Wendigo

The little Cree camp in the quiet valley hunkered down in fear. Somewhere out there it was watching them. Eyes that glowed red in the snowy moonlight. A gaunt apparition with limp skin sagging over its emaciated body. It was the worst of all fears. And the Wendigo was hungry.

It was the middle of the starving time. The caribou were gone. The People were consuming the last of the pemmican. The dogs looked warily at their masters. A baby died from lack of mother’s milk. The winds howled through the tundra. Snow was piled deep. The People huddled in their lodges. Spring was far away.

Inside the lodges children played their warrior games. More often than not, the Wendigo was their foe. You can cut off his leg but he will still come for you. If he eats the flesh of a human child, he will be hungry for more. Only great warriors working together can kill one. Many have perished in the attempt.

It is always watching, its eyes piercing the darkness looking for a careless victim. It springs on the unwary, ripping pieces of flesh off even before they are dead. A whole corpse is devoured in one sitting. It is ravenous. The more prey it consumes, the hungrier it gets.

Someone saw a Wendigo trail once. It left no recognizable foot or hoofprints. The beast simply glided through the snow leaving nothing but a wake. After a mile or so the trail suddenly disappeared. Could it fly? Perhaps. Brave men looked up.

The children tired of their games and drifted off to sleep, their dreams filled with images of valiant little boys guarding the camp with their bows and arrows. Oh, the feats they could perform! The councils of the elders stretched far int the night. Finally the teepee fires lay low, their red coals glowing like glaring eyes. Only their hunger reminded the elders of the voracious ogre outside.

A hunter was missing. Lost in the vastness of their frozen world. No one knew what had happened to him. Perhaps his body would wash up to the shore when the ice melted. Maybe his bones would appear at some lonely campsite scattered by the wolves. Few dared to mention what else might have happened to him.

The hunter’s name was Baptiste. He was a Metis, a mixture of Cree and French blood, who spoke the language of the People. He had brought them traps and taught them how to catch the beaver, the ermine and the other furry creatures coveted by the Whites. Each summer he led a trading party to the fort of the Hudson’s Bay Company. There they traded for the goods of the White Man; the smoking guns, the steel arrow points, the knives, the blankets and the strange drink that made men crazy. Baptiste was a friend of the Black Robes, but he never brought them to the camp of the People. That was good because they only brought bad medicine like the disease with the spots that kills. Baptiste was a follower of their religion. He spoke of a spirit called Jesus. Jesus was like Manitou, but more powerful. Baptiste sometimes prayed quietly in the dark edge of the teepee circle, crossing his hand over his chest to show when he was done. Missing for three days, his medicine had clearly failed him.

An expedition was formed to search for Baptiste. The Shamen had cautioned the warriors. “It is out there. Do not go alone. It takes many men to kill one. It will eat the lone hunter and go looking for more. It is never satiated. It is watching as we speak.”

The warriors grunted. They were brave men. One had killed a bear with his knife.  Three scalps hung in the lodge of another. They only feared one thing; the Wendigo.

The next day search began. The hunters tramped in the direction Baptiste had taken. They felt like they were being watched as they trudged through the snow. The winter’s day was bright, refreshing, and short. They made a huge fire when they camped for the night. Men took turns watching for the things they feared while the others slept fretfully. Wolves howled in the distance but the Wendigo only stared silently from the darkness.

The next morning, they found Baptiste. His frozen body lay on a limb where he had climbed to get away from something. It was undisturbed. Ice crystals hung from his beard. His steel gray eyes were frozen open and his mouth gaped in horror. What had driven him to his frozen perch?

The Shaman, his face grizzled from too many hard winters said, “Only Manitou knows. His ways are a mystery.”

They pulled Baptiste down from the tree and loaded him onto a sledge. His limbs protruded at grotesque angles as though he was still clinging to the limb. The men hoped they could get home before darkness fell. They knew they were being watched.

If all went well, they would bury Baptiste during the Spring thaw. No one spoke of what they might have to do with him if the Winter starving season lasted too long. It was their darkest fear. No one wanted to be a Wendigo.

LDT Halloween, October 31, ‘24