It was a beautiful spot, hidden deep below the ancient sandstones and conglomerates of the Arnhemland escarpment. Here dark-leaved trees towered over pure white sands that had never known the imprint of shod feet unlike nearby Kakadu National Park with its thousands of visitors. From a multitude of countries they crowded the famous rockart sites and waited in cacophonous snake queues to board boats that would take them through wetlands, country that for thousands of years had known little noise but the cries of waterfowl and the thunder of storms in the wet season.

But in the secret spot all was silent. And it was here that Mary met the woman from the past.

She had sat on a bank near a pool for almost the whole morning, lulled by tinkling waters flowing in silver braids between the grey boulders. Nervously at first she dipped her toes in the water. But then gentle nibbles started her giggling and she looked down to find rainbowfish, red, blue and yellow iridescences schooling around her feet, their filmy tails waving in the gentle current. Delighted she watched a turtle poke its long neck up to glance at her quizzically, and she pulled a face in return. And rapturous was the best way to describe the overwhelming emotion she felt when a tiny azure kingfisher with a rust-coloured breast perched on a twig just above her head. How different from corporate life!

She had left that and Washington behind a week ago, when plane, and then helicopter travel brought her here to this haven where for the first time in her adult life she didn't need defenses erected against strangers, or 'dog eat dog' colleagues who watched her every step should she falter.

It would have been perfect, except for him; that guide everyone said she 'had to have'.

Mary had to admit she thought him attractive, at first. But within the hour he had sunk in her estimation. Mundane, condescending, self-opiniated and ignorant, she wrote the words in her diary. How on earth could he possibly keep her 'safe' when he knew so little about the country?

Furthermore he went on and on about Aboriginal people, calling them primitive and describing their customs with self-righteous relish. Mary didn't know anything about the 'blacks' as he referred to them, didn't want to know and, in the end told him so. He gave up trying to woo her with words then, and walked off to find firewood.

But that was hours ago and he still hadn't returned and Mary was dying for a cup of coffee. Rising she stretched, and brushing sand and twigs from her legs, whe turned towards the nearby camp. And then she stopped dead in her tracks.

A young woman stood there beside the campfire, but blending so well with the dappled shade that bits of her seemed incomplete.

Mary could not believe her eyes. She had come, at great expense, to the wilderness, a refugee from the metropolis, seeking to be alone and, first she had to have a guide, and now this intruder. Worse, this woman was probably his tart. He had done nothing but ridicule Aboriginal people and yet he had a black bit on the side. Bitter disappointment swamped Mary and she glowered at the girl who now sat in the sand before her with eyes downcast.

Shoving past with an audible sigh of resentment Mary searched through the provisions only to find there was no coffee or milk. She took the boiling kettle off the fire and with steaming mug in hand plumped herself heavily onto a blue and white-striped canvas chair, thinking grim thoughts about the guide. Well, they were probably both being used, she thought.

The little flow of sisterhood caught her off-guard and before she knew it, Mary had given the girl her mug. As the other half-raised her head in acknowledgement Mary caught a glimpse of a fine, high-boned face and dark eyes tinged, so Mary thought, with sadness. "But how?" Mary found herself briefly wondering, "How could anyone be sad in this beautiful place?"

Above, the afternoon sun streamed down in rays through the faint blue haze that arose from the gum trees carpeting the escarpment. Smells of the bush made more potent by the sun's heady warmth intertwined with steam and woodsmoke and were wafted on a whisper of a cool southeast breeze that shivered the leaves and ruffled Mary's hair. She settled herself deeply into the chair lullabied by far-away birdsong and the soft crooning of the woman sitting in the sand.

She didn't know what woke her. With eyes still sleep-heavy she gazed around her forgetting for a moment where she was. And then she saw the woman. She was doing something that Mary couldn't quite see, fiddling with the wrapping of white bark,.Mary assumed it was, around her waist.

From within the soft material the young woman took out some small items - knucklebones. Perhaps, Mary grimaced, it was some sort of game. But then the young woman took out more bones, long bones, curved bones, a little skull; the skeleton of a young child, a toddler.

Laying them carefully in the sand the girl tenderly brushed them clean of clinging bark and taking her time arranged them, anatomically in perfect order, shifting one long bone a little to the side and adjusting the pelvis and then the skull until she was satisfied that it was just right. Then her fingers lovingly stroked the tiny head as mothers have stroked their babies since time began.

Mary almost jumped up and down in her excitement. What a tale to take home! This would have her colleagues green with envy - talk about one-upmanship in holidays. Who else...

It was then that other emotions thundered into her braiin, clouded her vision and deafened her to the sounds of the birds and windsong. Closing her eyes Mary sat dumb-founded as a long-forgotten memory swam into view. It had been years ago that she saw the photograph of the infant, an Innuit baby dead for hundreds of years so the magazine article had said, but so perfectly preserved that long, dark eyelashes still lay against its cheeks. Tears had come into Mary's eyes when she'd seen that photograph, but such feelings couldn't have, mustn't have a part in her life. So she had summoned strength enough to dry her eyes and to expunge the photograph from her consciousness. And now she was looking at another dead baby.

Mary felt a lump in her throat and tried to fight it, desperately searching the corners of her mind for a smart comment. But even a life time of the city, fending off drunks and expecting every friendly stranger, man or woman, to be some sort of pervert, had not prepared her for this, and she couldn't think of a word to say. Raising her eyes to the younger woman's face Mary saw tears tracing down the dark cheeks and without thinking she reached out a hand to the mother who had carried the bones of her baby for so long, and wept with her.

Suddenly the male faces of the boardroom swam before Mary's eyes. They were featureless but mocking in the presence, and she suddenly found herself embarrassed beyond belief at her tears. Pulling her hand away she averted her face, "I think we need another cup of tea", she said and the girl began to pack the bones away, brushing the sand away carefully and rolling them gently in the soft paper bark.

Mary poured the fresh tea into the two mugs and turned back, arm outstretched.

But no one was there. Only the imprint of a tiny skeleton remained in
the cool sand to show that another woman and her child had passed that way.