October 22-23, 2010
As the light began to fade from the Friday evening sky, David Nukpana strolls out of the woods near his cabin, carrying a catch of fish across his back. Seven average-size brook trout hooked by the mouth hang from the fishing line, spaced evenly across a six-foot fishing pole. Sasha, David’s large gray wolf companion, often looks up at the dangling fish and darts her tongue across her mouth in anticipation. She knows David would eventually surrender one of the fish; he always does after a good catch. Still, she hungrily stares at the swaying fish that seemed to tease her with their stinky aroma.
David’s seven-acre spread is located in the northeastern forests of the Fond du Lac Ojibwe Reservation in Minnesota. He lives there alone with Sasha since his wife had passed away four years earlier. His daughter, Kaila, along with her husband, Ben Tall Creek, lives in the housing projects in the more populated district of the reservation. David’s only grandson, marine private John Nukpana, recently lost his life during an IED explosion in Kuwait. He was a good boy, and David misses him so.
Since receiving the news about his grandson and with each passing day, David finds himself, along with Sasha, taking long strolls more and more through the woodland meadows. Enveloping his senses in its sights and sounds and undisturbed beauty, David’s burdening thoughts of John always seemed distracted by the smells and textures of nature.
David had always been a spiritual man, keeping ancestral traditions close to his heart and far away from his tribe’s contrived plans to increase the reservation’s holdings. He holds deep disdain for the recent outcropping of casinos, hotels, and golf courses that had sprouted up on the reservation over the last ten years. The Ojibwe Tribal Council decided that it’s best that the Ojibwa shares their proud culture with non-Native Americans for profit. Because of this, David regards his solitude as something sacred, weathering years alone in the harsh Minnesota climate while relying little on store-bought commodities—with the exception of cigarettes, coffee, and lighter fluid, which Kaila and Ben brought by every Tuesday night on their way back from bingo at the Black Bear Casino. For the most part, David plants, hunts, and fishes for food. He also keeps a handful of chickens around the cabin and, once a year, slaughters a pig to carry him through the winter’s more dramatic weeks.
David is a rather thin man, six feet even, and he smokes entirely too much—sometimes two packs a day. At fifty-eight, he wears the rugged skin of a man who had spent most of his time outdoors; the crevices of his tanned hide runs deep, and his long thinning gray-speckled dark brown hair cascades down to the midpoint of his back. Over his Western style shirt, David always wears the ruddy-brown leather vest his grandson had made for him during the changing of season’s festival back when John was just thirteen. David prefers blue denim jeans and dusty cowboy boots, which he had worn down and refused to throw away. He believes he would die in those boots before he threw them out; pieces of gray tape still hold them together for now.
He lifts the fishing pole off his shoulders and over his head, letting it settle on a makeshift rack he fashioned from the thick flexible limbs of an aspen tree. The fish sways from the rack in front of the enclosed porch of his modest log cabin, and Sasha lowers herself to her belly, still licking her chops, eagerly anticipating her dinner. She lets out a low yap, signaling her impatience. David looks thoughtfully down at the massive wolf; she has been his only friend for some time now.
Sasha was just a pup when she wandered into the clearing near David’s cabin after her separation from her mother during a severe winter storm. The wolf pup took shelter in his workshop through the night, and come morning, John had found her as he headed out to the shop to start David’s truck so that David could drop him off at school. Since then, Sasha had always been by David’s side, whether hunting, fishing, or just constantly begging for her next meal.
David pulls a hook knife from the octopus bag strapped across his chest; the fringed soft leather satchel rests snug against his hip. He uses the knife to cut one of the fish from a line, removing a small hook from the trout’s mouth, tossing it to the ground in front of Sasha.
“We had a good catch, girl”—David runs his hand through the gruff of her neck—“even if I was the one who did most of the work.”
Sasha turns her head timidly to one side, preening her paw over her long snout. She waits until David removes his hand before eagerly licking at the trout’s greenish-brown marbled scales. A moment later, she takes the fish between her jaws and begins to chew.
David sits back on the porch steps, removing his brown leather cowboy hat, which he bent and shaped at the bill and sides. He dusts it across his lap and then rests the hat over his knee as he lifts a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his long-sleeved snap-button shirt. Pulling a smoke from the pack and placing it in the corner of his mouth, he then fishes a Zippo lighter out of the octopus bag and lights the cigarette.
