Kodjeote stared down at the flames. Tomorrow would be the tenth day, when the fire would be extinguished and the old man’s spirit would begin its journey westwards along the spirit world path and on into the afterlife. There would be another feast, during which the deceased’s possessions would be distributed among his friends and relatives.

“I will leave you now,” Cageaga said, breaking into Kodjeote’s thoughts. “Keep your eyes about you – I heard noises earlier; a bear, perhaps. Most will have retired to their dens, but if any are around and they smell food …” Cageaga left the sentence hanging.

Kodjeote surveyed the dark outline of the trees with trepidation. Any bear in the vicinity would be unable to resist the odours arising from the decomposing corpse and from the food offerings hanging alongside it.

“I will be vigilant,” he said firmly.

Satisfied, his uncle turned away. Kodjeote watched him go. Cageaga was tall and lithe and walked with a warrior’s bearing, even though he was edging towards his fiftieth year. He was a man of few words, but when he chose to speak, people listened. The younger members of the tribe held him in awe, for he had taken many scalps. Anyone foolish enough to doubt his prowess had only to count the number of tattoos stitched across his thighs, each one a testament to an enemy slain in combat.

The fire was popping and spitting as bubbles of resin trapped in the bark exploded with the heat. As he gazed down at the flames, glad of their warmth and protection after the cold of the long-house, it occurred to Kodjeote that his uncle may have been toying with him when he mentioned the bear. Cageaga’s sombre demeanour hid an unexpected and very dry sense of humour.

Kodjeote sat down by the fire. He was drawing the blanket around his shoulders when a long drawn-out howl sounded from deep within the woods. The hairs along Kodjeote’s arms prickled as the call was answered by the rest of the pack. Sound travelled further at night and Kodjeote knew the wolves were some way off, most likely well beyond the northern ridge and over in the next valley, but nevertheless he moved himself closer to the flames.

He looked up at the platform, at the dark shape resting upon it. The old man used to tell stories of skin walkers – warriors who would take on animal form to wreak havoc. Disguised as wolves, hawks or eagles, they could cover vast distances at speed. Kodjeote wasn’t sure he believed the stories, but he knew there were many who did. Especially older members of the tribe, like Cageaga. The old man must have believed the stories, too. Why else would he have chosen this particular means of burial?