It was as though the spirits had forsaken him. What good had the sweat-lodge build done? None. The Thunder Spirit would not come after the white man had defiled their original altar, and it would take four days again to purify and fast before they could try again. How foolish he had been to think that he was prepared. Sitting at his father’s side, listening to the stories and being taught the truth, was of little use to him now. There was so much he did not know. His father had said this spirit was weak. Weaker by far than a man. How could that be?

Only the spirits could help him and they were as silent as the falling snow that was floating around his face like feathers on the wind. Hunting Wolf wiped the blade of his knife on his leggings, and stood erect. He was a shaman. And a man. Enough of this running. The Trickster was feeding on his fear, and he must contain his horror. He would walk back to the camp, slowly, like a warrior. He was shamed by the cowardice that had made him flee in the face of these nauseating displays, and ultimately, he was weakened by it.

The killings could become no worse. Already his heart was hardening to their frequency. From now on, he would keep his eyes open and show the monster it meant little to him. He had, in his medicine bundle, a powerful herb that would aid his courage, and as he replaced the knife he fumbled for the pouch with his freezing fingers, opened it and took out some shiny blackened pieces of plant. His tongue stung with the acid from the small bitter leaves, and he bit into them to release more of their natural magic. He waited, and when that soft hand of sopor started to caress his temples, he placed two more leaves beneath his tongue and started to walk back along the tracks, treading carefully in his own untidy trail as he retraced his steps.

From his left, there was a crashing in the trees, and a red fox burst out of the forest and scampered, panting and white-eyed, onto the tracks in his path.

Hunting Wolf blinked at it slowly as he approached, pulling the blanket round his shoulders and keeping his steps even and unhurried. The animal bared its fangs and slavered like a mad thing. Hunting Wolf did not stop, even when, inevitably, it spoke to him.

‘Going back to pick over the bones, son of shit?’

The shaman looked away and replied, ‘Why waste good pelts?’