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Back The Trickster
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

He had been lost for a moment, then her childish sounds had drawn him to the spot. He’d seen her through the trees, crawling expertly on all fours along and over the undergrowth and fallen branches. He’d slowed his run and walked towards her, slinging the basket off his back making ready to collect the wood.

How could he have seen it? It was hidden. Of course it was. That was its point.

The gin trap was for a bear. A black fearful thing that would hold a thirty-stone grizzly. Its circumference was only slightly smaller than his sister’s length and when her weight triggered the spring, it had folded her in two, the back of her head touching her own heels as it had snapped her spine in half and severed her head from her shoulders, her feet from her legs. Such a fast, fluid movement, with no sound other than the snapping of bone and the rustle of leaves as the whole trap jumped in the air with its new prey.

The body had not been recognizable as human. How could a human body bend backwards from the waist so the calves were against the back? And without a head, or feet. Just a ragged red circle of neck, pumping blood as though the heart wanted the little life to continue and the stumps of legs that oozed their contents onto the forest floor.

He’d opened his mouth and no sound had come from it. No scream, no shout. Nothing. He had stood over the thing that had been his sister for an age, then turned and walked slowly out of the wood towards the camp.

By the time they had understood that the boy could no longer speak, and had gone without him into the woods to search where he pointed, a wolverine had got to her.

His father had found her and for a moment had not understood what he was seeing as the animal tore another piece from the carcass, then seeing it had human company, picked up the head by sinking its teeth deep into a plump cheek and ran off into the forest.

He remembered it every day. Why should he not? And when Henderson had spoken her name in the tipi they had all remembered her. Strange that it was a trapper who would have her name. No matter. It pleased his heart to hear it again, and he rubbed his cross with a thumb as he tried and failed to say it for himself.

Snowchild. Darling little Snowchild.

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