Gaunt with Greed; the tale of the Wìdjigò.  

(wendigo) 

ᐄᐧᐦᑎᑯᐤ

Disclaimer: the following story includes graphic depictions of violence & sequences of terror.

Please read at night.

 Happy Haunting. -Ethan Dudney. 

Algonquin Wìdjigò (wendigo) = A cannibalistic demon, the personification of greed, selfishness, starvation and rage. 

Setting: eastern Canada, late winter, 1804

PART I: STARVATION  

Cold, barren, and devoid of all life, such is the way of these lands. Frigid Nagamo sat, eyes fixated on the white hills lined with a blanket of chapped pine and fresh snowfall. Crack! A shot rang out breaking the silence with a cloud of gray billowing smoke, becoming the only warmth for miles. Nearly unresponsive Nagamo turned his head to see the source of the commotion. 

“Food!” the yellow-toothed settler cried from just beyond the treeline. The two others, Adriel and Igasho lept from the comfort of the fire and dashed into the woods.  There by the frigid riverbed lay a small, emaciated doe. Next to it, a tall man in a poorly fashioned mink skin coat attempting to clean and reload his barely functional black powder rifle, Jacob Merritt. Or as they called him, Kachada, “the unripe man”, of course, he had no clue what that meant and simply wrote it off as an endearing nickname given to him by his indigenous companions. 

“Mi-cimi!?” food!? Igasho exclaimed looking down at the pale bony animal. Adriel snapped at his ungrateful tone, 

“Sara!” he yelled  “We must make do with what we have.”

“We have five more days until we reach the road, five whole days with all 4 of us.” Igasho helplessly exclaimed. “ The little food you and Kachada have been able to get not only led us further from our trail but proved to be rather unfulfilling!”  he screamed, his mind overcome with hunger and fiery strain.

“It's something. Granted not as large as the moose we brought down, but nonetheless, food.” Jacob spouted, his yellow teeth shining from behind his chapped lips. 

“Thank you for bringing that up Jacob.” Adrial sarcastically snapped.

“Exactly, why can't we eat that…”  Igasho barked, his frail hands shaking under the barely useful sheet of wool covering his cold body.

“Because you Indian! We almost died to get that meat and now we are going to profit from it.” Jacob yelled. Adriel swallowed his rage in a bloody cocktail of perturbed spit and calmly replied.

“If we don't survive, we can't fucking make a profit.” They bickered.

“Where is it?”  a dry, tired voice called from behind them.

“Here, it's not much but we have to make due, '' Adrial replied. “Come, help us move it.”  Nagamo obliged, eager for the little sustenance he might obtain from the animal.  

Later that evening they sat, swiftly devouring the thin strips of meat upon the unseasoned animal, tearing every bit of gristle and fibrous tendon from the frail bone it was connected to. Tasteless, chewy, rough, slimy, and barely roasted to completion, yet it was the most satisfying thing any of these men had eaten in a week. They kept the skull and skin, hoping to add an additional profit to the eventual sale of their moose meat. Jacob kept the feet of the drear, hanging the hooves above the tent to further intertwine the superstition of fortune upon himself, for at this point in their journey things began to look quite grim. The men had gone to hunt, 10 days of supplies and high hopes for the forest's bounty, yet now, on the 14th day of their tireless venture they had only managed to bring down 1 moose…  in addition to a few birds and the occasional  emaciated deer that barely kept them going. At the end of their wits, frozen and hungry, their only goal was to return home. Jacob and Igasho, to what they deemed civilization, and the others, to the comfort of their settlement. 

Kachada, the unripe man, the white man, the greedy hunter, the mindless money maker. The list of insults and unfortunately accurate stereotypes could go on for days, yet Adrial also has his flaws, given that he agreed to travel with Jacob simply because of the money and trade he had offered for his services. After being voluntarily drafted in this man's unrealistic venture, the charismatic hunter that he is, Adrial convinced his cousin Igasho and good friend Nagamo to accompany him in exchange for a shared 50 percent of his eventual pay. Adrial however, despite being initially won over by the material benefit of his services, is quite a stern, spiritual man. Derived from Algonquian heritage his mind served as not only an excellent hunting guide but rather a rolodex of cautionary tales and shaman-like wisdom. His cousin Igasho was more short-tempered and particularly defiant of his heritage, having resided in a small French settlement village miles from his place of origin. But as Nagamo puts it, ‘If you can get past his ignorance you will never get lost.” referring of course to Igasho’s uncanny ability for tracking, navigation, and cartography. Finally Nagamo himself, a talented craftsman and flutist with a keen and intimate knowledge of all things medicine. 

But no amount of training, experience, dedicated study, or luck could have equipped them with the strength they found essential to surviving in these woods. Eating nothing but occasional vultures or thin pheasant, they would tire. Proper fulfilment seemed an impossible dream to the strained cold party of hunters. Sleep seemed a fleeting aspiration as each night's frigid wind would shield them from proper rest. Yet the deer as shriveled, dead, and oddly tasteless as it was, possessed a buttery succulence that none of these men had experienced in what seemed like decades, despite their journey only running its 3rd week. 

The next morning they woke early, the still coldness of the pines biting their fingers as they collected the morning's firewood. No sound to accompany them except the crackle of the barely satisfactory flames. The wind silent, the birds absent and the mountains desolate from any sign of life. 

“At least the wind died out,” spoke Jacob as he prepared the pot with melting snow.

“It's so quiet,” Nagamo said, eyes fixated on the barren, white floor of the woods. 

“Peaceful,” Igasho replied, husking pine seeds from their cones. 

“No… it's wrong,” Nagamo said, taking the husked seeds and placing them in the now boiling pot of water. Hurriedly gesturing to Jacob. “How long will we walk today?” shifting his gaze to Igasho. 

“All day if we want to get back before we starve,” he said pointing at the meek pile of floating pine nuts in the barely boiling water. Adrial, opposed to engaging in their bickering, sat crafting an arrow stem. 

