The Things Betwixt...

Wendigo

"The Writer's Cramp"  Entry 11-23-2015

She died too early.

My late father said that before entering his grief-drunken rage. Such is the consequence of life, after all. I had accepted that we are all born to die when I was naught but a boy. I watched as consumption wormed its fingers though my late mother and misery took my father shortly thereafter. I should say, a teapot took my father, for that is how I killed him, but he left me no choice. Though I was young, I could defend myself. I’m a man now; thirty to be precise.

My travels have brought me from one end of the known world to the other, and some places that were entirely unknown or better said – forgotten. Yes, I am a traveler, moreover, an explorer. I don’t claim to search for El Dorado, the fountain of youth nor silk road treasures. No. I do not suffer myself to take part among such belligerent expeditions.

I’m an explorer of the Occult and the unknowns of the spirit and above all, less than natural departures. Thus, I heard tell not so long ago of quite a mysterious creature; they called it a Wendigo. The tales managed to cross the Atlantic, and upon reaching my ears, I resolved myself with a half-childish conclusion to travel to America and bear witness to these claims. Generally, I would have dismissed the tales, as they always grow taller, especially once they’ve traversed a hemisphere, but there was an imploring; a stern whisper betwixt the afterthoughts and bygone vexations of my mind that urged me to pursue.

Thus it was that I made sail to America. The trip was dreadful, but I will not dwell there, for the arrival was much worse. New England was scarcely that. It was quite stark a reminder that my Oxford life was luxurious once I bore witness to the animalistic lifestyle of Americans. Not the colonists, but the true Americans or as they were called, Indians. How they had scraped a survival in such a derelict place was mesmerizing.

The Wabanaki they were called. A northern tribe that made their dwelling in the skeleton of a forest. Upon meeting my guide, Susap, we made our way from Boston Harbor into the Blue Hills. At first, it was as any other wilderness I’d been. There were trees, leaves, and wildlife, but as we continued, the leaves and wildlife grew sparse. Therein, we found ourselves among the skeletons of an old forest.

It was there that I first felt it. A draining it was, not the escape of blood or water, but rather a draining of any thought that would beget a half-pleasurable, because-poetic image. There was naught but despair and disdain amongst those trunks, as though the trees resented our presence with the sternest of sentiments.

Veiled in thick, blanketed mist was the earth, whereupon the soil was bare of leaf, twig, or any other natural under-bough fallings that one would find in a forest. It was – a graveyard; fresh was the soil, bereft of any greenery or crawling thing, but it was old – stagnant like the Earth simply abandoned it.

There, the Wabanaki had lived for countless years, likely as long as their tribe existed. Betwixt the ashen, dead trees, small huts poked from the loose soil in a circle where the tribesman lived their days. Upon my arrival, I noted their mild neglect as they averted their eyes from me, and ushered their children indoors as though I’d brought with me some terrible calamity.

The center of this place harbored a great building. I say great for size, for it was anything but luxurious. A hovel it was, built of sticks and hides, and constructed in such a fashion that would discern the work of children. It was a ramshackle, but it stood stiff and sound enough despite its lack of magnificence.

Therein, Susap led me to what one would call an infirmary, but it was little more than rugs of fur strewn about a trafficked dirt floor. A young woman lay on one of these rugs, but she was anything less than naturally ailed. She had been raked by claw and gnawed by fang, the likes of which were so chaotically and violently ripped across her flesh that there was no reasoning that could be coerced into aught but monstrous attack.

My guide was clearly agitated upon seeing the woman. Such was the reaction of most when encountering the mysterious. It was then I noticed the curious mobiles that dangled from the ribs of the building. Odd they were as I made closer inspection. They were an amalgamation of woven sticks and twigs, remarkably similar in appearance to a human.

Though they were naught but trinkets, when I held one, there was a distinct falling of spirit within. A vexation of constitution the likes of which begets the onset of severe sickness. I heard tell that the powers of Indian shamans were remarkably apparent and when I held this effigy, I could not help but force myself to concurrence.

When I asked my guide why they were hanging from the ceiling he seemed perplexed as though I should already know.

"They protect her from Wendigo."

"It comes for her."

It was then I understood. This was no creature of the physical sense, but a possession. Susap told me that she had clawed herself. The biting was something else. I didn’t understand why she had mutilated her body at first, but when I heard it… that cackling from within, not a laughter, but a maniacal, and throaty hiss of resentment I realized she battled the thing. Then, I saw it. As though jaws clamped on her flesh, scarlet teeth marks swelled on her arm.

The woman convulsed and clawed at herself as she screamed. She was losing the battle, but in one saddening, final cry, her fingers ripped across her throat and she bled to death before me.

Wendigo meant death. Such is the consequence of life...

Word Count - 1000