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FADE IN:
EXT. SNOWY FIELD ‚ DAY (1978) Northern Cheyenne Reservation, Lame Deer, Montana. Two sets of footprints cross a virgin sheet of snow very close together. The sun is low, the light over-bright and crisp: the shadows are distinctly blue and purple, while the snow glows golden. JERRY, 31, stands at the point where the tracks diverge, watching SAM, 32, walking towards the village. Once Sam has grown distant enough, Jerry turns to the woods and studies them. The trees are bare and spindly, but the wood goes back quite a ways, and grows denser the further Jerry peers. The sun drops just enough so that the trees aren't blocking it, and it temporarily blinds Jerry. He squints, holds his hand up against the light and, taking a breath, ventures into the woods.
The path through the woods is narrow and ill-worn. It's hard going, and Jerry is continually dodging branches, brush, rocks and holes. The light is much dimmer when he reaches a small river, which is frozen over. An island lies about ten feet off the bank, connected to the woods by a rickety bridge. In the small cleared space immediately before the bridge sits a ramshackle wooden house, unpainted, with small windows. An old SHAMAN of indeterminate age stands at the foot of the bridge, smoking a cigarette. He stands very still, frowning ‚ almost glaring ‚ at Jerry. Jerry opens his mouth to greet him. The shaman holds up the hand with the cigarette in it. Not only is there an absence of human voices in the wood, it is also silent in every other respect: not even a wind disturbs the branches. A flicker of unease crosses Jerry's face as he glances around. The shaman turns unceremoniously and walks into his house. Jerry is quick to follow, casting backwards glances as he enters.
Inside the shaman's house is cluttered. All manner of items are piled on the floor, stacked against the wall and hanging from the ceiling, everything from snowshoes to lanterns to animal skins to dead radios to collections of beer bottles. There are no books in the house, nor photographs. Bare light bulbs hang from the ceiling, but they are not lit. What sunlight that streams through the windows is thin and pale. Jerry follows the shaman through the disorder, trying to take it all in and at the same time not trip.
The pair stop just before a small back room, ten by fifteen feet. The floor is dirt, and about four inches lower than the wood floor of the rest of the house. Several knotted weavings hang at intervals from the rafters, some with feathers or bones or other found objects twined in. No footprints mark the floor, through a small fire is lit in the center. The shaman stands at the edge of the room, takes one last drag of his cigarette and sighs. He flicks the still-glowing butt to the floor and grinds it beneath his foot. He then slides out of his shoes, stepping on the heel but never touching them with his hands. Without looking back at Jerry, he steps down and crosses the space until he is on the other side of the fire, facing Jerry. His face is stony and controlled now. Jerry looks at his feet, unlaces his work boots, pulls them off, sets them to one side of the hall and then follows the shaman down inside, every tendon in his foot visible as he anticipates cold or obstacles. He meets none, and he positions himself opposite the shaman, the fire between them. The shaman holds his hand out, palm up, and flicks his fingers toward himself. Jerry's movements are slow and deliberate, almost heavy: he withdraws his wallet from the breast pocket on his jacket and unfolds it. He fishes out a photograph, careful to touch only the edges, and hands it to the shaman. The shaman takes it roughly and examines it. In the picture, Jerry and Sam both have their arms around MAY, 29, Sam's wife. All three appear to be beaming: May is leaning closer to Sam, and Jerry's smile does not meet his eyes. A crease from the billfold bends Jerry. The shaman lowers himself into a squat. He fingers the surface of the photograph, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Sam shuts the front door behind him and stamps the snow off his boots in a narrow, dimly lit hall. He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on a peg by the door. A light from a door on the right at the far end of the hall spills onto the floor and walls. We hear the sounds of frying oil and a muffled radio playing country music. Sam pads down the hallway and stops in front of the open door. He grins and strides in.
