Chapter 6

A few hundred yards from the wurley, he glanced back, and saw that their fire no longer sent its red gleam into the dusk. His heart leapt with joy, for it seemed as if the jays' story must be true; and if so, the Fire-Women's hearth was cold, and already the only Fire in the world was what he carried. The greatness of the thought caught his breath—surely such an honour should be for the bravest warrior of the tribe, and not for a half-crippled, undersized weakling like him. And behind him came a sudden trampling of running feet, and a cry of such terrible anger that the very waterfowl in the swamps hid themselves in fear. The Fire-Women were on his track.

Wurip ran forward, leaping from tussock to tussock sometimes slipping into bog-holes, and scratching his bare limbs on great clumps of sword-grass. In his withered hand he clutched the fire-stick; the other held his waddy, and sometimes he was glad to use it to help himself over rough places. Luckily, he knew the ground well—there was no part of it that he had not studied on his days out hunting, knowing that at any time he might have to make his dash for home. He hid the glow of the fire-stick as much as he could, holding it so close to him that his skin was scorched by it; but his precautions could not conceal it altogether, and to the Fire-Women behind him it was like a red star, twinkling low down upon earth.

They came after Wurip swiftly. At first they had uttered savage cries of wrath, and fierce threats of what they would do to Wurip when they caught him; but soon it seemed that they knew that shouts and threats were useless, and after that they hunted him silently, only the quick pad of their feet being heard in the darkness. They were terribly quick feet. Wurip had not dreamed that women could run so fast. Sometimes, as the moon rose, he could see them in pursuit, grim and revengeful, looking like giants in the darkness. His soul was full of terror at the thought of what they would do if they caught him, for he knew that he would be but a little child in their hands.

They crossed the swamps and morasses, and the reed-fringed creeks—and here Wurip lost ground, for he had to go very carefully, lest he should slip and so drown the precious fire-stick that he held close to him. Only a blackfellow could have kept it alight so long; but Wurip knew just how to hold it so that the air fanned it enough to keep the dull coals glowing, without letting it burn too quickly away. He heard the Fire-Women splash through the creeks, not far behind him. Then they came into the scrub-country, all running at their wildest speed, for this was the last part of the journey back to the tribe.

Then Wurip knew that he must be beaten. He was nearly done—his breath came unevenly, and his limbs were like lead, and would no longer do his bidding. Fierce and untired, close behind him, came the Fire-Women. A little ahead, he knew of a bed of green bracken fern in a gully, and he set his teeth in the resolve to get thus far.

They were quite near him when the dark line of the gully showed, somewhat to his left. He threw all his remaining strength into a last spurt of energy, and then, turning from the straight line towards the camp of the tribe, he crept through the scrub to the gully, holding both hands over the fire so that it might not guide the Fire-Women to his place of refuge, and heedless of the cruel burning. He reached the gully safely, and flung himself face downwards among the rank ferns and nettles, panting as if his heart would burst from his body. He heard the Women run past, tirelessly swift; there came to him their angry voices, calling softly, lest they should miss each other in the dim scrub. They had not seen him swerve—that was clear; and Wurip hugged himself with joy to think that for the moment he was safe.

When they had passed, and the sound of their feet had died away, he crept from his gully and fled in a northerly direction. He ran all through the dark hours, with long trotting strides, as a dingo runs, and circling round so that he might miss the Fire-Women and come upon the camp from the other side. Sometimes he paused to rest, listening for the sound of the other hastening feet—but they did not come, and at last he believed that he had escaped pursuit.

He was very tired—so tired that at last he lost something of the blackfellow's keenness that guides him through even unknown country in the dark. Something seemed to have broken in his chest, from the time of his last mad spurt from the Fire-Women, and now each breath stabbed him. Perhaps it was because he was so tired that at last he became confused altogether, and swerved from the track he had mapped out for himself to get back to the camp; and when dawn broke he was back in the direction where he might expect to meet pursuit. Even as this dawned upon him, he looked up and saw the Fire-Women running silently towards him, their fierce eyes gleaming.

Wurip knew it was the end. He fled, knowing as he went that he could not run far. Behind him came the Women, tireless as though they had not spent the night in fruitless chase. He clutched the fire-stick to him, scarcely knowing that it burned his hands and his naked chest.

Rounding a clump of saplings, a sob burst from his labouring chest. Before him he saw the familiar camp, the wurleys clustered together; it seemed to smile at him in home-like fashion. So near home, to fail! He spurred himself to the last effort.

Then from the camp burst a knot of fighting-men, racing towards him. He caught the glint of the rising sun on their spears and throwing-sticks; and he waved to them, for he could not shout. They came on with great strides: there was music in the sound of their trampling feet. When they came to him, they divided, running past him, and Wurip staggered through the lane they formed. He heard fierce cries and blows behind him, but he did not stop.

Before him the camp lay, and never had it smiled to him a welcome so sweet. There were people running out to meet him; men, women, and little children: he could hear their voices, amazed and rejoicing—"Wurip! It is Wurip, bringing us Fire!" He tried to smile at them, but his lips would not move. So he staggered in to the circle of the huts, and there fell upon his face, still grasping the red fire-stick in his blistered hand. It was all red now, for it had burned down to the last few inches.

Then, as they clustered round him, lifting him with gentle hands and blessing his name, he smiled at them a little, and died peacefully, happy that he had brought back Fire to his own people.

But to the people he did not die. Ever after they honoured his name, calling him the benefactor of the tribe: so that in death he found that honour that forgot he had ever been little and weak, and a cripple. And when you see the little Fire-tailed Finch that hops about so fearlessly, with the bright red feathers making a patch of flame on its sober plumage, you are looking at Wurip, the Fire-bringer, who gave his life to vanquish the wicked Fire-Women and to lay Fire once more upon the hearth-stones of his tribe.

Printed in Great Britain byButler & Tanner,Frome and London

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MARY GRANT BRUCE'S