‘My name is Billy Hunt. I don’t know who you are.’

‘No. You are Running Wolf, son of Hunting Wolf.’

Billy thought about that in a sleepy way and decided that the bird-man was right. He was Running Wolf. He had always been Running Wolf. He could still be Billy Hunt and yet be Running Wolf somewhere deep down inside where it mattered, and it seemed perfectly logical and natural. He nodded and looked again at the huge eagle head silhouetted against the sun, its feathers fanning over the collar of the scarlet robe that was pinned around its great shoulders with a blue quill hoop.

This sleep. It was so deep and velvety, the deepest he’d ever had, and yet not sleep at all. Running with the wolf was not real sleep. It was like being more real than real. That was the only way Billy could describe it to himself.

‘Yes. I am Running Wolf. You are the Thunder Spirit.’

There was a sigh from the figures, although it might have been from the rustling aspens, so soft was its touch on the fragrant air. The deep rumble of the Thunder Spirit’s voice was addressing him again as he and the wolf stared up at its impossible form.

‘Your elders are here, Running Wolf. They would speak with you.’

Running Wolf lay down with his paws in front of him, his jaws open slightly as he panted. The sweet scent of the grass was intoxicating and his head was almost as light as his heart to be in this wonderful place. He waited peacefully to hear whatever had to be said.

Running Wolf could not make out the other figures distinctly. The sun behind their massive heads was too intense, the brilliance of their robes too dazzling. It was as though he could only see the Thunder Spirit when it chose to speak to him, and the creation of a voice was a window to see through into the physical form from which it had chosen to address him. For now that it was no longer speaking, Running Wolf could not focus on the huge creature, he was merely aware that it was there, looming above him in an aura of awesome power.

A new voice spoke and he turned his long snout to the speaker. He could see a wolf’s head this time on a man’s body, smaller but no less terrifying. Except that Billy Hunt was not terrified at all. He felt a profound and sensational love, for although the voice was a deep growl it was full of compassion.

‘You are the descendant of my loins, Running Wolf. Your father is the keeper of the key.’

Running Wolf said nothing.

Inside the wolf, Billy Hunt’s heart became sore again at the mention of his father. He listened with sorrow as the growling voice continued.