Spellbound in utter darkness, Bill’s glowering orbs penetrate the inky veil like blazing fireballs hurled toward castle walls through the blackened smoke of war. Distressed over the dry heat pressing against him, he scoffs shifting uncomfortably. Bill senses David too is unnerved, as he is unable to see anything other than Bill’s fiery pinpoints staring back at him. At the same time, Bill gets the distinct feeling that the Ojibwa is also grateful he can no longer discern the ghastly features that make up Bill. If Bill’s stench adds to his discomfort, David did not complain; the sage covering the floor somewhat masks it.
After David pours water over the red hot stones intensifying the heat, he then sits cross-legged toward the back of the sweat lodge with the drum resting in his lap. He stares forward into darkness and strikes the edge of the drum with the palm of his hand and begins to chant. Bill finds the relaxed vocal and the steady beat of the drum soothing. Unable to shut his eyes, he focuses on the bright orange and red patterns of David’s heat signature. Each time David strikes the edge of the drum, Bill becomes more entranced in the traces of color reverberating through the darkness. The ceremony goes on for several minutes as David gradually increases his rhythm, matching tempo to native lyric. He watches the colors swarm, swirling faster and faster until the heat holds him in perfect synchronicity, and the beat of the drum abruptly stops. In silence, in utter darkness, Bill wonders if he will ever be able to go home again. It was his heart’s only desire—to return to Derrylin and once again look upon Abigail’s face.
David? Why did you stop?
David does not answer. An eerie tinge of restiveness circles Bill’s thoughts as he looks upon the unmoving Ojibwa shaman.
I do not think your spell worked. Should we exit the lodge and prepare a second attempt?
Again, David is unresponsive, calm, and still.
Tiring of the silence, Bill removes the blankets from the doorway and pulls back the flaps. He crawls from the sweat lodge, expecting the cool October air to greet him. The air is both hot and dry, perfectly matching the temperature inside the lodge.
Something is terribly wrong, he thinks to himself. On the other hand, has something gone perfectly right?
Looking down at the two animals guarding the doorway, Sasha’s mouth hangs open in a wide yawn, exposing her sharp teeth; her tongue curls upward as she licks at the air. Barney lies with his head resting over his outstretched out paws, and both animals are unmoving, frozen in time.
The bright flames that engulf the firebox now seem fixed, clinging to the air like a fiery waterfall splashing down over a lake of erupting lava. Like fireflies, the embers pepper the night air above. The dark sky is still, the wind nonexistent, and the twinkle of the stars is absent—not one sound of nature is present. It is then that it finally soaks in; Bill has crossed over into the spirit realm, and although imaginatively, he expected more. He at least thought he would witness godly structures, majestic halls, or odd creatures. Yet only motionless mockery mirrors his universe like a still life portrait. Somewhat underwhelmed, Bill decides he should explore this new realm and try to locate the god who calls himself Glooskap.
He moves along the trail leading back toward David’s cabin. The air is brackish and humid, completely uncomfortable to a wendigo. Because of the lack of shadows cast upon the forest from beneath the pale moon and because of the constant skew of the trees geometrical symmetry, Bill soon realizes he is moving through what appears to be nothing more than cardboard cutouts of woodland scenery—not even the scent of the trees seem plausible. It wasn’t fake, and it did not appear lifeless either—yet anything Bill could touch, smell, listen for, or taste was somewhere in between, as if it all had been staged waiting to exist.
As Bill steps out of the wooded area and into the cabin’s clearing, he can see a light flickering within David’s cabin. Where there had been no previous movement, this light now seems to glow with warmth beckoning him. He would investigate the light and moves slowly toward the cabin, sensing that something lurks inside. Accelerating to a supernatural speed, Bill reaches the cabin and slips through the screen door, proceeding inside to look for the intruder. A tall figure peacefully relaxes in David’s recliner and immediately catches Bill’s attention.
The tall thin Algonquin man leans back entirely in the brown leather chair and shows little concern when looking upon the terrifying wendigo—his face painted for war with a wide solid black stripe across his eyes and a thinner red stripe just below. Across his nose and the sharp edges of his cheekbones are small white dots. He dons the traditional wartime Mohawk of his people, decorated with two owl feathers fastened to a thin leather band around his brooding forehead. One feather points to the north, and the second tilts toward the east. His chest is bare, although colorful beads and pale yellow animal bones hang from a leather cord around his neck. Clothed in a bear hide breechcloth over darker leggings, he also wears a pair of puckered-seam high-cuffed moccasins. The ancient Algonquin leans forward, resting his forehead against a simple staff tipped with a silver spearhead. He looks up from his troubled brow and speaks.