“Why bother… you know as well as I do we’re not going to come home with more than we got now.” Kashada spouted pointing at the loose arrowhead hanging from Adrials wrist. 

“It's not for food,” he replied hesitantly. 

“What is it for then?” Jacob smugly replied, shifting his attention away from the pot above the fire. 

“Wolves… their calls woke me early last night,” Adrial muttered. Jacob erupted in mocking laughter.

“WOLVES! Ha, WE can't even catch anything despite our lives being at stake!” he yelled, yellow teeth illuminated by the light of the fire. “What on god's cold earth would they hunt?!” he continued to shout.

“Us…” Adrial replied, locking eyes with the ignorant man and sending a wave of dread across the camp. With that simple shocking word, Jacob silenced his ramblings and went back to tending the fire. 

Following their unfulfilling breakfast they started up the mountain. Igasho leading, the others taking turns hauling the burlap bags of moose meat, miraculously preserved by the frigid conditions of the forest. Igasho, trailing roughly 20 feet in front of them, stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to Nagamo with an unsettling look on his face. As they approached Igasho, still firm as a tree, they were hit with it. A stench so great it made the frigid dry air of the forest seem as if it was warm and wet with carnage.  Igasho, still frozen, looked around, eyes watering trying to find the source of the smell. Adrial and Jacob dropped the moose and covered their mouths. Finally, Nagamo spotted it, an elk. Or at least what remained of it, its legs twisted and punctured around the branches of a tall pine, its body impaled on the branch of another, and its intestines, a steaming heap on the ground below it. The thing's stomach was torn open leaving its ribs exposed, and what little fur it had left was blood-soaked and gray. Yet the most disturbing part of this violent scene was that its head was gone, torn clean from its limp neck right at the jawline. The men all gazed in a confused euphoria of terror as they thought of what or who could have done something like this.

Jacob suggested wolves, quickly dismissed by the fact that its desiccated corpse was 10 feet up a tree, impaled as if it had been placed there. Igasho, while covering his mouth, said something about hunters placing it there and forgetting about it, at which point Nagamo jumped in with the notion that vultures had simply had their fun with what these hunters forgot. However, a hush fell over the men's perplexed theorizing as Adrial muttered a single word, his sight still fixed on the mutilated corpse of the animal.

“Wìdjigò…” he said, ripping the others' attention away from the elk's corpse. 

“That's just a story…” Igasho replied in a dull frightened tone. Ngamos eyes, unsure of his skepticism. 

“What's that?” Kashada asked, without diverting his gaze from the decaying husk of an elk.

“It is the personification of greed… a cannibal corrupted by their own hunger and unfulfillment… A demon, at least that's the closest thing you Englishmen have to it.” Adrial spoke, his eyes once again fixated on the bloody snow below the animal.

“Oh, quiet!” Igasho snapped, “Those are just old stories the Wìdjigò isn't-”

“Stop saying its name,” Nagamo spoke, interrupting Igasho's skeptical rambling.  

“So it's a monster?” Jacob questioned. 

“Yes, a man turned beast by blind rage and unimaginable hunger,” Adrial explained.

“Yes, it's a monster, and guess what, monsters don’t exist!” Igasho sarcastically shouted. 

“What's the story of this Wendigo thing?” a look of fear now in Jacob's eye as he asked. 

Suddenly the escalating conversation was interrupted. A shrill guttural cry echoed from far beyond the treeline. Elk-like, but more distressed, more enraged, and more powerful. 

“Oh, don’t give in to your fears.” Igasho urged the others as they diverted their attention to the cry. “We are already on the verge of losing sanity as it is, silly superstition will only further break our spirits!” 

“He's right, it was just an elk…. It could be those wolves' next meal” Nagamo nodded at Adrial. 

“Good, they will be full for the night.” Igasho encouraged, attempting to ease the other's discomfort. 

“What if it's not wolves, what if it's just calling for a mate.” Jacob proposed, excitement filling his eyes. “We could try and hunt the bastards down!” he said, waiting.

“That was no call for company,” Igasho replied. “I may not believe in those tales, but that animal is in trouble, that I know for sure.”

“Darkness will come soon, along with it the cold,” Adrial said, addressing Jacob's irrational aspirations. 

“Even if it was light, we are in no shape to hunt,” Nagamo replied. 

Tired and disappointed, Jacob began to trudge on after Igasho, attempting to escape the stench of the massacre behind them. Nagamo and Adrial followed, now carrying the bags of moose attached to a thick pine branch, smoothed and cured by Nagamos craft. Soon after they escaped the lingering smell of the rotting carcass they began to set up once again, this time plagued by a sense of insecurity in the silent dark woods. They settled in a small ravine-like clearing at the base of the mountain they had cleared with the day's hike. The tents were strung and the bags of moose, placed neatly in a pile of snow against a large rock bordering the clearing. The only thing surrounding them was elevated structures of dead, snow-covered pine and the vast mountain-esque landscape engulfing the small flat pallet of land on which they slept. 

The next morning they awoke much earlier, stiff with cold and desperate to warm themselves. They frantically cleared the snow and began to collect lumbar. The fire they made was barely able to smolder given that the majority of these branches had been coated in snow and frozen, icy sap. However, hope was not lost until Jacob's raspy yell shattered the morning's silence. 

“It's GONE!” he shouted the growling anger of loss deep in his voice. “It's all fucking GONE!”

“Calm yourself Kashada, what is gone?” Nagamo commanded, he then froze as he saw the burlap bags torn to shreds and the trail of moose blood melting the snow in a chaotic mess . The whole moose, pelt, meat, antlers, more meat… all gone, no were in sight with the only reminisce of its existence in the form of blood and small chunks of gristle in the disrupted bed of snow lined with the bag's shreds. Adrial saw the source of this commotion and without a moment of hesitation began to pack up the camp leaving no chance for a peaceful breakfast. 

“What could have done this!” Jacob explained between his bared teeth as a tear rolled down his bristled cheek. Igasho saw what had happened and proposed a rational explanation as his anger festered alongside Jacobs 

“Forsaken wolves,” he mumbled.

