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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

And then there had been the first scream. They had backed away like children from a wild dog, looking at the tunnel in the rock as though it were a mouth that would devour them.

He had broken free from her. A slippery weasel writhing from her grasp.

Of course she had run after him.

Her son had disappeared into the hole in the rock without any of the white men stopping him, even though she screamed at them to hold him. They knew the sense of the words she screamed: it was not that they did not know her tongue, it was that they despised it, as they despised her and her boy along with it. She could see it on their faces, as they stood aside and let a mere boy of nine summers run to the scream as though he were pulled on a string.

So she had followed him. And she had seen it. Seen it all.

What had her beloved become? It was impossible to reason at such a sight, and even though she had given herself up to remembrance, it was already dream-like.

The battle had been so awesome, so repugnant and sickening in its violence that she could barely remain conscious. But through the unimaginable horror, the mother in her had seen the more immediate danger. The rock was alive. It was quaking and it was falling and Walks Alone was running towards that sight that she could not behold. He would surely die under that rock, but she was too far to stop him.

And then the miracle.

The man Henderson.

A movement from a pile of rubble had alerted her to the injured man.

It had looked as though he had been stabbed in the chest and his broken frame was a hideous sight. He had raised his head and opened a mouth that was dribbling blood as a baby dribbles saliva. But he was alive. The action she saw was so slow, so elegant in its execution, that she had been frozen to the ground, an intruder spectating on another’s nightmare.

Walks Alone was running to the thing. The thing that was so terrible and yet seemed to be familiar.

And the rock was falling in huge boulders. A thin white arm shot out like a lizard’s tongue and grabbed the boy by the ankle. He had fallen forward, so slowly it seemed to Singing Tree, his hands above his head, and as he did so Walks Alone had opened the mouth that had been empty of sound and screamed, ‘FATHER!’

She had watched in horror as his head hit the ground and he had lain still. Her feet that had grown roots had been released and she ran to him like a cougar would run to its young.