“It is quite comfortable… the chair. I remember its creation was on July 3, 1996, in Lexington, North Carolina, just before the noon sun. Willard Pasco, a carpenter and woodworker, born October 5, 1947, in Seattle, Washington, during the new moon, created this particularly exquisite throne. I created him much earlier than that, of course.”
The Algonquin’s banter seems longwinded, ironic to the distressed expression forever locked on his brow. Bill was annoyed listening to him as he referred to the dates and places of all origins. He did not appear to care about what Bill thought and seemed even less interested in his presence though.
“It is good to sit down. So much time has passed. Before now, it has never occurred to me to have a seat and simply rest. I prepare and create, prepare and create, and I grow weary of my endeavors. It is good to finally sit down for a change.”
Bill assumed the Algonquin is mad or, in the very least, mentally distracted. Yet still, the worry would not leave his brow. Bill then wondered if he had even noticed him at all.
“Your stench is unavoidable, William Blake Colden, born September 19, 1990, in Derrylin, Kansas, during the time of the harvest moon. I created you much earlier, of course. In fact, I recall your creation came much earlier than most. You have become quite hideous, an obvious alteration from my original blueprint. You now stink of my brother, Malsum.”
You… You are Glooskap? Bill projects his ridiculous question.
“I am Glooskap… the Great Spirit… the Almighty and the Maimed One. I am a god given many names by many cultures and by many arrogant men. I am one and the same and none of these, and I have been called by all of these names and none of them.”
Glooskap lowers his head. He appears exhausted, and he carries this weight in the furrows of his profound brow. “When I think I might finally finish my work, something else withers and requires recreation. It is a daunting never-ending cycle of flowers and trees, lakes and rivers, hills and mountains, animals, and of course, men. All of these things are my creations, but you, you are no longer mine to claim. You have become something entirely different. A shame it is. I had plans for you, William Blake Colden, born September 19, 1990, in Derrylin, Kansas.” Glooskap lifts his head from his wooden spear and cast his troubles upon Bill. “You have become wendigo.”
Then you must know why I am here? Help me.
“Sometimes I go about pitying myself, and all the while, I am being carried across the sky by beautiful clouds.”
I do not understand.
“Perhaps in time, you will? We shall see.”
Please. Release me from this curse.
“Does it matter so little to you that I am exhausted? Would you have me do more? That seems selfish on your part, wendigo.”
I would do anything to rid myself of this hunger. You will have my gratitude.
“Gratitude,” Glooskap shakes his head. “This is what you bargain with? In return for my miracle, you offer a simple debt of gratitude. I should have had your gratitude the first time. No. You cannot bargain with what you do not possess.”
I have nothing to offer—
“In the eons past, I’ve created many things, William Blake Colden, born September 19, 1990, in Derrylin, Kansas. More so, of those countless things, I gave them to humankind, from the father to his children, out of love. However, my precarious children use what I create for destruction. As a race, you are no better than the wolf that curses you.” He spits his words at Bill’s feet and then shuts his eyes, rubbing his forehead against the simple wooden staff he holds tight with both hands. “All humankind has managed, in its two thousand years of existence, is lust and ruin. You rationalize with preposterously arrogant theories that constantly depose me and call me mythology. What you are incapable of understanding is what you cannot possess is threatening and, therefore, disposable. Should I not find it troublesome that the desires of my children crave more for the poisonous wicked things of my brother over the beauty of grace? And so to which I must ask you, is there even a shred of humanity left within you?”
In truth, Bill felt defeated. Glooskap was right. Without a doubt, from his own struggles during the war, Bill understood the fragile line that exists between good and evil. Ordered to do terrible things during his time as a marine and far more terrible acts perpetrated by his beast, Cold Bill, he now understood he was also capable of love; the love Bill felt for his mother and father and the undeterred love he felt for Abigail have not perished.
I will not make excuses. Nothing you have said could be truer, but every man looks around at least once in his lifetime and clearly sees the destruction he has caused and feels remorse. Humans are capable of great accomplishments, and we are capable of love. If I were the man that you claim I am, then I would not be here now, and I would not plead for redemption.
“Truth rings in your words. However, it would be good of you to remember that you chose this. In the most heinous act that could be exacted by a human being, you chose my brother by eating the flesh of men rather than perishing.”
A moment of confusion and weakness… a lack of understanding is why this beast exists. I choose to fight for my humanity, for love. Let this count for something.
“The greatest tool at a man’s disposal is his free will. It is something not even my brother can infect with his insidiousness. The human spirit is stronger than any weapon ever devised and more cunning than the deadliest of predators. It will never be broken as long as you choose to fight for it.” Glooskap sighs and then stands up and leans into his spear. “I cannot help you, wendigo. You must find a way to unravel what you have weaved. I once made you pure, of silver and of light. It is now up to you to find your way back.”
no! please!
