Loa gazed out across his land as the first of the sunlight glinted on the rocks. Little Boy and Little Girl sat next to him, chewing hopper bones from yesterday’s hunt. He only had to say ‘down’ now and they’d sit and then roll over, waiting for their treat. Beside them the fire flickered and flared.
The river had shrunk to a clear sweep of water down one end of the swamp; the once-submerged grasslands were again hard and flat and just beginning to brown off. Flocks of birds bobbed among the grass seeds.
The dog was out there, somewhere. Even as he thought it he heard her howl from the top of the ridge.
‘Hrrrrrl! Hrrrllll!’
The sound echoed across the rocks and another call came from the far-off hill towards the sea.
‘Hrrrl! Hrrrl!’
Little Boy and Little Girl stopped chewing to listen, but they didn’t answer back.
So Big Boy and Big Girl were safe. He’d worried when they hadn’t come back one day with the other dogs. He grinned. Three dogs were enough for any hunter.
‘Hrrrl!’ That was the dog’s call again. Loa leaned back against the rock. He and the dogs would hunt again this morning, before the hoppers went to the shade of their midday resting places. Little Boy and Little Girl were getting even better at herding the game his way. Sometimes the three dogs even brought the game down themselves. But these days the dog knew to let him take the skin, the bladder and whatever else he wanted before they dragged away the rest. He smiled. Little Boy and Little Girl obeyed him every time he gave an order. Their mother obeyed only when she wanted to.
He had more spears now, with good bone points. He still used his obsidian knife as a spearhead for hunting hoppers and large birds, but the bone-headed spears were good enough to fish with.
Maybe we won’t hunt hoppers today, he thought, idly rubbing Little Girl’s ears. He never tried to rub the dog’s ears — she might nip his hand. He could fish from the river bank — his fish hooks were useful now, strong enough to catch the biggest fish. This was the season for turtle and crocodile eggs. The dogs sniffed out the nests easily, crunching the soft bones of the baby crocs and turtles in the eggs. There were a couple of crocs near now, a big one and a small one towards the sea. He watched for their tracks every day, making sure he knew exactly where they were. The dogs seemed to be able to sniff out crocs as well as their nests too. They were so big now that no other animal could catch them.
Suddenly he sat straighter, staring at the horizon. Smoke!
Another wildfire? But this grass was still too green to burn easily. He hadn’t heard thunder either. This smoke hung like a necklace in the sky: it was a campfire.
People.
For a moment all he felt was joy. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel lonely this past season, but now it came swelling back like a storm tide.
Men to hunt with. Women’s laughter, songs and stories around the fire. He had dreamed of finding people for so long. Reality struck him like a wave in the face. These people would be strangers — as strange, perhaps, as this new land he was just coming to know. He’d had no idea back when he’d landed just how different this country and its animals were from all he’d known. Worse — to the people here he would be a stranger too. And, he remembered, his dogs might be strangest of all. There were no other packs here.
A stranger might be an enemy. The unknown was always frightening.
Back home clans spoke different languages. The further away they were the more their language was different. He could learn a new language — but not in time to say, ‘I want to be a friend. I am a stranger in a new land. I will take to your ways. Just let me live.’
What if these people were head-hunters? The grandfathers told stories of clans who killed strangers and hung their skulls on trees around their camps.
He swallowed. What if the people who lived here were really different, just like the hoppers weren’t like any animal he’d ever seen? Maybe they had tails, or swung from trees. Maybe this really was the land of ghosts …
Stop it, he told himself. You’re a man, not a boy to be frightened by stories around a campfire. But a wise man, a hunter, should be cautious.
He held himself straighter. He was a hunter. He could move silently, a shadow among the trees, so no one could see him. The dogs moved silently too. Rubbish dogs were good at silence, at slinking around the edges of a camp. The dogs would scent out people long before they might see him.
He’d find these people and watch them, silently, secretly; he’d make sure of them before they even knew he was there.
He had learned to live with this new land. Now it was time to learn its people too.