Hunting Wolf, a man who could neither speak nor understand one word of Henderson’s tongue, had been conversing with it. But it had spoken in English. Henderson had understood every filthy, disgusting word. He snapped his eyes open and held his mouth and chin in a hand. Surely no more proof were needed that the whole thing then was a product of his own fevered and sick brain? He was, after all, a man trapped alone in the wilderness with an engineer who loathed him and men who regarded him as eccentric. It was hardly inconceivable that James Henderson was claustrophobic and ill.

He was delighted with his observation, if horrified that his mind could conjure such sick and loathsome vocabulary.

Yes. He would see Hunting Wolf tomorrow and end this lunacy. He must tell him once and for all that his hysterical beliefs in things supernatural were adversely affecting not just the men, and himself, but his friend and supporter, James Henderson. That simple, uneducated man must be made to realize that this was the twentieth century, when such fancies could and should not survive, and did so only in the deluded brains of those who fanned the embers of dangerous fabrication. Psychology. He must introduce Hunting Wolf to the understanding, however primitive, of psychology and hypnosis. The man’s injuries were most likely self-inflicted. It was not unknown among hysterics that they injured themselves to make real their fantasies. He and Hunting Wolf had clearly experienced a form of communal delusion, probably brought about by shock from the explosion. He felt better already. Hysterical hypnosis. That was the explanation, and its effects would end as of now. He clasped his hands again to pray, this time in thanks for the relief his Scottish university education had afforded him in this dark and ungodly place.

‘It hurts, James.’

He couldn’t move. Henderson stayed still as stone staring at the wall, hoping he hadn’t heard the voice behind him.

‘James. Fetch Mother. James. I’m scared. It hurts.’

He was aware that his blood was pounding in his ears and his clasped hands were now clenched so tightly the fingers dug into his own flesh like claws. He turned to see what he prayed he would not. But it was there.

In the corner of his cabin the small figure of a twelve-year-old boy lay slumped like a broken doll, his head split down one side like a melon opened crudely with a machete, blood soaking the cream shirt all the way to the waist in a thick, black, congealing ocean.

‘No,’ was all Henderson could breathe.