who must pursue the man. But he has kept to the densest parts of pindan country, dodging the stretches of bare, blackened land cracked open by the wildfires. He seems to favor most the pockets of crippled woodland, where conkerberries and dry gums reach weak limbs toward the sky.

The landscape is thirsty, and scrolls of bark crunch loudly under the man’s feet. When the rains come, these pans will flood and erupt with swarms of rowdy insects. But, for now, he must be grateful for what shade they do afford.

When the trees spit him out, the crow settles back onto a branch. The man raises an arm to shield his eyes. As he blinks, something shimmers on the far horizon, warped by heat. The crow sees it too, cocks its head. Plumes of dust stream skyward, kicked up by horses whipped to a gallop. Calm, the man turns and makes his way through the scrubland. They are coming for him now. The man must move as quickly as he can.