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asked.
    But neither man understood each other's language and an awkward silence fell between them.
    ‘Me lukim piccaninny belong me,’ Ben finally said to break the silence. Terituba understood piccaninny. It was a word he had picked up along the trading routes between the widely scattered tribes of Queensland. A word the white men had brought with them and which had been adopted by the tribesmen.
    Ben repeated the question, his hand shading his eyes as if searching for something. He pointed at himself. Terituba understood from the pantomime that the man was looking for his children and felt a natural sympathy for him.
    ‘I have not seen your piccaninny,’ he replied in the Kalkadoon language and, although Ben did not understand the answer, he noticed a sympathetic note in the man's voice. He nodded as if he understood and thrust out his hand to the Kalkadoon warrior chief who eyed the gesture curiously.
    Terituba imitated the movement and Ben took his hand and pumped it twice as he thanked the big Kalkadoon. Terituba could only surmise the gesture was a greeting between men of equal stature. It was a strange feeling to be holding the hand of a white man who had not come to kill him.
    Then the white man whose strange totem was Miben dropped his hand and turned away. The warriors raised their spears and rattled them threateningly at the back of the man walking from them. But Terituba called to his men to let the white man go unharmed and curiously watched as the man strode along the dry creek bed and the women went back to squabbling over the precious supply of sweet sugar and flour.
    Would they meet again, Terituba thought idly as Ben disappeared into the shimmering heat.
    When Ben reached his horse which he'd left tethered to a tree he suddenly began trembling with the effects of delayed fear. He leant against the rough bark of a yarran tree from which came the hard timber the Kalkadoon used to fashion spears and boomerangs. For Ben it was a source of fence posts and firewood.
    He had gambled with his life and won on the premise that a warrior culture would respect courage and goodwill and knew now that he could go in search of his two young boys without fear of ambush.
    By sunset Ben had relocated the tracks of his two sons who had fortunately taken a route bypassing the creek bed and the Kalkadoon camped there. The tracks led back to the hut so Ben wheeled his mount and headed for home.
    As he approached the hut just on sundown the barking of the dogs was a welcome sound. The exuberant noise meant that the boys were home.
    But his joy turned to a cold fear when he saw Willie stumbling towards him like a drunken shearer at the end of a seasonal pay cheque binge. Tears streamed down the young man's face which was contorted with an inconsolable grief.
    With a sharp kick Ben spurred his horse into a gallop towards the young man and Willie screamed his name with the sound of despair that only death could bring.

FOUR
    T he following morning Patrick woke to a beautiful summer's day.
    The clouds had gone from the Irish sky and when he gazed blearily out of the tiny window to his room he saw the true colours of Ireland; a sea of green stretching across heather-like scrub and larch trees standing tall in neatly ordered copses.
    In the distance beyond a sparkling blue lake he saw the most prominent feature of the fields: a tree-covered hill rising as a small but distinctive dome.
    The tap at his door brought him out of his rapt gaze and before he could answer the door creaked open. A rosy cheeked young woman entered, carefully carrying a wide enamel bowl of hot water. She was about sixteen and the twinkle in her eyes bespoke the amusement she felt at finding the handsome young man in his long Johns as he stood by the window. Patrick's twinge of embarrassment only seemed to amuse the young girl further.
    ‘I'd be sorry for disturbing you, Captain Duffy,’ she said, obviously unrepentant for catching the young officer in his