Timpoochee was haunted by the vision of that ghost-like figure he saw on the shore.
He was so distant, thought Timpoochee, but so close, so familiar.
A kingfisher suddenly darted across the bows of Timpoochee’s trading boat and dove starkly into the water just ahead, re-emerging with a tiny fish gored on its beak.
The kingfisher, he thought, spearing fish. The best hunter.
He thought back to the story of how a black snake one day found a yellowhammer bird’s nest in the hollow of a tree and climbed up, ate the young birds and promptly fell asleep in the nest.
The mother bird was horrified when she returned home and sought out for help the Little People. They sent her to the kingfisher who agreed to help.
After flying back and forth a few times across the opening to the yellowhammer’s nest in the hollow of the tree the kingfisher suddenly darted inside and, just as suddenly, backed out with the dead black snake.
The black snake had been killed when kingfisher pierced its head with a slender, sharp tugaluna fish bone he held in his beak.
The Little People were so impressed they decided he would make a superior gigger if only he had the right spear and gave him for all time the long, sharp beak he carries today.
The long, sharp spear, Timpoochee thought, and his memory suddenly came alive like a bright, crisp dawn.