We woke suddenly, all together, having been convinced we would never get to sleep. There was something resembling dawn, clouds of tiny flies and gnats were biting us, we were covered in dead leaves, and sluggish mist oozed out of the birch thicket. We still couldn’t manage to keep a proper fire going, only a column of thick smoke; so when Stack brought back a couple of coot we had to eat them almost raw. They were horrible, but better than going hungry – or so Stack said. I did find some mint at the water’s edge that was still green enough to chew, though, and that helped a lot. And the smoke did keep away the gnats. Nothing kept the flies away.

In the end we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks; melting to death was preferable to being bitten to death. Just.

“Left or right?” Stack muttered.

“Right,” said Hawk.

It wasn’t far, and the path was surprisingly dry right up to the end of the pool. There, a tumble of boulders and stones blocked off all but a trickling overflow that tumbled straight into another pool, even narrower, that wound round a low bluff and out of sight.

“Now this needs care,” said Hawk, striking his chieftain pose. “We must hold hands and watch where we put our feet. The rocks are very unstable for some reason.”

He looked at me, so I answered.

“Because it’s artificial. The Pools Tribe dammed the river with stakes and rocks, because pools have more fish in. That is why they were called the Pools Tribe. There is a series of pools all the way down to Flat Valley.”

“Can we fish them?” Stack licked his lips.

“We haven’t time,” I declared. “And anyway it’s not safe to hang around too long.”

Stack went back to looking sulky.

“But we should do more than hold hands,” I went on. “We should tie our hands together. It’s safer.”

“You’ve been across before?” Stack glanced from me to Hawk and back.

“A long time ago,” I said.

“I’ve been across twice,” Hawk added, “but they were a long time ago, too. It’s said…” his voice tailed off.

“What’s said?” demanded Stack.

“It’s said that the ghosts of the Pools Tribe take shapes like birds, birds with flint beaks that can peck through your skull.”

He looked to me for confirmation, but I wasn’t having any truck with such Singer’s tales. “We aren’t hanging around the pools, though, this time,” I replied. “We’re going straight across and up into the trees again.”

It wasn’t too bad. We all slipped at least once – Stack twice, which was a bit tricky since he was in front – but the others always held. The other bank was much steeper, but therefore much drier, and we were soon climbing up among nice trees again. Instantly warmer, and instantly more comfortable. Funnily enough, I hated the openness of the crossing: I felt everyone was staring at me from miles away. And from the way the others pulled their cloaks round them, I’m sure they felt the same. Nasty.

But now at last we were away from the flies, and could stop braising in our cloaks. As I rolled mine up to pack, sweat was still dripping from it onto the dried leaves around me.

We pushed up along something like a path – and very welcome; the thickets of birch and bramble under the willows would have been very hard and prickly going. It took us northeast, over a low shoulder, and into a clearing – not a glade, a deliberate clearing. And in the exact centre, between three ash stumps, a stake was set, with a human skull impaled on it.

My boneheaded companions ran forward – presumably they wanted a closer look; I jumped back into the trees, and crouched behind some bushes. I was, of course, correct: eight or so braves appeared round the edge of the clearing, spears pointing inwards. Stack and Hawk stood back to back, spears ready, as the circle closed on them. They would be lucky even to scratch an opponent before they died.

I, meanwhile, had shoved several bone whistles into my mouth, stuck a couple of rattles into my waiststrap and daubed fresh mud on my face and body. Then I leapt forward into the circle, one full cartwheel, one back somersault and one forward somersault, both standing, all the while blasting on the whistles. This brought me almost face to face with one brave; I shook my rattles in his face and girned at him; he fell back. Leaping, crouching and bobbing, I danced sideways round the circle girning, whistling and rattling in each face, and each one fell back in turn. Still crouching, I made for the post; there I straightened slowly up, arched my back almost till my pigtail was trailing on the ground, rendered one last titanic whistle and rattle blast, and fell forward, crouching and silent.

I slipped the whistles out of my mouth, then straightened up. I put a hand on Hawk’s shoulder.

“Your turn, chief,” I whispered.

He strode forwards, spear held upright.

“Who leads here?” he demanded.

One of the strangers stepped forward. “I, Beech-leaves-falling son of Full-fishing-net, am leader of this band. Who are you that steps on the lands of the Mistwater Tribe?” His voice had an odd accent, but his spearpoint at Stack’s gut made it easy to follow.

Hawk turned a little to face him. “I am Hawk-on-high-bough son of Rope-tight-woven, chief of the Longwood Tribe. I lead this band, Beech-leaves-falling son of Full-fishing-net of the Mistwater Tribe. Here at my shoulder are Stack-of-strong-timber son of Lifts-rock, and our shaman, Seer-of-hidden-things.”

Beech-leaves-falling’s eyebrows rose a little. “We rarely have the honour of a visit from your Tribe, Hawk-on-high-bough son of Rope-tight-woven of the Longwood Tribe, even though we share a border. The Pools Tribe have cut between us too often.” The Pools Tribe? So they weren’t destroyed after all! And the Mistwaters now claim the pools and the stream. Interesting. I wondered if the Valleys agreed. “I ask you to accompany us to our camp, that you may meet our chief, Strong-deer-hide son of High-beech-tree, chief of the Mistwater Tribe.”

We had no choice: it was better than being killed. Probably.