“Should we ice the fish now and clean them tomorrow?” David addresses Sasha after exhaling his initial drag. In response, Sasha growls, continuously ripping the fish with her teeth and paws.
“I thought you might say that.” He takes another drag and exhales. After finishing the cigarette, David decides it would be better to clean the fish before losing too much of the quickly fading sunlight.
Eventually, he pulls them one by one from a metal pail filled with cold water, and after scaling each trout, David pierces the vent hole on the belly of each fish with the sharp point of the flaying knife and cuts along the belly until reaching its gills. David then places the trout on a small cutting board along his lap and removes the fish’s head, tossing it into the dirt in front of Sasha; he does the same with the entrails. Once he cleans all six fish, he places them in a cooler filled with ice, intending to slow smoke the brook trout the next morning.
“Come, Sasha. It is time for my dinner.” David opens the cabin door, allowing Sasha inside. At the time, he was unaware of the visitor fast approaching his property.
* * *
Recalling Nuke’s stories about wendigo, particularly legends surrounding the creature’s origin, Bill remembered Nuke explaining that his grandfather was one of the few tribal members still capable of performing the Wiindigookaanzhimowin—a tribal dance supposedly capable of warding off wendigo spirits. When the revelation hit Bill as he aimlessly wandered far north, it struck like a bolt of lightning that nearly restarted his cold undead heart. For the first time since incapacitating his brothers, leaving them behind, Bill had purpose and direction. He regained a measure of hope and wasted no time heading further north into Minnesota.
A cool breeze from the approaching fall season stirred the tall golden grass and shook the painted trees. Animals were silent in the wendigo’s presence, except for his new companion, a blue heeler named Barney, playfully moving through the field’s peaceful calmness and then vanishes further ahead into the woods.
Bill glances up at the starry sky, saddened with the thoughts of his brothers. He found it impossible to shrug away his guilt after egregiously betraying them—showing them no mercy whatsoever. Bill understood that when they caught up to him, the wolf pack would offer the same or worse in exchange. His only hope was that Nuke’s grandfather could somehow find a way to release him from Malsum’s curse. First, however, Bill somehow needed to convince David to aid his people’s most hated enemy.
He steps from the dark forest into the clearing, instantly catching the repugnant scent of roasting animal flesh rising from the cabin’s smokestack. Although Bill was starving, as he had refrained from feeding since devouring a good portion of Earl Keegan, the smell still sickened him. A wendigo that hadn’t fed was a dangerous creature indeed, especially when approaching a food source. Barney’s whiney growl also admitted two things: he too was hungry, and he did not mind the aroma of meat cooking on the open fire.
Bill stands in the clearing, unmoving, surveying, studying the warm orange glow that the windows give off against the cool purple exterior walls. Patiently, he waits for signs of movement; his tongue sorts through the obvious scents, assuring him that he is alone. Bill then crosses the driveway beyond a 1979 full-sized Chevrolet truck.
* * *
Sasha snaps upward when she gets wind of an unfamiliar scent. Resonating in a low growl, she tries to warn David of the trespassers and trots to the cabin door; her nails dance musically off the pinewood floor. Lifting herself, Sasha fully extends her torso until she is flat against the cabin door and standing on her hind legs at just over five feet. She scratches furiously at the windowpane, trying to alert David. She feverishly dances in circles, often losing her balance to her own weight in which she drops down on all fours and begins to whine.
“Did you catch wind of a deer, girl?” David stokes the fire within the hearth, noting the wolf’s typical dance suggests unwanted visitors.
The crisp sounds of sizzling pork chops and the popping sweet aroma of cinnamon and brown sugar sprinkled over garden fresh yams fill the living room with a warm glow. David’s dinner was almost done, and he was very eager to sit down and eat, but he knew better than to ignore Sasha’s persistent warning. David places the stoker in a rack next to the stove and goes to the front door.
Sasha has arched her hindquarters back and now lowers her head, snarling viciously, revealing her large canines and black gums. She firmly holds her claws out in front of her, clinging to the wood floor.
