James Henderson’s head was light with terror and confusion and as he blinked down at this abomination he began to imagine the sight of himself from outside his body. He saw what anyone would see were they to step through that arch of light and come upon him. A tall, thin Scottish minister, dressed only in a dark woollen vest, thick black trousers and rough cotton shirt, with the cross of Christ held high before him, standing comically brandishing it at a tiny hare. What in God’s name was he doing? The arm that held his cross shook.

And then the memory of the dead and mutilated men came to him, the unbearable depravity of those deaths. He thought of the visions that this thing had visited upon him both at night and in the grey daylight, in front of unseeing others, stealing from him even the imagined safety of men’s company. The filth, the lies, the obscenities. His anger grew and slowly his arm stopped shaking. He growled down at this nightmare and held his cross tightly. ‘He is no spirit, you foul demon. He is the son of God.’

The hare was only feet away from the entrance now, and in the thin light Henderson could see into those eyes.

There it was. The darkness. Turning over on itself like a thunder cloud. Corrupt and venomous and latent with savagery.

From the animal a laugh began that was so internal and intimate that Henderson questioned whether it happened only in his own head. It had no echo in this hard place, so perhaps the hare was making no sound. Instead, it was hot and muffled, touching every nerve of Henderson’s in a personal and secretive violation. It was a noise that was in him and for him and he could not rip himself free from its filth.

‘The son of God!’

It spoke the words with relish as it laughed on and on, and with that laugh James Henderson felt his last hope trickle from him. His faith. He could see almost straight into the heart of the corruption for a moment, see its amusement at this spirit it knew nothing of, and with terror he understood Hunting Wolf’s words.

Older than Christ. Much, much older.

Had no one awakened it from its centuries of deviant slumber to tell it the good news? Did Christ’s message not reach back to these ancient creations? He was lost, adrift with doubt and desertion. His Christ. The spirit that demons quaked before in his world was a stranger to the demons of the Indian. How could that be? How could that be if he truly was the son of God? Henderson slumped to his knees and began to weep.

‘Oh Jesus. Sweet Jesus.’