The shaman makes a quick, precise tear, separating Jerry from May and Sam. He holds the photo of Jerry over the fire. His eyes dart up to Jerry's face, and Jerry meets his gaze. The shaman pauses for a moment, and then releases the scrap of paper. It flutters into the flame, which grows the instant it consumes the picture. Jerry gasps, in pain, and looks to the shaman for an explanation, but the shaman will not break eye contact with the fire. A shape emerges from the flame, a canid head pointing upward, jaws snapping like a baby bird begging to be fed. Jerry stares, transfixed, and lowers himself to his knees. The shaman makes another tear in the photograph, this time separating Sam from May. He traces a circle in the dirt by his feet and places the picture of May in the center. His breath is now visible, though he does not shiver. The shaman dangles the picture of Sam over the gaping maw, and the fire leaps, twisting into the shape of a grown fox. Jerry's breath is not visible. He groans and whimpers, sinking lower to the ground, but the shaman pays him no heed: he is still baiting the fire-fox. At last he lets the photograph fall, and the fox consumes it in one gulp. The shaman holds both hands up and leans away from the apparition. The fox turns around and sets its attention on Jerry. Jerry straightens, and settles on his knees, his back stiff. His face betrays fear, but he fights to control it. The fox trots the few paces between them, then rears up and places its front paws on Jerry's chest. Jerry recoils, but he is not burned, and the fox does not budge. The fox sniffs at Jerry's chest, and then buries its head halfway into his ribcage. Jerry's jaw drops as he tries to cry out, but he cannot. After a few excruciating seconds, the fox withdraws from Jerry's chest, a ghostly human heart, still beating, in its jaws. Jerry looks down at his chest: there is no blood, no wound, nothing. The fox drops the heart onto the floor. Some dirt is displaced as it lands, as though it were a solid object. The shaman keeps his eyes averted, his breath pale in the dim light. The fox leans down and, very thoroughly, licks the heart all over, until it stops pulsing. It then picks it up in its jaws, tosses it in the air once, catches it, and then plunges back into Jerry's chest. Jerry falls forward and collapses, shaking. His fingers grope at the dirt floor, disturbing the indentation the heart made. The shaman looks between Jerry and the photograph of May, his face resigned and stony. Jerry heaves himself upright. He is panting: his breath shoots through the air in plumes of vapor. The shaman rests his hands on his knees and looks away.
Jerry emerges from the woods, his arms huddled against his chest. The rising sun colors the snow and sets it glowing. He looks down: his tracks from the evening before are gone, smoothed over by wind or some other force. Sam's going towards the village, on the other hand, are still crisp and deep. Upon closer inspection, Jerry notices faint ash paw prints alongside Sam's. He swallows nervously, and begins plodding back towards the village.
An owl roosting in a tree near the window of Jerry's kitchen flies off, disturbing the branches and making a great deal of noise.
Jerry is sitting at his aluminum kitchen table, nursing a mug of coffee and staring straight ahead of him. The hands on the wall clock read 8:36. He has not removed his boots, though his jacket is slung over the chair to his left. He jumps at the noise outside and glances out the window, but satisfied that it's nothing, goes back to his troubled vigil. There is a knock at the front door. Jerry swivels his head and listens. After a pause, the pounding resumes. He sets the mug down and rises from his seat.
Jerry unlocks the front door and swings it open. May stands before him, her eyes swollen and red and her black hair disheveled. She opens her mouth, but no words come, and her jaw moves up and down without speech. Although it is cold, she wears only a flannel shirt and pajama bottoms, and scuffed leather shoes on her feet. Jerry searches her face, his own puzzled and concerned. May sobs, once, and falls onto Jerry's chest, huddling there. Seeming shocked, Jerry draws his arms around her: one hand slides lower down her back than is proper on the wife of one's friend, and he buries his face in her hair and inhales, his eyes closed. The moment lasts a touch too long. Jerry breaks the embrace and puts one arm around her shoulders. May allows herself to be led inside, her neck bent. Jerry shuts the door behind them. FADE OUT.
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