The wooden man said: “I am the greatest of those outside, the unquestioned master of the wonder-workers of ancient times. I am the chosen of Sadogowah, the instrument of Nashuna. I have scores to settle from times deeper than you can imagine, white man. I have a score with the Dutchmen, for the diseases they brought to Manhattan. I have a score with the pilgrims, for the ways they taught the Wampanoags and the Nansets. I have a score with the settlers and the farmers and the railroad men, for the Cheyenne who died, and the Sioux who died, and the Apaches and Paiute. We were at one with the lands, white man, and all the forces and the influences of the lands, and all the gods and the spirits for whom trees grow and stones are thrust up from the earth. We were the greatest of the nations of the earth, and you slew us with rifles and diseases and empty promises. We shall have our revenge, white man, in the way that is prophesied on the great stone redwood, and you shall all taste blood.”

Neil slid his hand in his pocket and felt for the box of matches. He could almost hear old Billy Ritchie now. “A man of rock or wood is just as vulnerable as rock or wood.”

The figure said, “The white man, Fenner, helped my Wappo brothers in years gone by. He helped them because he understood their struggle, and because he had Wappo blood in his own veins. That is why your son is chosen, white man. That is why we were led at last to bring down the spirits of the great Nashuna and Ossadagowah in this place, at this time.”

Neil managed to fumble a match from the box. He scratched it against the side and he smelled burnt phosphorus, but it didn’t catch. He was sweating, in spite of the bitter cold, and his teeth were clenched in tension. As it spoke, the wooden figure came closer and closer, until it was standing only two or three feet away, its dark wooden head towering over him.

“I have a personal score to settle, too,” the wooden man said, in that uncanny voice that was far away, and yet so close that Neil seemed to be hearing it inside his head.

“A personal score?” asked Neil. He scratched again at the side of the matchbox.

“I have visited your time before, in the body of a young woman. I was reborn to wreak vengeance on those who had laid waste to the islands you now call New York. I was born as a human, in my own flesh, but I was destroyed in that form by a white charlatan and a treacherous red man from the plains. That is the personal score I have to settle. I will find the white man called Erskine, and the red man called Singing Rock, and I will destroy them both.”