Grandad snorted with laughter. The Temple collapsed in on itself. The man in black just had time to yell, “Gutless wonder!”, and there we were, back in our rock alcove and Mad Boy was lying next to the water hole, still and stiff as a board. “Grandad?”, I whispered. “He’s dying.” “Maybe,” the old man said. “Maybe not. We’ll watch him. Let him sleep.” “Can I at least go down and make him a fire, while he sleeps?” “Later,” says Grandad. “Later. It’s not time yet. Come, that view reminded me of a place I need to show you. Let’s go.” And he stood up and walked, so I followed. Mad Boy was not moving. When we got back at dusk, he still hadn’t moved. I looked at Grandad pleadingly, but he just shook his head. “You’ll know when.” “He’ll freeze!” “It’s warm enough. You watch.” So, I did. He didn’t sit up, but his lips started to move. I could hear his breath rasp. He started to sing again. It was hard to listen to. His voice was almost gone. His breathing was ragged. The words were distinct, but sad. Deeply sad. Desperate. Then, just before he fell asleep again, it changed. The song changed. A song of trust. He was singing himself back into life. Giving thanks. Grandad was singing too. I didn’t know this one. His words were mingling with Mad Boy’s, and I swear they were harmonising, but that couldn’t have been. I slept. When I woke, Mad Boy was sitting by his fire. Grandad tapped me on the shoulder and led me away to food and sweet tea. In my dreams, I’d been walking the land with Mad Boy, telling him the stories Grandad had told me. He’d been telling me new stories, old stories, stories even Grandad didn’t know. He’d been well and happy, and he laughed easily. 31
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