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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 turned and lurched away, fumbling for the banister as she stumbled down the wooden steps. Marlene Sitconski watched her go, standing motionless until she heard the door of Katie’s office bang shut, then she turned back to the case and put her cool hand on the glass with a smile.

31

This time, the force of the spirit’s visit blew him onto his back and held him there. Calvin lay panting on the floor, his teeth gritted in pain as he fought for control of his naked sweat-soaked body. In his good hand he gripped the crude pipe he had fashioned, clutching it fiercely against the potency of the spirit’s weight and wind, which threatened to tear it from his fingers.

Calvin’s chest was heaving with the effort of staying alive. Inside the sweat-lodge, the temperature was that of a furnace, but the atmosphere was not the agent of his imminent destruction. It was the presence of this rogue spirit who was finding him unworthy. He groaned a prayer, begging for the strength to endure the onslaught, and writhed in his torment as the pressing on his torso became unbearable. A rib was on the point of snapping. He felt it bowing under the pressure, and arched his head back in agony, concentrating on staying conscious. To swoon now would be disaster. He cried out, bellowing like a bull, in a voice that would have chilled any who heard it. But there was no one to hear it at all. No one for at least fifteen miles.

Then, like the first sounds of rain on a roof, the beating of wings came, softly at first, then building until the noise filled the lodge, thrumming against the canvas, the air moving under their phantom flapping, and the weight was lifted from Calvin’s chest like a stone being rolled off a cliff. His eyes flew open and he fought back the bile that was rising in his throat.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, coughing as he lay on his back staring through the steam at the tight blue canvas roof above the willow branches.

He had passed this new test, and now the trick was to stay conscious long enough to welcome the Thunder Spirit formally, whose invisible wings were beating so loudly now that Calvin felt his eardrums move with the pressure.

The shaman tried to sit up but his head was as heavy as an anvil. He must sit up and put more water on the hot stones before the temperature dropped. He tried again, and this time managed to raise himself onto one elbow, grunting at the effort, and feeling the stab of his bruised rib-cage as he bent his body.

He leaned across the floor with his gap-fingered hand, grabbed the bark container of water and with a flick released an arc of water onto the rocks, reeling back as the wall of hissing steam hit him like a fist.