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A 1960s Thunderbird convertible, its bodywork and chrome gleaming as if it were only a day old, glides towards you like something out of a dream. Behind the driver stands a tall figure with dark, hungry eyes. He is dressed as an Indian chief, with a lamella breastplate and a magnificent head-dress of eagle feathers which frames his stern face. The car draws to a halt and proudly the chief addresses the crowd that kneels before him.
‘We of the Nanoc are the chosen ones,’ he cries, his words drawing the reply ‘be it so’ from his clan. ‘By the strength of our faith have we been spared the great wrath of Hastsezini, god of fire. Now, the time has come for us to reclaim the land of our forefathers. I, Chief Drawoher, call upon Heng, the Thunder Spirit, to bring rains to quench the thirsty earth.’
On hearing his words, several of the clan get to their feet and begin to dance around the totem, chanting as they raise their faces to the sky. ‘This night Heng will hear our call,’ says the chief, excitedly. Then he points at you with his tomahawk and utters the chilling words. ‘This night shall we offer this soul as sacrifice to the spirit of thunder.’
