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A man waits for me in the light of the mountaintop.
No, not a man. Antlers rise from his head. A tail, like a lion’s tail, sweeps the ground behind him. He stands on hooves and his legs are as shaggy as the legs of the bison. His hands are tipped with claws like the claws of a cat.
He stares at me and I recognise the look in his eyes. He was the spirit in the young buck. He was the leader of the wolf pack. He was the snake and the mammoth. When he looks at me, my chant dies in my throat. My hands stop tapping on the drum.
Suddenly, I do not feel the strength I once felt, only the ancient terror . . .
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