So the roots were chopped and ground, the mound of earth that would be his altar was built, and the feather would be his centrepiece on that altar. Not as powerful on its own, but he had little choice.

His stones chosen, he laid aside and blessed five of them, four for each of the cardinal directions, and one for the sky.

All the rocks were then placed on the piles of logs, east of the altar, then surrounded by more timber and kindling. Calvin took a knot of lichen to the small fire a distance away from the lodge site, lit it and returned to the pyre around the stones. He placed the burning lichen beneath the twigs with a prayer, and watched until the wood had fully ignited.

The desire to hurry was still beating in his guts, but this was too important to defile by an imprecise gesture or a hasty shortcut. He knew in his heart, that this would be his last building of a sweat-lodge. He would ensure, therefore, that it would be his most pious.

Calvin returned to the site of the lodge and lifted the shovel. The hole would have to be two-and-a-half feet across, and a foot-and-a-half deep to hold the rocks when they came red and glowing from the fire, but it was tough, real tough, stabbing at the iron-hard ground, even with the shiny new blade of this tool. He narrowed his eyes and shut out the pain of the effort as he dug, letting his mind drift from the task.

Red-hot from the fire.

An ugly memory was there before he could push it away, bobbing to the surface of his consciousness like a bubbling carcass surfacing in a pool. Too late to force it back down. He hacked at the earth with a hatred that was not directed at the innocent, if ungiving soil.

They had been drinking heavily that afternoon, Moses and Marlene. Wayne Longpaw was there too, squatting cross-legged on the floor, smoking a roll-up and raising his drink in a cheerful toast to more or less anything his host said.