“We can't leave now…we can't go back with nothing…” Jacob said, stuttering between his tears. 

“Don't be a fool, we're dying out here.” Nagamo snapped, Adrial still cleaning up camp in a panic.

“And we almost died to get it!” Jacob screamed back. The angered man got up from the ground and started toward Adrial. “Give it here boy,” he commanded him. Adrial, confused and still shaken by the disappearance of their meat, simply stared into Jacob's angered eyes perplexed by the question he had asked.

“Jacob…” Nagamo said in an attempt to calm him, “Be at one with your luck.” ignoring Nagamos' wisdom he shouted once more at Adrial. 

“The gun you idiot! Give me the musket!” Adrials expression changed. Confused, too angered and ultimately disappointed. Without acknowledging his question and instead addressing his rage he spoke.

“We are leaving,” he said in a stern voice. As he turned back to continue the cleaning. Jacobs' anger finally took control of his hands. He turned as if to walk away, yet in a split second whipped back around hurling his bony hand at Adrials head. CRACK, his knuckles popped against Adrials skull! Dazed and now bleeding, Adrial stumbled to the ground as his ears began to ring. His sight a foggy haze and his rage a roaring fire Adrial stood, harnessing his last sliver of consciousness. As soon as he regained his sight he recoiled.  His right fist, burrowing itself into Jacobs ignorant head before his left struck his stomach with impeccable force and precision. The weak malnourished settler fell back in a storm of fury and pain, nausea and anger the only things he knew to be true at this point. Adrials head pounded as he stumbled toward Jacob once more. However before he could assumingly put an end to Jacobs' irrationality with one final well-placed kick, Nagamo intervened. Grabbing Adrials raged soaked body in the cold wind of the morning and proceeded to take charge of the chaos. 

“Wake up!” he shouted, sending a final wave of intimidating silence across the group and through the trees. “We can not continue to carry ourselves if we let our hate control our actions! Our food is scarce and our hunger unimaginable… and despite the loss of Jacob's precious moose we must not give in to the irrationality of our hunger!” he said with a powerful pause. “Jacob, Adrial is right, we are leaving. Adrial, calm yourself! Violence will only worsen our chances of survival.” He then turned to Igasho, who had frozen as soon as Jacob threw the first punch and apologized. “I'm sorry for the fit, but we do need to leave and you are the only one of us who seems to know anything about navigating this place…” 

Nagamo finished and helped Jacob and Adrial to their feet. Jacob, still livid, put out the barely smoking fire and gathered his things alongside the others. Adrials hatred for him, no less present than before, thus tension became an undeniable stench hanging in the dry, frigid morning air. None of them spoke for hours; they all simply became bitter with neglect and craving, yet the lack of conversation proved to open their eyes in a place that until now had not felt as special as it truly was. Their sight traced the rigid blade-like mountains that seemed to stretch far as the eye could see as a sense of surreal belonging befell their tired forms. The blanket of sharp pines, like hair on the back of a great beast made of rock and dirt, all concealed by a fresh blanket of snow. Intimidating, enormous mountains covered in thousands upon thousands of untouched trees yet all so still, all so peaceful. But such sights could only be seen from atop one of the great peaks. 

The majority of their journey was spent in a forest of rough pine shielding the grassless ground from any snow, and most sun. A small path distinguishable only by marks carved in a vast immeasurably silent, thick maze of trees concealing  the surrounding horizon from the hunter's tired eyes. This maze, as old as it is, has proved home to many great beasts. Wolves with the hunger of an army battled against the once plentiful dear. And the elegant moose stand tall by the vast string of rivers that etched these mountains eons ago. But during the cold, long, wretched months of winter, these trees are left untouched and the ground un-walked. All life that once roamed these vast woods seemed to disappear without a trace. No birds to cast you into the morning light, no dear to feed those who dare travel far. And no sound to accompany your sanity. The moose are the only thing that seem to stay… Them, and the legends this place holds. 

With the sound of pine needles crushing under their feet echoing through the silent mountainside, they walked, hungry and tired but determined. Finally, Adrial stopped, taking a knee and throwing the bundled tent and musket off his back and onto the dry ground. Jacob in involuntary sympathy did the same, setting the bag of tomahawks and rags by Adrial. Their throats dry and lips cracked, their stomachs turned and stretched in miserable starving sadness. The acid off their unacknowledged hunger, the only liquid coating their esophagus. 

“I can't walk if I'm dead.'' Jacob smirked, huddling his hands close to his stomach for warmth. 

“Fine… we may rest for a moment, but light doesn't last very long in these months, we must make haste,”  Igahso replied as his stomach twisted, flooding his mind with pulsating hunger.   

“I've got some cattail roots we could boil. They're older and not very filling but I have no doubt we could use them.” Nagamo said, clutching his satchel and adjusting his wool robe. 

“Where will we boil them? The forest is too thick to start a fire here.” Igasho asked. 

“The next clearing we get to. will set up the pot.” Nagamo replied. Dread washed over him as he realized that would most likely be miles further. They gathered the little confidence they had left and once again trudged down the thin, barely traceable path behind Igasho. Every flake of snow a memory of happier times passing them by, and every step they took a reminder of how much distance was between them and much-anticipated satisfaction. 

At dusk, they found a clearing far enough from the thick labyrinth of endless pine that they could set up the tents and begin to cook the cattails. The fire roared accompanying the sound of the boiling water with a crescendo of cracks and pops. Nagamo cleaned the roots of the cattails as they all stared into the fire tingling with hope as their fingers and toes regained that soar, familiar feeling of pain. Once the cattails had boiled for a brief minute they dug in, ripping and tearing at the unripe, fibrous yet mushy roots of the plants. The howls of their stomach, now briefly silenced, and their faces once again warmed by the healing heat of the flames. After a quiet moment of satisfaction in the now progressively darkening clearing, Jacob spoke up in suppressed curiosity. 

“So… what exactly is the story of that Wendigo thing you guys were going on about?” he said. The group upheld their silence for a minute more and then Igasho spoke. 

