The Call of the Wendigo

The Call of the Wendigo 

When the first icy winds of early November blow across Lake Superior, the Algonquin people begin to talk about the return of the Wendigo. This supernatural creature that calls this place home is a malevolent cannibalistic beast who is a fearless hunter of these frozen winter lands. Legend says if you hear the Wendigo call your name, your fate has been sealed and you are doomed. Recently a very disturbing journal was recovered of which I will share with you. 

Ten years ago Dr. Littlestick, an Objibwe professor from the University of Minnesota led an exposition into the frozen back country in search of this mythological creature. The exposition met with disaster as all ten members of the exposition vanished without a trace. Only their bloodstained gear was found in spring as the snows receded. 

Several months later a hiker who had an encounter with the Wendigo and managed by a miracle to survive, found Dr. Littlestick’s tape recorder. While the beginning contained his recounting of his exposition, later recordings were translated by a Cree linguistic expert named Hebert Walkingwolf. He claims that the sounds on the tape are that of the Wendigo speaking in an ancient language. The words I am about to read to you are that of Wendigo who slaughtered Dr. Littlestick’s exposition.

He thought screaming would help him, but in the end it did not. He pleaded for me to spare his life, but my hunger was much too strong. His screaming stopped after I took a few bites. Most of them do. I hate those who scream. They should submit, because there is nothing they can do to save themselves. My hunger was sated for the time being. 

The cold does not bother me. Out here the winds can become deadly to those who are not equipped for it. It is easier to run over snow and ice when you are hunting your dinner. I am not particular. I will eat the creatures of the forest as readily as these humans. 

It is ironic that these humans came looking for me.

Well, guess what? You found me. It wasn’t like you had imagined it, now was it?

When they first saw the antlers on my head, they thought they had found a deer. Ah, the joke was on them. But once I opened my mouth with my razor sharp teeth, they tried to run away. It’s no use, because I am the fastest creature in these woods. One of my first meals had this tape recorder he called it. So, I began to use it. I like it. It serves me well. I know they won’t be able to figure out what I’m saying, because no one has spoken this tongue for a very long time. But still I will continue to use it just in case. 

Pause

Poor old man. He saw me and he started running.

“Wendigo!” He yelled, but the ice was thin where he was running and it broke under his feet. I watched him fall into the water. He began flailing his arms hoping not to go under the ice. He was wearing heavy clothing that weighed him down. He didn’t stand a chance. I almost felt sorry for him in his pathetic struggle as he went under the frigid water. He had a dog with him. The dog growled at me, but that was all he managed to do. 

Many of the people call me evil, but what does that mean? I have been walking this world for a long time. All I know is I’m still here. I remember when them white settlers came with their ideas of what was evil and what was good. They took children to mission schools where they took away the ways of their people and made them believe their god. 

I would come visit the children who would be asleep on their cots. I reached down and put my hand over their nose and mouth so they would not suffer. As their spirits rose up from their bodies, they would thank me for rescuing them from that horrid place. I would give to them all that had been taken from them.

Tell me again, what is evil and what is good. I have a purpose, you see. I am to keep the balance. It is important to keep the balance. The Jesuit priests who ran the mission school were cruel to the children most of the time. I would spy on them as they doled out their cruel punishments on the children. So many times I became angry watching their sadistic ways, but I did not take my revenge on them. I knew their sins would weigh against them like a stone tied around a condemned sailor’s neck before he was sent over the side of a ship left to sink to Davy Jones’ Locker in the cold depths of the ocean. Nothing I could do would be able to match their eternal punishment that awaited them. If I were to eat them, I would be t he one to suffer from indigestion.  

Yeah, call me a monster. I’ve been called worse. I am a manitou formed by the spirits from a once brave warrior. When I was weak with hunger, a demon set a delectable table before me with a long table set with over twenty pots of the finest meat I had ever seen. My mouth watered. I was so weak from hunger.

