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The brutal winter of 1879 ravaged its way across western Canada, consuming everything in its icy path. The frigid temperatures made survival a challenge for many in the Northwest Territory, particularly the Cree Nation. By late February, abhorrent rumors spread among the Cree, and the North West Canadian Mounted Police had no choice but to investigate.
Upon their investigation, the Mounted Police discovered the tree. A clearing in the brush formed a perfect circle with this particular tree marking its center. The Cree knew to stay away from the woeful tree, but the outsiders did not. The Mounted Police rode into the clearing, passed a horrid stench that stained the air blowing in from the mountains. What these unfortunate officers found was beyond their primitive understanding.
Inspector Sévère Gagnon was born in Quebec; a much different world from the mountainous tundra that stretched across the territory. He had a long build and a solemn face, much of which was hidden behind a thick beard draping midway down his chest. Gagnon was one of the first French-Canadian born Mounties.
He received a telegram two weeks earlier asking for his assistance from Sheriff Édouard Richard to aid in an investigation. Gagnon and Richard had only met the day before.
Richard heard the whispers first. He understood the Cree were different, but couldn’t get any of them to confirm the shocking details which reached Richard. Some called the Cree savages, but Richard, an Acadian, understood these people simply wanted to live life by the terms of their culture. They only wanted to be left alone. Richard was happy to let them be, until the talk of Swift Runner traveled to his office.
Richard didn't believe the Cree's tall tales, but the gruesome details and sheer ferocity of these stories made them something Richard thought needed to be investigated. If the stories were even half-true...well, God have mercy if they were that accurate.
Richard, Gagnon, and the party of ten other mounted officers rode into the campsite. Cree people typically traveled in high numbers. This man, Swift Runner, lived alone. The campsite appeared to be both vacant and lived in at the same time. The camp’s only resident seemed to barely scrape by on the bare essentials, which made sense out here. Six beaver hides hung in the mid-March morning sun. Gagnon raised a single finger into the air, trying to silence his men.
"Jack Fiddler!" Gagnon called from atop his steed.
A head popped out from inside the tent. “Yes?” the man said.
"Are you Jack Fiddler? The medicine man?" the inspector asked.
The man stepped out from inside his tent. He was tall with deep tanned skin and broad shoulders. His thick hands brushed dirt from his pants.
"I said that I was. What brings you out this way?"
The French-speaking Gagnon turned to Richard who confirmed the man was indeed Fiddler. Both of the white men struggled to find the proper words to answer his question.
Richard scratched his head. "We need your help."
Fiddler raised an eyebrow and smiled. "It's not every day the white man asks help from a lowly Cree."
"We'll be on our way then." Gagnon tried to pull his horse from the campsite, but Richard reached out to stop him. The sheriff understood that in this particular situation, only Jack Fiddler could possibly help them.
"Mr. Fiddler, some of your brethren have told us that you are uniquely equipped to handle this particular trouble."
Fiddler, still unsure what the travelers were after, folded his arms across his chest. "What makes you think I'm going to help?"
Gagnon and Richard turned back to each other. They understood his hesitation. Why should this Cree bother to help them? What had they done to earn his trust?
"Well," Gagnon started. "Have you heard of a man called Swift Runner?" Fiddler shook his head. "He lived alone out here with his family. There are rumors that the family didn't make it through the winter."
"If you're looking for their campsite, I can't help you. I didn't know the man or his family."
"His family is dead," Richard interrupted.
That caught Fiddler's attention.
"Their remains were found hanging from a tree. They say Swift Runner killed them. Your people say that he butchered them and—"
"He ate them," Fiddler said. So, this is why these white men trekked so deep into these woods. They did need him.
Gagnon nodded. "We sent five men to find Swift Runner. Only one returned. Empty handed of course.”
"Have you seen what happened to this Swift Runner? Actually laid eyes on him?"
All of the horsemen turned toward one of their compatriots. A young man with a soft babyface, called Piccard, nodded. "I did."
The wide-eyed terror in the boy's eyes told Fiddler this was true. Swift Runner wasn't a man anymore. He had become something different.
"Have you?" Gagnon asked Fiddler.
"I've killed six of them."
"Can you make it seven?" Richard blurted out.
"I assume that's why you're here."
Again, the men didn't know how to answer. They seemed ashamed, almost impotent, but Fiddler understood. These men could never comprehend what existed in these woods and the nature of what forces truly ruled their world.
Fiddler walked back into his tent, but emerged a moment later with a leather scabbard tied to his leg.
"I can help you," Fiddler said. "But I'm going to need a horse."
"Done," Gagnon pointed to one of his men, ordering him to dismount.
"Mr. Fiddler," Piccard whispered. "What happened to him?"
"To Swift Runner?” Fiddler pointed to his head. “The hunger infected his brain,” he said, moving his finger to the center of his chest. “Then the voices changed him,”
"Changed him? Into what?"
"The Wentiko."