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Back The Trickster Save as PDF
Chapters (74)
  1. The Trickster
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Preface to the 20th anniversary edition
  6. Introduction
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. Keep Reading
  70. FURNACE
  71. Acknowledgements
  72. About the Author
  73. ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
  74. About the Publisher

She flicked another look at Daniel and slowly stepped down from the car, her coat pushed aside to reveal two long, willowy limbs in black stretch leggings that disappeared into her snow boots. Craig felt that stirring again. He fought it and this time he won. He won easily, because there was something else about her now that she was so near.

A tiny creaking slit opened in a door Craig McGee kept locked in his mind and he struggled to shut it again. It was a door that could sometimes show him stuff he didn’t want to see, and he didn’t want to see anything now, out here in the dark lot. He didn’t want to see what he thought he’d glimpsed behind those eyes.

Marlene Sitconski had a laugh like ice cubes tinkling, and she used it as she walked away from the car towards the street.

Craig watched her go while a finger of inexplicable fear traced a cold path down his spine and turned back to Daniel. ‘The A-Team have arrived from Edmonton.’

He scooped his folder up from the floor of the car and went back inside, leaving Daniel in the dark wondering why he wished Craig had waited for him.

22

Alberta 1907 Siding Twenty-three

‘What does it want of us?’

Powderhand threw the questioner a look, and inclined his head towards the woman pressing herbs to the bloody cheek of Hunting Wolf. She caught the look and made a snort. Powderhand might treat his wives as children who must be protected from truth and starved of knowledge, but Singing Tree was not accustomed to such nonsense. Her husband, a chief, a shaman, was also her friend and life companion, and she, above his two younger wives, was always privy to his business. Two Young Bears looked anxiously to his chief to see if Powderhand’s recrimination would be supported by the elder to whom he had addressed the remark.

Hunting Wolf smiled with his eyes. ‘Not of us. Of me.’

His wife withdrew the crushed herbs from his cheek and surveyed her progress. Three dark, deep gashes cut a pattern diagonally across the man’s face like a macabre imitation of war paint, the lesions now clogged with tiny fragments of leaf and root. Although Hunting Wolf’s face had clearly been clawed, it was as though each cut had been performed with the sharpest of knives.

He looked up at Singing Tree with affection. ‘It pains me no longer.’

‘Then I will prepare more of the same. Before the pain returns.’ She looked over at Powderhand. ‘As you talk.’

The young warrior grimaced and threw his braids behind him with a toss of the head. Singing Tree lifted the wooden bowl of herbs and carried it to the edge of the tipi to mix another poultice. Her husband watched her tiny figure bend to its task and his eyes softened with love.