Glooskap turns his head back to the recliner, regretting the idea of leaving the comfortable chair behind, and then walks to the front door. He turns the knob and opens the door, and as he takes his first step across the threshold, the Maimed One vanishes into nothingness. An echo of his voice trails through wisps of smoke in one final statement. It was a very comfortable chair.
no! wait! please! Bill races after the apparition. Hectic in his pursuit, he swats aside anything that stands in his way. It cannot end this way! Wait!
Did you really think my brother would save you? Malsum returns, projecting his will into Bill’s thoughts. He was always the selfish one. Who is he to point a finger and judge when my brother cares only for is his tinkering? I would have told you this would be a dead end for you, Billy Boy. Now… you are truly alone.
Malsum breaks from the tree line towering above Bill—imposing his snarling demonic countenance. The large wolf’s eyes, bright red and glowing, narrow to a frightening irrevocable dogmatism that gleams with unmistakable arrant hatred. Matted and ill kept, needless amounts of blood and infection ooze from under the silver and black fur of his exposed rib cage.
I have come for you, boy, to drag you into hell where you belong!
Bill stands his ground, displaying his contempt for Malsum in the shudder of his own abhorrent expression. He then expands his jaws to reveal the dangers of his teeth and lashing tongue. Throwing his arms backward and extending his claws, Bill invites Malsum to come and taste of his foul mood.
Enough of this wolf god. If revenge is what you seek, then come and get a taste!
Malsum does not hesitate; scoffing, snarling, springing into action, the wolf leaps forward, snapping at Bill with his massive jaws. Knowing that one good bite would easily crush the life from him with little effort, Bill leaps into the air spinning over the wolf, raking his claws deep along the ridge of Malsum’s spine. An agonizing yelp escapes the wolf god; his muzzle snaps upward defensively as it tries to catch Bill before he descends. Bill reacts much quicker than the wolf and evades his deadly jaws.
Bent at the knees, Bill readies himself for another strike and taunts the wolf. Tell me, Malsum, and be honest. Did that hurt?
Malsum circles around, lunging forward, pivoting to his right while turning his muzzle sideways to close his jaws around Bill’s waist. Bill spins sideways to avoid the sharp teeth and flanks the wolf god driving his talons deep into Malsum’s temple; the very tips of Bill’s wicked claws reemerge, scooping Malsum’s right eyeball from of its socket. Malsum slides forward, crashing into the dirt with a heavy thud.
The wolf god repeatedly tumbles, howling and yelping to an excruciating extent. Bill wastes no time pressing the assault and climbs atop of his flailing form, slamming his claws downward into the soft fleshy area beneath Malsum’s skull. He thrusts downward repeatedly with every ounce of his strength and every bit of his rage until he is sure he heard each vertebrae snap in spinal column. With godlike arrogance, Malsum unwittingly tries to get to his feet, but as Bill steps off him, the devastation overcomes Malsum, and he slumps forward.
Go back to hell and rot. Leave me to my misery.
Bill completely disregards Malsum and turns down the trail leading back to the sweat lodge, fully knowing his end would come soon enough. He had made David a promise, and without Glooskap to intervene, that promise was going to cost him his life. Abigail would have to go on believing Bill to be dead. It destroyed him to know he would never look upon her face again, but he could not exist in this state one more minute. He would not resist David and Bill would finally know peace.
You… do not deserve… this gift! Malsum forces his words from his damaged mind.
Bill could still hear him flopping against the ground, struggling to get to his feet. His body tries to repair itself, although his legs constantly buckle under him and his muzzle crashes into the dirt with every attempt. Although Bill left him severely wounded, Malsum was far from finished. He was the prince of corruption, eater of the dead, rider in the wind—unnatural as he was immortal; it would be foolish to count him out so easily.
You will no longer be wendigo, but I will have your soul all the same!
Ready to engage the demon a second time, Bill turns to face off with Malsum, lowering himself into an attack stance. However, as he scans the area where Malsum had fallen, the wolf god had vanished. Bill remains alert, waiting for the clever wolf to spring from the shadows.
The burning begins in Bill’s feet, quickly rising in height and temperature. The unmemorable sensation he endured during the wendigo fever had returned, rapidly consuming his body as it drove him to his knees. Bill felt as if his blood was boiling—his skin on fire. At first, he tries shrugging through the pain. Within mere moments, he scampers along the ground, baaing and yelping, clawing and scraping as wave after wave of energy erupts from his head and spreads across the cabin clearing, decimating Glooskap’s staged work.
