Regardless of which direction the prevailing wind blew from, the space between the two structures screamed with its own private whirlwind, throwing eddies of sugar-fine snow into the air, and piling the small hut’s door high with drifts. Sam put his shoulder to it and barged in. The warmth of the room was soothing as he closed the door behind him and scanned the box shelves for his boots. It was a tiny hut. One door, one small square window looking out over the valley as if the hut was flying, and the rest of the room a jumble of skis on racks, ropes, backpacks and climbing equipment. Sam loved the smell in there. It was woody and waxy, and when the thermostat on the electric heater decided it was time to come back on again, it made that acrid, nostalgic singeing smell of burning dust. But you couldn’t swing a cat, and it didn’t take long to spot his boots. They were shot to pieces, lying sad and neglected beside someone’s pair of metallic turquoise Rossignols he’d coveted but couldn’t afford last season. Sam rescued them from their shame and sized up the assorted skis at his back. He found a pair of 210s that fitted the boots like a dream, and sat down on the long leather padded seat to get his Sorrels off. It was that physical act of sitting down that interrupted the anaesthetic of his practical mode with a mental tap on the shoulder.

Hey Sam! A face in the crowd. Remember? Sam sat forward, one boot off, and held his head in his hands. It had been a hard-learned skill, that trick of keeping memory at bay. He was good at it. But after so long being denied access it flooded his senses like a dam bursting, and he fought with his eyes screwed tightly closed to keep Eden out of his head.

Too late.

‘Was you afraid?’ Eden had asked him that day, in a voice that didn’t mock, but was genuine in its curiosity. Fifteen-year-old boys want to be big and tough and grand, and Sam had ached to say no, Grandpappy, I wasn’t afraid. But you couldn’t lie to Eden. Eden could smell a lie before you’d formed it.

‘Yes.’

‘What of?’

‘It didn’t sound like it was Calvin talking.’

‘It wasn’t. You know that.’

Sam had looked at his feet. A pair of plastic track shoes with the big toe of the left one worn all the way through to the canvas, encased his long feet. He kicked at a loose corner of the lino with it. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘So who was it be talkin’? Look at me, boy.’

Sam had looked up at his grandfather, sitting back in his big chair, gripping the arms like it was going to take him someplace.

‘I guess it was the Thunder Spirit.’