ALBERTA 1907<br >SIDING TWENTY-THREE<br >When he screamed， his lips slid so far up his teeth that the rarely exposed<br >gum looked like shiny， flayed meat. Hunting Wolf s eyes flicked open and<br >stared. There was a semicircle of faces above him. Silent. Watching.<br > For a moment he stayed perfectly still， allowing himself to regain the<br >feeling of being inside his body， that dull ache of reality after the lightness<br >of the spirit s escape. Then the numbing cold of the snow beneath his<br >naked back stabbed at his skin， and mocked him with the knowledge that<br >he was firmly back in the realm of the flesh.<br > Sweat was still trickling down his breast， beads of moisture clinging<br >to his brown nipples like decoration， and he stared up at the gray， snow-<br >laden sky in hot despair.<br > The faces looked on. They would not step forward to touch him or<br >help him in this state. The shaman s trance was sacred and they had no<br >way of knowing when it would be over.<br > But it was over now. He had looked into the thing s face. Oh， Great<br >Spirit， he had. And the filthy darkness， the bottomless malice he had seen<br >there， had been nearly impossible to bear.<br > The white men gathered by the mountain were insane. He had seen<br >that， too. Their madness， their folly.<br > And what could he do?<br > The shaman got up from the ground with a swiftness that surprised<br >his audience of watchers， and walked away. The faces regarded him for a<br >moment， and then， one by one， followed.<br > ~o<br ><br >
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