“It's an old cautionary tale, nothing more. Just something the elders use to discourage greed and to keep the adventurous tikes safe from the cougars,” he said tossing another stick onto the fire. Then Nagamo spoke, eyes tied to the dancing flames in front of him. 

“When a man's soul is weak, susceptible to selfishness, he will do anything for himself. In the winter months when food is scarce…” Nagamo paused,  “This weak man will turn to terrible things for the sake of his own survival… overcome by hunger and cold, they will turn to the consumption of their own kind. Cannibalism… But once they have committed such a crime they will never be the same. A dangerous hunger will begin to grow from within them as they lose all empathy, all emotion… everything but greed and rage. They will kill others, hunting them to satisfy their hunger. And they will begin to transform, leaving behind their human form and changing into a beast of unimaginable horror. The only thing this demon knows is hunger and yet because of its evil actions, it can never satisfy its craving. With every man woman or child it eats it will grow, unable to put itself at ease. Mind you, this thing is no longer a man, rather it is the possessed personification of that man's evil.” Nagmo said, sending chills down Jacobs's spine. 

“Why not just shoot them?” Jacob asked, jokingly tapping the side of his musket. 

“Because.” Nagamo went on “They are driven by the power of their own unsatisfiable starvation, both literal and metaphorical. They are neither human nor animal but rather a horrifying embodiment of malevolence and corruption. Their speed unmatched and their strength uncanny, as it is driven by such unsatisfaction.” 

“God,” Jacob exclaimed. “You natives sure know how to write a story.” Adrial puckered with anger once more, yet the others seemed at a loss for care towards Jacobs' idiotic, small-minded remarks. 

“What does this thing look like?” The yellow-toothed settler asked, now with peaked interest. 

“It is said to be tall in stature, as I said, growing every time it gets its hands on a meal. The little skin it has, stretched tight over its now inhuman bones. Its limbs, long, tipped with sharp claws. its snout, lengthened and plentiful with fangs yet still oddly human. And its large white eyes sunken into the sides of its demon-like face. What little lips they have are bloodied and torn, as most are said to eat them in attempts to satisfy their hunger. But it is said that no one who sees one comes back to tell of their malevolence. All my people are left with are ideas, vege assumptions based on dreams some victims have before they meet their fate.”

“Good god…” said Jacob.

“Those stories kept me in the comfort of my wigwam many nights when I was a Papoose,” Igahso said, gesturing to Adrial, who had a serious unsettled look on his face. 

“You alright?” Nagamo asked.

“You should all be more respectful of our ancestors' tragedies,” he said in response. “Those legends exist for a greater purpose than just keeping the little ones out of the woods at night… People really do get that hungry…” he said, staring intently at the dancing flames before them. When the moon finally made itself known they began to settle in, making their beds and sewing the flaps of the Wigwam shut to prevent the biting of the wind from disrupting the peaceful night, or worse bleeding one or more of them dry from their last bit of body heat. They placed the hot stones on which they had built the fire by the edge of the tent and in neat rows between them. Finally, one by one they succumbed to the aching urge of sleep.

PART II: CONSUMPTION. 

“You're not here you're not here you're not here” a whispering poem of terror spoken by a shaky quiet voice in the black of night. Jacob awoke, turning his head to see a rocking silhouette hugging its knees. His tired eyes traced the lining of the tent and saw Igahsos palette torn and empty and the flaps of the tent gently waving in the pale moonlight. “You're not here you're not here you're not here” he continued to say

“Igasho, why did you open the flaps?” Jacob whispered. While continuing to sway back and forth in a pitiful ball of fear and dread he replied fast with a quiver in his usually intimidating voice. 

“I didn't, I didn't. I didn't. I didn't.” he repeated, rocking faster and faster.

“Igasho snap out of it, we need to sleep,” Jacob replied, trying not to wake the others.

“I saw it, I saw it, I saw it, I saw it.” he frantically repeated, head buried in his arms. 

“What? What did you see?” Jacob snapped, eager to get back to sleep. Without hesitation Igahso looked up at Jacob, a wave of fear ran down his back and his heart dropped in his chest when he saw Igahshos face. His eyes were replaced with dark scabs oozing with puss and fresh blood as a stream of light came through the tent resting on his desecrated face. Jacob looked at Igahsos hands and in them, his eyes were held, clutched, bloodied and still steaming with warmth in the cold dry air. He then replied with not an answer to Jacob's question, but rather a question of his own.

“Aren't you hungry?” as he said these words in a dead, deep voice, different from the one he had just been whispering in, a deep guttural screech shattered the quiet of the night from somewhere just beyond the treeline. Jacob froze, overcome with terror and paranoia before watching Igasho leap to his feet and dash out into the cold night. Jacob, still terrified, grabbed his musket and ran out of the campsite after Igasho, leaving the others alone without warning. Still unsure of what had happened, or if it was even real he ran through the barely lit maze of trees after his companion accompanied by a thundering symphony of pine crushing beneath his shoes and his now rapid drum-like heartbeat in unison with his now fast, fearful breaths. 

Off in the distance, he heard an echoing tear that sounded like a sheet of leather being ripped in two followed by a series of wet thuds and finally a crackling growl that seemed to emanate in every direction, making him unsure of its whereabouts. He stopped for a moment still accompanied by the loud rhythmic intensifying pulses of his fluttering heart that seemed to sink in his chest every time he thought about what could have made that noise. When suddenly. 

“Hey I'm over here… come for me… this way” emanated from the trees ahead. Relieved to hear Igashos voice Jacob began to run once more, each tree he passed between, a reminder of just how far he was getting from camp. With each footstep, a thunder-like snap of the twig covered ground below him, until one moist thud, followed by a slip that brought Jacob to the ground. 

“You're almost there, don't stop,” Igashos voice echoed from just feet in front of him. He got up but did not continue, the pale light of the moon shone between the treetops, and for a brief moment he saw Igasho beside him… He had been split from his neck down to his waist like a sheet of leather, and gutted with intense success. Jacobs' eyes began to water as he looked at Igahso’s husk of a body, ribs flayed in the air like feathers on a newly dead turkey, head twisted backward and legs gone entirely. At which point he heard it once more. 