“Help yourself, my friend.” The demon smiled as he uncovered many of the dishes I had not seen at first. The aroma made me shudder, but I turned away. Quickly, he was at my side, tempting me, “Take a taste. There is no harm in it.”

“I cannot.” I felt my strength abandon me. He put a piece of well seasoned rabbit close to my nose. I had been hunting for weeks, but was unable to find a single rabbit to nourish me.

“This morsel will warm you and restore your strength.” He held it close to my nose. What little resistance I had left melted as I reached out and put what he held into my mouth. Suddenly I felt my strength return as I chewed.

“Good.” He sneered, “Now you may have the rest of this feast I have set before you only if you sign this agreement.” He whispered into my ear. His voice reached down to my soul. I took the document he held and laid it on the table. He handed me a pen like the settlers had given the chief of my people to sign the treaty that forfeited our land near the sacred land of our ancestors. I knew it was wrong as it had been for our chief, but I signed it. As soon as I did, I felt my body change into the monster I am today. This horrid creature you see before you. I am doomed to walk these lands like a man willing to slaughter to satisfy my unending hunger. My claws are sharp enough to rend a man from stem to stern. 

Do you have any idea how I dread the look of fear in the eyes of my next victim? They will scream. They will beg. But there is nothing they can do to save themselves. And once the deed is done and I have eaten their remains, I feel that same hunger return to me. My hunger is ravenous. If I don’t satisfy it, I become an emaciated giant. I begin to smell like death and decay. I envy my victims, because they will never know the suffering I am tied to. How many times I have had a vision of my own death and wish for it. How I long to feel the embraces of the tomb. 

Pause

I haven’t eaten in a while. The winter has been long and grueling for everyone. I saw my reflection in the gurgling water of a stream. My face is gray and my bones are showing through my skin. I knew because I smell of decay as I watch my skin slide off my body in places leaving the stench almost unbearable. Once again, I must eat. 

As I wander these woods in search of something, I feel the icy wind cut into my skin. My skin is no longer human as it was when I met that demon long ago. 

As I stumble through the woods, I smell a fire with smoke coming out of a chimney of a cabin nearby. Following my nose, the cabin comes into view. It appears like the cabin of a French fur trapper. These woods are full of fur trappers since the current price of an animal pelt especially beavers and badgers. Ladies from France have a high demand for these pelts that are used for high fashion in Paris. 

As I draw near to the cabin, I can see the traps that are used to kill these creatures for their fur. It seems to me a waste to kill them just for their valuable pelts. When I kill, I don’t leave very much when I am through. I am not trying to justify my method. I am only comparing what is done for luxury and what is done for survival. 

Suddenly the door of the cabin opens. In the darkness, I am often mistaken for a tree if I stand still. 

The light from inside spills onto the snow. I can clearly see him. He is a stocky man with generous portions. Wearing a thick coat and boots, I begin to feel my appetite start to stir. As I look more closely, I see he is older, wearing bifocals and smoking a Merscham pipe. The tobacco that burns in his pipe is fragrant and pleasing to the nose. He utters some words, I presume they are French as he rubs his hands together.

Then I hear another voice. There is a woman inside the cabin. I presume it is his wife, but I have no way of knowing. 

“It is frightfully cold.” He says. I have no idea what language he is speaking.

“Come inside. The fire is going out.” The woman inside says.

“Let me grab some more wood for the fire.” He says. 

“Don’t be out there long.” Her voice echoes in the darkness. He nods and hobbles to a wood stack a few yards from the cabin.

When his back is turned, I ambush him. He drops the armful of wood and falls onto his back. My claws have wounded him. When he falls, his glasses fall into the snow. Lying on his back, the snow turns red with his blood. He is dying now. I am ready to feast, but he does not scream when he sees me. I am not a horrible monster to him.

He smiles, “I have been waiting for you. I heard you call my name. It is time.”

He speaks in my language, the language of my people.

