miraga ran swiftly into the heart of the forest, glancing back in terror, lest at any moment she should see yurong. she heard him shout, and the crash of his feet in pursuit as he plunged out of the wurley; and for a moment she gave herself up for lost. he was so swift and so strong: she knew that she could never escape him, once he was on her track.
another cry reached her presently, not so close. it gave her her first throb of hope that yurong had taken the wrong turning among the trees. still she was far too terrified to slacken speed. she fled on, not knowing where she was going.
a great mountain peak loomed before her, and she fled up it. it was hard climbing, but it seemed to her safer than the dark forest, where at any moment yurong's black face might appear. here, at least, she might be safe; at least, he would not think of looking for her in this wild and rugged place. perhaps, if she hid on the mountain for a few days he would grow tired of looking for her, and go away, back to his own people; and then she could try to find her way home. at the very thought of home, poor miraga sobbed as she ran: it seemed so long since the happy days in the camp by the sea.
the way was strange. she climbed up, among great boulders and jagged crags of rock. above her the peaks seemed to pierce the sky. deep ravines were here and there, and she started away from their edges: somewhere, water fell swiftly, racing down some narrow bed among the rocks. so she went on, and the moonlight grew stronger and stronger, until it flooded all the mountain. she fought her way, step by step, up the last great peak. and, suddenly, in the midnight, she came out upon a great and shining tableland: then she knew that in her journeyings she had found the moon!
"then she knew that in her journeyings she had found the moon!"
"then she knew that in her journeyings she had found the moon!"
she wandered on, in doubt and fear—fear, not of this strange new land, but of the men she dreaded to find there. but for a long time she saw no people. only in the dim hours, when the earth-world glowed like a star, but all the moon-country was dark, there came about her the little people that she knew and loved—padi-padi, and punta, talka and kanungo. and because she was very lonely, and a lonely woman loves the touch of something small and soft, she took some of them up and carried them with her in her dilly-bag.
"how did you know i was lost?" she asked them.
"how did we know?" they said, laughing at her. "why, all the forest sang of it! the magpie chattered it in the dewy mornings, and moko-moko, the bell-bird, told all about it to the creeks in the gullies. moko-moko would not leave his quiet places to tell the other animals, but he knew the creeks would carry the story. soon there was no animal in all the bush that did not know where you had gone. only we could not tell your own stupid people, for they would not understand."
"and are they looking for me?" miraga asked.
"they seek for you night and day. your father has led a party of fighting-men to the east, and konawarr has gone north with all his friends. they never rest—all the time they seek you. and the women are wailing in the camp, and the little children crying, because you are gone."
that made miraga cry, too.
"can you not take me back?" she begged. "i can go if you will show me the way."
but the little people shook their heads.
"no, we cannot do that," they said. "we can help you, and we can talk to you, but we may not take you back. you must find the way yourself."
so miraga wandered on through the moon-country. it was very desolate and bare, strewn with rocks and craggy boulders, and to walk long upon it was hard for naked feet. there were no rivers, and no creeks, but a range of mountains rose in one place, and were so grim and terrible that miraga would not try to climb them. she found stunted trees, bearing berries, which she ate, for she was very hungry.
"perhaps they are poisonous, and will kill me," she said. "i do not think that greatly matters, for i begin to feel that i shall never get home."
but the berries were not poisonous. indeed, miraga felt better when she had eaten them. her strength came back to her, and her limbs grew less weary. she put some of the berries into her dilly-bag for the little people. then she set off on her wanderings again.
she did not know how long she had been in the moon-country, after a while. it seemed that she had never done anything but find her way across its rugged plains, seeking ever for the track back to the green earth-world. so silent and strange was it that she began to think there was no living being upon it but herself and the little people she carried with her.
one day, wandering along a rocky edge, she quite suddenly came upon the camp of the man-who-dwells-in-the-moon. she cried out in fear, and fled. but he was awake, and when he saw this beautiful girl, he rose and gave chase.
but miraga was fleet of foot; and the man-who-dwells-in-the-moon was a fat man, and heavy: for, as the blacks know, he never goes hunting, as men do, but always sits down in the shadow of his mountains. presently, he saw that the girl was escaping; she drew farther and farther ahead, running like a dingo, and already he was puffing and panting. so he stamped his foot and called to his dogs, and they came out of the holes of the hills—great savage brutes, lean and hungry-looking, of a dark colour. they came, running and growling, and sniffing angrily at the air. their master waved his hand, and they uttered a long howl and followed swiftly after miraga.
now, indeed, she thought that her end had come. mists swam before her eyes, and her feet stumbled: she, whose limbs were so lithe and strong, tottered like a weary old woman. behind her, the long howls of the dogs woke terror in her heart. they drew nearer; almost she could feel their hot panting breath. but just as she was about to sink down, exhausted, the little people in the dilly-bag chattered and called to her. "mistress! oh, mistress!" they cried. "let us out, that we may save you!"
she heard them, and fumbled with shaking fingers at the fastening of the bag. it slipped from her shoulders, and fell to the ground; and as it fell, the animals burst out and fled in many directions, some here and some there, squeaking and chattering. and when the fierce dogs of the moon saw them, they forgot to pursue miraga, but turned and coursed swiftly after the animals.
behind them the man-who-dwells-in-the-moon shouted vainly to them. there are no animals in the moon-country, and so the dogs have no chance of hunting; but the sight of the scampering little people woke their instincts, and they dashed after them wildly. they caught some, and swiftly slew them; others dodged, and leaped, and twisted, escaping into little rockholes, where the dogs could not follow them. the noise of the hunting and the deep baying of the dogs echoed round the moon and made thunder boom among the stars.
but miraga ran on, stumbling for weariness. she knew that the dogs were no longer close upon her, but she dreaded to hear them again at any moment, for she did not see how such feeble little people could keep them off for long. so she ran, and as she went, her tears fell for the little friends who had given their lives for her. at last, too tired to see where her stumbling feet had led her, she came to the brink of a great precipice, and fell down and down, until her senses left her.
but when she opened her eyes again, it was to meet those of konawarr; and he was holding her in his arms and calling her name over and over, with his voice full of pity and love; and behind him were his friends—all the band who had been seeking her with him. they were all smiling to her, with welcome and joy on each friendly face. for in her fall she had come back to the dear earth-world once more, and her sorrows were at an end.
so, when the tribes look up to the sky on moonlit nights and see the great shape that looms across the brightness, they say it is the mighty man-who-dwells-in-the-moon; who, like themselves, is black, but grown heavy and slothful with much idleness and sitting-down. the parents scare idle children with his name, saying that if they do not bestir themselves they, too, will become fat and useless like him. but miraga used to tell her children another story, and when she told it her eyes would brim with tears. it was the story of the little people she loved, who followed her to the moon-country, and there gave up their lives for her, saving her first from yurong, and then from the teeth of the dogs of the moon. and the children would shiver a little, clustering more closely—all save little konawarr, who would grasp his tiny boomerang and declare that he would kill anything that dared to hurt his mother.
the great dogs still crouch around the man-who-dwells-in-the-moon, waiting to do his bidding. you can see them, if you look closely—dark spots, near the huge figure in the midst of the brightness. they are the fierce dogs that guard the lonely country in the sky: the dogs that long ago hunted, howling, after miraga the beautiful, across the shining spaces of the moon.