“Don't slow down, you're almost there…” something spoke in Igahso’s voice from just beyond the spot of moonlight. The trees swayed from side to side allowing the light of the moon to cast its revealing haze upon the unholy thing. its skinny branch-like fingers wrapped around the trunk of an aspen high in the night, its needle-like, black claws ripping the leaves from its branches as its fingers further constricted the tree. Its pale gray, wrinkly skin, illuminated by the selective rays of the moon, as the rest of its figure was obscured in an unsettling darkness. The only thing visible, a tall thin shape with broad sharp shoulders It spoke once more without moving, but this time in a sinister, unnaturally deep, watery voice.

“Almost there… one more step…” it gurgled, as Jacob now shaking with fear tried to see what he was looking at. But all he was able to make out was its hunched, bony silhouette standing perfectly still in the foggy darkness of the cracking pine forest, and its demon-like hand upon the tree which he now saw was dripping with blood, glistening chunks of gristle and flakes of what he could only assume to be bone and cartilage. 

CRACK! A shot rang out startling Adrial and Nagamo out of their slumber with fierce, heart-wrenching precision. 

“What was that…” Nagamo exclaimed, now once again bathing in the eerie silence of the night. 

“Look, the others are gone,” Adrial replied. “Why did Igasho go with that idiot?”

“Go where?” Nagamo asked, confused and still startled. 

“That idiot went to hunt right? The musket is gone. Why did Igahso go with him? ”  Nagamo sighed and with a rub to his eyes began to get out of bed, readying his gear.

“You're not going out there?”

“What if Igahso went to stop him, and Kashada thought he was a deer… I can't take that chance” Nagamo sighed once more. He began to ready his things as Adrial sat in disappointed, tired bitterness. However, his face was soon broken with fear when a raspy scream pierced the silence of the night echoing in the distance. In that instant, they both froze. Nagamo worried about leaving the tent and Adrial, now on his feet clutching his tomahawk. And without so much as a whisper, they knew what it was. Nagamo turned to Adrial with fear in his eyes and nodded as if to confirm their haunting suspicions with the jarring reality of their situation. Nagamos' mind began to race as he thought about who had made it, who had fired the shot, and whether or not this thing was close. Then once more, a shriek bellowed from beyond the treeline that sounded like the call of an elk wrapped in the roar of a cougar topped with an uncanny childlike scream. 

With one final glance at Adrial, Nagamo stood and ran out of the tent into the violent chill of the night. Startled and angered once more, Adrial stood, grabbing his wool cloak and heading after his endangered companions. Charging through the icy sleet and over the beds of vast pine he called out in a panic unlike any other he had ever felt.

“Nagamo! Ondaas!” which after a brief moment of silence interrupted by nothing but Adrials' now pounding heart, he heard him. 

“Bi!'' Nagamo shouted in reply, sending a wave of hope across Adrials' stern brow. He started towards the voice with bountiful aspirations of uniting with Nagamo once more, but them from behind him;

“Bi!” I'm over here!” again in Nagamo's voice. Adrial froze in his path and gazed into the darkness from which he had heard Nagamos first call. Then again from where he was staring,

“Why hesitant? Come here,” Nagamos voice whispered quickly followed by another remark from behind him,

“Don't listen to it! It will trick you,” said the voice followed by the same exact words but this time from what seemed to be his far left, much farther from where it last was. 

“Don't listen to it, it will trick you.” the voice spoke once again. 

“Wìdjigò…” Adrial spoke as all hope drained from his face like blood from a deer's slit throat. 

“Adrial come!” the voice spoke from behind him once more. His mind began to race, the mimicry of the beast twisting his thoughts and making him increasingly unsure of which way to run. Finally, it hit him,

 “How could the beast know my name?” he mumbled as a faint glimmer of confidence returned to his wide, unadjusted eyes. He then turned and ran to Nagamos' voice hoping that by the will of this world, it was not this deceptive abomination that had killed so many before him. As he ran his tomahawk slipped from his belt and tumbled onto the cold ground, terrified as Adrial was, he kept on in the direction of his hope. And then by sheer luck, he fell into Nagamos arms.  They both began to weep, their brotherhood binding itself to the fabric of their gratitude as they embraced one another, still plunged in fear of what lies beyond the surrounding trees. The stench of corruption, once again putrid in the dry air around them. 

Yet their moments of brief satisfaction were dashed by the sound of a deep bellowing snarl followed by a storm of frantic indecipherable whispers and shrieks, all of which seemed to come from different directions. Once more they exchanged reassuring nods. Then stood back to back turning in unison as they tried to track the source of these awful noises. The horrible raspy whispering continued to circle them. Adrial, moving with growing fear and plentiful curiosity spotted his ax lying there illuminated by a pale beam of moonlight. SNAP! Crack… the sound of splintering wood echoed from the forest floor opposite to Adrials tomahawk. In a split second of heart-pounding heroism, he bolted for the ax! Sliding to a halt, grabbing it and turning to face Nagamo, who was still occupied with the origin of the sounds. He began to dash towards Nagamo, now facing him with a mirroring look of fear in his eyes. 

His feet carried him across the cold, stick-riddled floor of the forest without any feeling as his heart became hopeful with every foot he came closer to his brother. Yet Nagamo fell to the floor in a storm of rage-full terror as he watched the long bony arm of this monstrosity eject from the trees behind Adrial, plunging one of its clawed, bristly fingers through the side of his throat and out of his mouth, like you would hook a fish. In this swift violent action, Adrial began to flail and choke on the blood now spewing from his neck as he was lifted further and further off the ground. Nagamo cried, overcome with sadness and terror as the sight of Adrials limp bloody corpse was slowly obscured by the mouth of darkness residing above the ground where Nagamo sat. Deep ominous chattering clacks followed by breathy screeching echoed from the treetops. The pines swayed and cracked as if they were being climbed. With one final nauseating roar from the trees above him, Nagamo watched Adrials severed arm fall, hitting the ground with a thud like a broken branch, before being showered in a tepid rain of blood. 

