The hand was there in front of him, on a tiny desk of white wood. Like a holy relic on an altar. He could not take his eyes off it. The hand was open, its little and ring fingers were bent.
The bedroom was lit only by two candles which trembled at the slightest movement of the air. The shadows of the wardrobe and iron bedstead mingled and merged as the flames moved. Their monstrous shapes rose to the ceiling in a fluid and disturbing dance.
He had neither eaten nor slept for two days. His stomach had ached all day, but now he no longer felt a thing.
Outside, a dark night had fallen. He was naked. Sitting on his heels on the floor, waiting for the vision.
He stared at the hand for a long time, then began to breathe faster and faster, rocking backward and forward. A rhythmic chant came to his lips. Its source and meaning were unknown to him. It was the chant of the ancient shamans.
An hour later, the hand began to shake. An invisible force had possessed it. He had his first vision.
Signs appeared. Long lines at first, then sinuous curves which slithered away like huge snakes. A long tunnel and the light of the afterlife. The spirit world.
He felt the first contractions in his belly. He speeded up his breathing and doubled over. The pain became unbearable. Bitter bile rose to his mouth.
Great Reindeer emerges from the forest and stops. Before him is the great white plain that he must cross. He is old, with long, forked antlers.
The hunters are downwind. Great Reindeer has not smelled them. In the morning, they picked up the tracks of a cave lynx going down toward the cliffs at the edge of the great plain. It augured well.
Great Reindeer raises his nose. The icy cold is making his nostrils steam. The wait will be long. The north wind bites into their faces. Despite their fur gloves, their fingers are going numb around their lances.
A shrill cry. The Eagles hovers above the hunters.
He breathed deeply to ease the pain and closed his eyes. The first convulsion. He opened his eyes. Everything had gone hazy. Forms were now dancing around him. The hand had vanished. The second convulsion.
Great Reindeer has smelled the hunters. Calmly, he goes back into the forest, as though drawing them into a trap. The hunters crawl slowly through the snow and encircle him.
Lying on the floor in the fetus position, he massaged his belly to soothe the stabbing pain.
The hand detached itself from the stone and rose into the room, high, even higher, until it touched the dark sky and the stars. He forced his eyes open and the hand made a sign, with three of its fingers bent over.
The first lance hits Great Reindeer in the side, and the second lands in his neck. The hunters move forward into the open. Great Reindeer doesn’t move. He watches them draw near and grunts. The old man is holding an ax and, in a deep, rhythmic voice, he chants the sacred song.
The fingers of the hand are bent over, leaving just one phalange in view and the thumb extended.
Great Reindeer kneels in the snow. His life slowly flows from his wounds. The old man approaches and with his ax hits him sharply on the nape of his neck, at the root of his antlers. Great Reindeer slumps down.
The convulsions were shaking him more violently. White, acidic saliva was dribbling from between his clenched teeth. He writhed like a wounded animal to expel the pain.
Great Reindeer has vanished, engulfed by the silence. A young woman lies there instead. Her long hair is as dark as a raven’s wings and her burning eyes are open, lifeless, looking at the snowy sky.
He screamed. The vision faded.
In the distance, he could hear children playing.