Malsum reappears, not as a towering decomposing wolf but as a tall unnaturally thin Algonquin warrior standing seven feet in height with shriveled, pallid skin. Looming like a tethered ghost above Bill, he is insubstantial in his true form. In his left hand, Malsum carries a tomahawk, a green glowing meteor-like stone fastened to a deteriorating wooden shaft with strips of leathery human flesh holding the two pieces together. The weapon drips of an unknown caustic fluid that dissolves the earth under it and then wafts upward in a wisp of poisonous gas. He wears a simple breechcloth and nothing more. His face, painted similar to Glooskap’s, bears hollow eyeless sockets stuffed with burrowing grubs and squirming maggots, which perversely stare down at Bill. Pill bugs, small spiders, and centipedes scurry endlessly across his body. His speech is as a chilling whispery wind lined with a callous hint of malevolence. “Tell me, boy… and be honest. Did I hurt you?”
He mocks Bill. His wispy laughter is as atrocious as the stiff clicking of his hauntingly mechanized movements. He boasts louder, “I promise you, the pain will never ease, and I will burn you for all eternity.”
Malsum snaps his wrinkled bony finger, producing a small dancing flame in the palm of his hand. Through sheer will, the flame expands downward in a straight line, entirely consuming Bill.
Bill screams, his torment indescribable. Flesh drips from his arms, from his legs; it gathers beneath him in waxy clumps and pools exposing his sizzling muscle fascia and the charred discoloration of his bones. Malsum drops to his knees, cheering gleefully as he cooks Bill thoroughly. Maggots and grubs fall from his sockets on to Bill’s smoldering face, into his mouth. Malsum then opens his mouth, revealing rotten tombstones, and pushes out a shrieking gust of wind that further spreads the glowing embers across Bill’s body. He revels clapping his hands together like a toddler pleasantly amused with an entertaining act of mishap adult violence. Bill is helpless to do anything short of watching.
“Billy Boy… oh, Billy Boy,” the wolf god says with a maniacal laugh, pleased with himself and Bill’s undoing. “Did you really think you could escape me? I warned you that there was no turning back. I warned you, did I not? Still, I am not without mercy. I will end this if you just beg me.”
He viciously snarls one last proposal that almost seems like a taunt rather than a proposal. “Beg me to let you lead my wendigo into the apocalypse, and I will restore you to your former glory. Know this, Billy Boy, refuse and I will send my wolves to devour that little girl you cherish so much. I will have them rip Derrylin asunder.”
In the past, Bill was incapable of understanding what it meant to accept the demon’s deal. Now he understood explicitly what it meant. Truly disgusted with Malsum’s continuously conniving tricks and abhorrent expression, Bill closes his eyes and turns from Malsum’s sadistic grin. He made his choice; this time, he would accept his fate.
“My brother, bore from our mother’s womb eon’s past…” Glooskap appears behind Malsum, driving the silver tip of his spear deep into Malsum’s back, through his heart and bursting out of his chest. “You have caused enough damage. I, our mother’s son, and Creator of all things, banish you back into the darkness in which you dwell.”
At the precise moment, Glooskap’s spear burst from Malsum’s chest, before the wolf can even scream out in protest, where his life snuffs out; the apparition flickers once, twice, and then like a light bulb waning, turns off. Malsum is gone—returned to the underworld.
Glooskap takes one step backward relaxing his attack stance, bringing his spear erect with his lengthy form. He then leans into the weapon and glances down at Bill’s smoldering remains. Even in deep thought, Glooskap conveys an expression of eternal worry upon his brow. As to what a god contemplates was beyond Bill’s mortal comprehension. With his own face nearly seared away, Bill looks into Glooskap’s thousand-yard stare.
“I have seen the memories you cling to like the desperate child abandoned to the endless night. The love nestled in your heart is pure, even if you are no longer.” Glooskap crouches down and takes the remains of Bill’s singed skeletal jaw into his hand. He nudges Bill’s head from side to side, examining him, and then stands back up again. “You will die with this curse intact. I am unable and unwilling to repair something so perversely damaged. I can and will, however, offer an end to your suffering.”
Bill chokes on a mouthful of bubbling putrescence, lifting his head a few inches off the ground. He no longer possessed the strength to maintain such a simple task and quickly fell back into the dirt, aware that he was dying.
“Do not fret, child, what lies in your heart shall be returned to earth this night, and you will be without fear or pain nevermore.”
Bill watches helplessly as Glooskap raises his spear along the length of his lower arm, the silver tip a thirst for Bill’s heart. He speaks the language of the Ojibwa people as he then thrust the spear deep into Bill’s chest penetrating the dying wendigo’s cold undead heart. A brilliant silver light explodes outward from Bill’s chest, his eyes sockets, mouth, and nose—every rip, tear, orifice, or opening. Glooskap spins around, quickly weaving the light around the tip of his spear, channeling it along the staff and into the palm of his hand where it brilliantly hums and vibrates and resembles a large lustrous glowing pearl.
“Waaseyaa waabishki… zhooniyaa… g…”
Suddenly and strangely, Bill understands the native words—silver light. As he dies for the second time in a very short life, his last thoughts are of Abigail.