“What is it, girl?” David flips on the porch light, peering out into the yard through the door’s window. Sasha’s agitated mood intensifies, and now David begins to think that maybe a brown bear has wondered on to the property after catching the scent of the cooking meat and the stink of fresh trout. He takes the double-barrel shotgun resting in the corner next to the door and breaks open the weapon, ensuring it is loaded.
With the shotgun resting in the crook of his arm, the barrel to the floor, David swings the door open, allowing Sasha to lead him to the nightly visitor. Sasha insistently pushes through the screen door and hops off the steps. David steps down from the porch, slowly bringing the shotgun up. His forward hand rests under the stock.
Past the dimly lit porch that barely illuminated the outer part of the driveway, David makes out the faint outline of trees. He moves cautiously, imagining the inevitable encounter with the bear and reluctantly shudders.
Barney saunters around the tail end of the Chevy, panting and wagging his stubbed tail. He looks rather careworn in his exhausted state; his once black and brown hairs that mislead a blue color under tufts of white hair now seem dingy with dirt and dried mud. Although haggard, he wags his tail and barks enthusiastically at the sight of David and Sasha. Sasha rears back, continually growling, humbling the carefree dog, sending him down on his belly whimpering. The cattle dog looks dwarfed next to the extremely large wolf. Barney has no further intentions of provoking Sasha, as the wolf stands nearly twice his height and hovers over him with her exposed teeth.
“Sasha,” David commands the wolf to his side, seeing that the dog was of little threat. Sasha boldly stands her ground, knowing the truth about what really lurked in the darkness. “Sasha. Come… NOW.”
This time, Sasha obeys her master’s firm command and turns tail, sprinting to David. She circles him once, then twice, before settling back on her hind legs.
“Good girl.” David lowers the shotgun, patting her head with his trigger hand. She doesn’t so much as dither in her excitement as to licks her chops and begin whining.
“And who do we have here?” David crouches down affectionately, offering his hand to the dog. “Are you lost, boy? You certainly look as if you’ve seen better days. I bet you’re hungry. I bet you are, aren’t you?”
The dog cowers, completely surrendering, rolling on to his back, and exposing his belly for a good rubbing. In doing so, he also exposes his frayed collar and the gleaming red heart-shaped metal tag engraved with the name “Barney.”
“Barney, is it?” David lifts the tag, reading the engraving. “Barney it is then. I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you, Barney?”
* * *
Hungry, yes, Bill thinks to himself. I am hungry—starving, in fact.
Staring down from the rooftop where he had perched himself to study Nuke’s grandfather’s mannerisms, Bill watches the elder Ojibwa as he rubs Barney’s belly. He also keeps a close eye on the formidable wolf, which, in return, keeps her watchful clear blue eyes on Bill. He was certain that if he made any sudden movements toward the Ojibwa, the wolf would come to the defense of her master. Bill would wait patiently, formulating a plan that would allow him to approach Nuke’s grandfather safely.
He had never before interacted with his food source, other than to play a sadistic game before devouring them. Still, in his extremely hungry state, Bill was not entirely sure if he possessed the strength to hold off his beast long enough to engage the Ojibwa. He would wait and watch. The beast, Cold Bill, was hungry and wanted to be free.
“Where did you come from, boy?” David continues to rub Barney’s belly, occasionally glancing around his property. “I know if I feed you, you’ll probably never leave, and I don’t think Sasha would care for that too much.”
Sasha saunters up to Barney, who was receiving too much of her master’s affection and nips at the blue heeler’s hind leg, dangling freely in the air. Barney quickly rolls over, stands up to protect his legs from the jealous wolf.
“Well, I guess we can be hospitable for one night, can’t we, Sasha?”
Sasha says nothing, returning her clear blue eyes toward the roof, searching for the lurking wendigo.
“Shall we escort our guest inside?”
Suspicious of the scent only she could smell at the time, Sasha whines and circles David, showing her reluctance to go back inside the cabin.
“I’m sure we can rustle up a meal. You can sleep here tonight, but come morning, you will have to make your own way.”
David stands up, keeping the barrel of the shotgun to the ground. In the same moment, a stench permeates downwind along with a sudden play of shadows behind him. He then realizes that Barney may have been a decoy as a loud thump in the dirt alerts him to another presence. David swiftly turns, and the shotgun comes up. Barney darts off beneath the safety of the truck undercarriage, lowering himself to the ground as he waits for his new master to rip into David.