Nagamo shaking, shot to his feet and knowing full well he may be the only one left, bolted across the forest floor. He ran barely dodging the trees as the shrieks grew quieter behind him. The fresh meat of Adrial, the only thing keeping the beast from chasing after him. Finally, he came to a halt in a moonlit clearing. He tried to catch his breath as his heart beat its way nearly out of his chest. His breath proved unable to satisfy his pain, his chest constricting as the cold petrified air worked its way out of his lungs. He tried to speak, whispering not to others but to himself, however, all that emanated from his mouth was a dry, helpless wheeze.  

“Wiidookaw…” he spoke barely getting the words to slide off his chapped tongue. Slowly, in the returning quiet of the night, his eyes finally began to adjust. His pupils widened with realization as he saw Igasho, a husk of a man lying on the ground in a pile of dark, bloodstained snow. In the tree above him, Jacob's torso. Immense helplessness swept across Nagamo as he sat in the ominous darkness unable to divert his gaze from his party's corpses. Yet In all of his anguish, another shred of hope presented itself in the form of Jacob's musket, lying there on the cold, dark ground. Nagamo stood, flashes of Adrials terrible fate plaguing his mind with every step he took toward the weapon. Finally, his fear overcame him and he dashed for it, taking it from the edge of the night and quickly back to the blanket of moonlight in the center of the rocky clearing. He froze in helpless anticipation for a moment more, yet all was silent. 

He opened the leather buckle on the side of the gun, retrieving the powder flask, and proceeding to load it. He snapped the hammer back, positioned his arms around the still blood-stained gun, and went silent once more. His heart began to drum, louder with every passing minute in the increasingly unsettling silence of the night. No birds, no wolves, no wind… nothing except his pulsating breath and pounding heart. Seconds overcome with fear became minutes glazed in anticipation. Then finally it came. A crackling howl echoed from the forest's darkest folds shattering the suspenseful silence. Nagamos spine stiffened, hairs rising like hackles on his arms. He stood, musket in hand waiting for his chance to avenge the desecration of his party. His cloaked form lit by a spotlight of silver moonshine, he stared into the forest waiting to hear something, see something… kill something. 

Then from the ominous, powerful obscurity of the forest, he heard it. Adrials voice, distorted, watery, and deeper than normal spewing the long, raspy words;

“NAAAGAMOO… Maada’ adoon, ni bedowe…” it whispered with malevolent confidence. Maada’ adoon, ni bedowe;  follow it now, my soft voice.  He froze, terror, spilling its dreadful nectar within his mind as he saw it. Its large, thin, bared teeth pushing their way through the curtain of the darkness into the light. The moon illuminating nothing but its bloodied, lipless humanoid snout as it spoke once more in its wretched impersonation. 

“Maada’ adoon, ni bedowe…” it spouted as its long tongue slipped between its sharp hellish teeth, flicking the ground below with bits of saliva and blood. Still paralyzed with fear Nagamo stood watching its snout, still barely visible in the foggy moonlight. it lifted higher and higher, like the thing was standing up. Its bony mask of antlers brushed against the branches as it rose, now at a towering 10 feet above Nagamo. A storm of rage began to brew within him as he watched its blood-stained clutches wrap around the trunks of two trees on opposite sides of the clearing, giving him a greater overpowering perspective of what he was dealing with. His mind again became plagued with thoughts of Adrials bloody fate, but this time it was not out of fear, nor derived from sadness but rather the intense craving for revenge. The beast spoke once more, as Nagamos' frantic heart slowed. Confidence swept through him as he raised the barrel, positioning its wretched jaws in his sights. He grounded himself with a final breath. then proceeding to place his finger on the trigger 

PART III: DIGESTION 

The Beats gray hands lunged at him from the darkness, as Nagamo clutched the trigger. BANG! A flash of bright orange light followed by a puff of sulfuric smoke clouded his vision. Next a shriek unlike any he had heard out of the thing before, it wailed in Pain slinking back into the darkness and shaking the trees as it retreated. Yet then the trees began to sway and snap back as if the beast were returning for a final fight. Time slowed as Nagamo thought of his anger, his intense craving for justice, and his need to avenge his party. And then about his family, his nephews, aunts, elders, his life outside of this evil place. With only seconds of thought to decide whether or not to avenge, or run and warn, he began to weep once more in a storm of anger. 

He turned to fight every naive, rageful instinct within his body and began to sprint once more. Gliding across the forest floor with the beast not far behind him. The moonlight began to fade leaving him in a blind frenzy of disorienting horror. The creature's footsteps grew closer and closer as it hissed and whispered behind him. Finally, he saw a small ray of yellow light from the trees ahead. Running towards it as if it was the only thing he knew to be real, he heard the beast screech in rage and agony.  Dashing closer and closer he saw that this light was not that of the moon, but that of the morning sun taunting the cold mountains with its warmth. The trees became less frequent and the ground turned from mossy, icy earth to dry rock as he ran nearing the end of the peak. He slid to a halt, his shoes sanding the frail stone as pebbles began to cascade down the mountainside. He looked at the red hue of the sky cast by the first beams of the morning, and then down. His eyes carried him over the rocky ledge, past the trees, and finally to the river bed below. 

However his state of tired aww was soon broken by the feeling of a sharp claw tearing its way through his cloak and into his flesh. The beast bellowed from behind him as its claw dug deeper into his back. Yet in his pain, time seemed to stop. He looked out over the breathtaking landscape and saw nothing but beauty. Behind him nothing but terror. Once more he thought of his people and what they had tried so hard to respect, to protect… And so he jumped. Lunging forward, knowing it was his only chance of escaping the greed behind him. 