“Who are you?” I ask him.

“I am Noah Standingbear.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Please take my daughter back to her Ojibwe people. They do not understand her. They call her a witch, because she refuses to do as they say.”

“I will.” I promised. For the first time since I transitioned, I feel my human emotions crying out to me.

“My wife is buried over there.” He lifts his arm and points to a mound of snow, “She died of consumption like many have on the reservation. I look forward to joining her shortly ever since I heard the call of the Wendigo.” 

Even though my hunger has become my strongest urge, I cannot eat him when he dies.

“Father.” A woman appears. She screams when she sees me kneeling next to the body of her father. “Leave him.” 

In her hands she holds a rifle. “Be gone you filthy creature.” 

“Please, I beg you. His last request was to take you back to your people.” 

“I will not go.” She speaks through her gritted teeth as she holds the rifle.

“This was his wish.” 

“They called me a witch and told me to leave.” Tears are rolling down her cheeks

“I promised him.” 

“How can you promise when you are an evil spirit sent to do harm.” 

“I was not always an evil spirit.” I bow my head, “No one is truly evil.”

“Liar.” She pulled the trigger. The bullet went through me, but I just stood looking at her.

“Is there someone there who misses you?” 

“My grandmother.” She shakes her head.

“I will take you to her.” 

“Why are you doing this? I have heard stories about you and the evil things you have done.” She looked up at me with her eyes full of wonder. “My father talked about how you called his name. He was overjoyed. He misses my mother so much. He really looked forward to your arrival. It was all he could talk about.”

“He is with her now.” I assured her.

“I will go with you.” She said after a few moments of reflective silence.

“First let me bury him.” 

“The ground is hard.” She followed me to the mound next to his wife’s grave. With my claws, I began to dig into the solid Earth. After about an hour, I dug his grave. Wrapped in blankets that he could take into the next world, I laid him in the open grave. With a supernatural effort, I put the frozen earth back over him. Then we both said a few prayers to help him on his journey before leaving.

“I hated this cabin.” She confessed as she paused in front of the cabin, “The righteous called me witch and spread rumors about how I had converted with the devil. Their children would turn their heads the other way when they passed by the cabin. Sometimes they would throw stones yelling, ‘Stone the witch.’ My father did his best to ignore this, but I could tell it bothered him, because his hands would shake.”

“I know how it feels when people misjudge you.” I added as we continued on.

“You don’t seem like the beast people have told me about.” 

“I am and will attest to what most people say about me.” I nodded.

“But there’s still a part of you that is not evil.” She offered. 

Is there a part of me that is good? I had always believed I was an instrument of evil. Look at me, is there any part of me that appears to be redeemable? Do not deceive me, because I know my ugliness is considered unsalvageable. And evil. It was the price I paid for my impulse. Condemnation follows me like my shadow. My hunger is never satisfied. I wander the frozen forests searching for other victims. I am condemned to do so as long as I exist.

“There it is!” She points to a cabin on the crest of a hill, “It is her. My grandmother’s cabin.” 

My hunger leaves me with an emptiness that cannot be filled. My impulses scream out for me to feast upon her bones, but we have come this far. The part of me that is still noble and good remains. 

“Would you come with me to meet her?” She asks with eyes that implore me to do her bidding.

“I cannot.” I swallow as the emptiness expands within me. If her grandmother sees me she will know who I am. She will scream and close the door in my face. I will become incensed and violent. I will not be able to control my impulses. It always ends the same way for me. “You go ahead. I must return.” 

“Thank you.” Her warm hand takes mine. The urge runs through me as it had before.

“I must go now.” I pull my hand away from hers. The emptiness I am feeling mixes with regret, but it is for the best. For me this is the best I can hope for. 

Pause

A while later, I find an exposition. Learned men are like exquisite gourmet treats for me. They each screamed when they saw me. It was worth it. Yes, it was truly worth it. 

End of recording…