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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

But that was then. A time when he believed the painted demons in the stained-glass windows of his church, writhing and screaming in Hell, were only figments of man’s fevered and guilty imagination. But now?

Now he would believe anything.

Henderson gently let Hunting Wolf’s head down onto the snow and wrapped the coat tighter round his shoulders. The chief looked up at him with heavy eyes, pupils dilated. Henderson picked up the mahogany and ivory crucifix that lay beside him in the snow, and held it up for Hunting Wolf to see.

‘This stop him.’

The chief made no movement, merely looked at the cross then back up at the minister with those drowsy black eyes. Then as Henderson started to get up, Hunting Wolf put out a hand and held the thin man’s wrist with a surprisingly rough grip.

‘He is older than that. Much older.’

James Henderson tried unsuccessfully to make sense of the Indian’s words for a moment, then unwrapped the strong, freezing fingers from his wrist and stood up. He looked down at the shaman and Hunting Wolf read the love in the white man’s eyes. He stretched out a hand and pointed at Henderson’s cross, speaking with more tenderness this time.

‘Does it answer your prayers, this charm?’

Henderson bowed his head slightly. No was the answer. The cross never answered your prayers. The western Christian man floundered in the love of a God that seemed never to hear, and certainly never acted upon man’s wishes. Indeed to ask for anything material, anything at all in fact, other than forgiveness from the God of the white man was considered impious.

What Indian would continue to love or serve a God that was deaf to their pleas? If a Kinchuinick asked for rain he received it. If he asked for fertility it was granted. How did Henderson’s God become so impotent? And more, how did theologians use that very impotence, that silence, to prove that God was still there? Tears began to form in James Henderson’s eyes. He clutched the cross as though it were the last piece of his faith and raised his head to the questioner.

‘It will answer mine today.’

He turned and waded through the snow towards the tunnel mouth, leaving his only companion in this madness lying in the snow watching him with eyes that were aching to close.

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