As his body slid out of the cloak still in the beast's grasp he felt his flesh tear away from its claws, spraying the rocks behind him with blood. He fell, finally hitting the slope of boulders beneath him, shattering his right ankle. He constricted in agony as he began to tumble down the peak's side, every rock bruising his already bruised body, every branch tearing his already torn skin every second draining his already drained mind, before finally coming to a stop at the river's icy edge. The snow below him melted his pain as it numbed his muscles and washed his wounds. The barely significant warmth of the sun warmed his face as he lay there in quiet agony once more. He let his tired mind rest knowing that he had made it, somehow in some surreal scheme of luck he had escaped the creature's grasp just as the morning sun had risen. But despite his luck all that filled him was despair. 

PART IIII: SATISFACTION.

He awoke, ankles throbbing and swollen, back blue and cold, face covered in a layer of dried tears and sweat, and the skin of his arms torn to shreds. He lay there barely awake, hungry, dehydrated, practically a corpse. But then, a voice, not raspy, not deep, not evil. A child's voice.

“Ndede! Look, man!” the girl's spoke. 

“Iikanas, are you well?” those words, my friend, are you well, never had such immense satisfaction and joy been present in Nagamos life as when he heard those words.  They docked their boat, lifting his limp body off the icy, bloody ground and onto their canoe. “It will resolve itself,” the calming voices spoke as Nagamo smiled and caught his breath once again. 

“Nibi?” water, the girl asked. A wave of relief shot across Nagamo's body as he took the cup and finally eased his parched throat. 

“Miigwechiwi…” thank you. He whispered before again, giving in to his exhaustion.

Visions of Adrial and Igasho, danced in his head as he came to. He awoke in a cabin, laying elevated on a blanketed table beside a roaring fireplace. Over him stood a man in traditional shaman uniform, the other a woman dressed in stained jeans and a wool coat, dressing his wounds. A second man came from the kitchen in a stained drawstring polo and brown pants who looked to be a farmer. He had  with him a bowl of stew, plentiful with herbs and cured meats. He offered. Nagamo sat up tearing one of the stitches lining his back, ignoring the pain as it was replaced with hunger. Eager he began to drink the silky broth, consuming every bit of meat and every shred of herb in the bowl. A euphoric warmth washed over him as the hot broth glided down his throat and into his stomach. He may not have been home but he was safe, in the comfort of strangers yet in comfort nonetheless. 

After Nagamo cleaned his bowl, washing it down with a swig of steaming tea, the shaman sat and spoke, addressing his wounds…

“Do you remember how you got those?” he said pointing to the many lacerations on his arms. 

“Yes,” he said hesitantly.

“And your back?” The man asked.

“How much?” Nagamo whispered, “How much do you already know?” 

“I know enough to keep these doors locked come nightfall,” he said, staring into Nagamos tired eyes in a trustful, reassuring manner. No more had to be said. No time was wasted confirming something that both of them knew to be true. And so Nagamo spoke. 

“It had… antlers.” he stuttered, the shaman's face unshaken and content with understanding. “Why?” 

“Wìdjigò is a master of manipulation,” the shaman paused, looking deeper into Nagamos eyes. “Its voice, the voice of others, its face cloaked by whatever it can use to mask its evil. The stag is nothing but a sign of peace and fertility, a source of food and a guiding light of hope, the Wìdjigò are nothing but putrid demons born from  greed and carnage, however by wearing the horns of this animal atop its decaying flesh it is able to trick you. leading you away from your fears and ultimately to your death…” he spoke, never breaking eye contact with Nagamo. 

“Thank you, Miigwechiwi…” he spoke, ankles now wrapped and splinted, still throbbing in pain.

“How many?” the shaman spoke, ignoring Nagamo's thanks as worry grew in his eyes. 

“Three…” he paused, saddened once again by the horrific fate of his companions. “Two my brothers, one a settler from up north,” he explained. 

“I'm very sorry,” the farmer said, eyes pointed at the ground. 

“What will you do?” Nagamo asked, referring to the beast's presence. 

“What will WE do?” the woman corrected him, placing a heavy fur coat on the chair next to his cot. He quickly grabbed it and slowly slid it on, letting the warmth consume him once more.

“ We will live.” the shaman spoke, standing from his chair.

“What do you mean?” Nagamo spoke, worried and angered. “It's a miracle that I survived to warn you of this beast! It is evil, we can not simply ignore it!” he wheezed, coughing as his rage became more and more apparent. 

“To be consumed by greed is to die. Thus we must live.” the shaman replied, in an unenthused yet wise tone. “ The beast wants only to feed, both on our men women, and children themselves, and their greed.. Their susceptibility. Which is to say, to give in to our corruption is to make it stronger. Thus WE MUST LIVE.” his voice intensified, sending a shock of oddly euphoric fear across the room. “We must live our lives in the plentiful waters of gratitude and satisfaction, rather than waste them in the field of corruption… we simply.” He paused, gazing back at Nagamo, “must live.” 

Epilogue pt 1.

Over the early 17-1800s, over 15 thousand indigenous tribe members and French settlers went missing in the Canadian wilderness. Don't hike alone, don't listen to the voices, and don't give in to your hunger. Something is out there, if not men turned to monsters, our own corrupt starvation. Growing like a weed in a field of flowers, spreading its seeds through manipulation and choking them out one at a time. 

Don't give in to your greed. 

Regardless of what it is you crave. 

-Written by Ethan M Dudney. 

Research, explanation, and continued epilogue.

I first became fascinated with the idea of the Wendigo (Wìdjigò!) after watching Guillermo del Toro's 2021 “Antlers”. However, after researching the legend of the Wìdjigò further, I quickly became appalled at how wrong that depiction of it was. In Fact, the title itself is the most incorrect aspect of the entire film… actually, that's not true, the concepts the beast represents within the film are the most incorrect in contrast to the actual legend. Allow me to explain;  the metaphorical representation adopted by the antagonistic interpretation of the Wendigo in that film is derived from stereotypical misinterpretation. In the film, it represents the spirit of the forest and acts as rather the supernatural protector of it. As opposed to the actual legend, which is centered upon the idea that the Wìdjigò is a personification of the evil and greed we ALL are susceptible to.

After immense study into the actual origins of this legend and the beautifully intricate lessons it holds, I am led to believe that Guillermo and the writers of that film were strongly influenced (and further led astray) by Algernon Blackwood's “The Wendigo”.  A story written with good intentions yet a work that forever changed and worsened the idea of the wendigo in modern pop culture. Algernon wrote the story after hearing about the Wìdjigò from an Ojibwe tribe member. However, if you are familiar with his story, it is clear that he was not listening very intently.  In the book, he describes the wendigo as “the call of the wild personified”... Which, as fun as that may sound…No. Like, not at all. 

The actual lore behind the wendigo describes it as being a fully corrupt personification of a person's evil after they have been driven to selfish acts of greed such as cannibalism or murder, which in early Algonquin tribe settlements was a legitimate problem, derived from starvation and the immense scarcity of food in winter months. The idea of physical transformation from man to monster within this legend was used by early Algonquin and Ojibwe peoples to converge the dangers of corruption and the seriousness as well as the unacceptability of violent actions, often appealing in greater success to younger generations. Basil Johnston a language professor and cultural specialist of Ojibwe descent described the collective image of the Wìdjigò as “Gaunt to the point of emaciation; its desiccated skin pulled tautly over its bones. With its bones pushing out against its skin, its complexion the ash gray of death, and its eyes pushed back deep into their sockets.” he goes  on to say “What lips it had were tattered and bloody. Its body was unclean and suffering from suppurations of the flesh, giving off a strange and eerie odor of decay and decomposition, of death and corruption." It is also described as having uncanny speed and strength. You must understand that nowhere in early Algonquin depictions of the beast was the idea of antlers present. In Fact in Cree theology (a descendant tribe, evolved from Algonquin and Ojibwe peoples) the stag represents fertility and peace, its antlers a sign of power possessed by the land which it roams.

However, through the late 1900s and early 2000s, certain anthropologists and cultural professors speculated that this misinterpretation of the monster could have come from early English and French settlers hearing the legend and then encountering deer with CWD. A condition that makes them lose their fur, become intensely emaciated, and even cause the majority of their skin to decay as the deer keeps living, a mindless host for the virus. Admittedly if I heard of a monster residing in the woods where I would have hunted and then came across a seemingly undead deer possibly even with shedding antlers I would indeed point all my ignorant superstition towards such an animal. However, despite this odd theory, some tribe leaders have gone so far as to explain that the creature wore the antlers of the stag to further manipulate you, simply adding to the beast's metaphorical trickery, symbolic of course to our susceptibility to greed and selfish action, as well as how we often mask it as deserved and justifiable. 

The word wendigo is even an English mispronunciation! The Wìdjigò, although derived from the personification of cannibalistic, violent corruption and greed, over time has become associated with the more relevant idea of manifest destiny and the irrational evil of racism and hate. Both meanings of the Wìdjigò, old and rich with metaphorical wisdom or relevant and revised, in my opinion, are far more horrifying than any Blackwood-inspired rip-off of a misinterpretation. 

Regardless, after reading Blackwood's story I became filled with anger over the legend's misinterpretation. And In this storm of unjust rage ignited by the idiotic misinterpretation of others, I decided to write a story, with the level of honest, disturbing authenticity Blackwood massively failed to converge.  The confusion my characters faced given the mimicry of their companions' voices, symbolic of their growing susceptibility to corruption brought on by their growing hunger. The monsters voice a metaphor for our own selfish justification that we often convince ourselves of in times of weakness and greed. A metaphor that became more apparent when the shaman in my story offered an antidote to the beasts plaguing evil, “to live” because to become consumed by your own greed is to die… The disappearance of the moose meat is not only a sign of the creature's physical presence, but further metaphorical kindling on the fire of my character's slowly burning willpower and strength. Igahso met his fate first, as throughout the whole story his skepticism served as a symbol of how we can often neglect the negative effects our selfishness has on others. Everything in my story happened for a reason, both literal, plot-driven, and metaphorical. 

There are monsters in this world. If not real, symbolic. 

-Ethan M Dudney. 

Written 

7/14/2024 - 7/28/2024 

Check mate. 

Disclaimer: the following poem includes ideas like death, and intense grief. 

Gone, not for a minute or hour nor day… Just gone.

Tears, the water my soul will learn to bathe in.

My screams, a comforting symphony of expression. 

To exist is to parish, yet you always seemed so at peace, so calm.

Gone in the blink of an eye yet I sit there and lie, cry, deny, PLEASE let me die.. Let me fly.

Memories of your words become a blanket of settling dust as I see your blood become one with the fabric you were. 

Yet now the only thing left is a red, dark dread. 

White to red, live to dead, I sit with nowhere to be led.

Gone not for a day or week nor year just gone like a king who has lost their pawn. 

I tried to break but it was too late, bitter with hate I sit pondering your devastating fate.

But that's just it, you're gone, check mate. 

Fear is temporary, so are we. 

Fear is darkness, when you're a child.

Spiders when you grow.

Clowns, but only in october.

Fear is simple. 

But  then you learn, you fail, you evolve…you lose.

Not a competition nor a game but rather the presence of someone. The ability to hear them, speak to them, see them in anything but a picture. You lose the ability to feel them. 

Fear is death, when you're older.

Not being in control.

Not Knowing what is real despite how much you know, how much you have been taught, how much you have seen.

Some pray to a god they don't understand, others cast out feelings only to find reassurance in the complexity of our chaotic lifespan. 

Others simply neglect it, hoping that it will go away. 

Fear is accepting the absence of a loved one and knowing there is nothing you can do to see them one last god forsaken time. 

Fear is a twisted euphoria of emotion that is often masked by anger. 

Yet fear is not permanent. 

As we approach death ourselves, fear leaves, to be replaced by blissful unblemished understanding that ironically enough despite its very definition no one seems to fully understand. 

Fear… is temporary and so are we. 

But if something doesn't end, it is not rare.

It is not loved, as it is here for all time.

For in my mind the very fact that we parish makes every day all the more meaningful. 

So please, don’t waste your time in fear of the end.