neck and he turned his finger to me. “But you!” he shrieked at me. “Your brother has been taken by the Windigo, and you choose to run? You make me sick. Go, follow the Blackbird. See if I care.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” I said to Odd Whitefeather. “Doug Warner is just a friend, he isn’t even Ojibwe.”
“Who said he was?” asked Odd Whitefeather.
I shook my head. “Will you tell him, Terry?” I asked, slapping my hand against his shoulder. “That’s just crazy talk.”
Much to my horror, Terry remained quiet. Then, slowly, Terry got up off of the snowmobile and stood next to the old man. I sat there on the back of the sled for a long time as the pair watched me with a keen interest. After a moment, Terry dropped his gaze to his feet.
I knew then the terrible truth. Frank Warner was my father, not some traveling salesman, and Doug and I were brothers. How long had Terry known? How had Odd Whitefeather known? Who else knew?
“I’m sorry, Billy, Terry said. “Your mom made me promise.”
I somehow got to my feet. The revelation hit me hard and my head was swimming in it. I staggered away from the fire, but Odd Whitefeather was immediately at my side, clutching my arm with a strong hand. “This way,” Odd Whitefeather said. “Back to the fire, we have much to discuss.”
Odd Whitefeather’s weathered face looked orange in the firelight. He gave me a moment to compose myself before telling me the whole truth. I was thankful for that moment because Frank Warner had disappeared while hunting whitetail deer, nearly fifteen years ago. Despite a massive search, his body had never been recovered. I needed to process that. I would never get the opportunity to confront him. “I’m sorry, Billy Proudfoot, but its true,” began the old man. “Frank Warner was your father.”
“Your folks made a mistake,” said Terry. “They didn’t want you to suffer for it.”
“They made me,” I shot back at him. “Does that make me a mistake?”
“There I go again,” said Terry, slapping his meaty forehead. “Every time I open my mouth, something stupid falls out. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Right, sure you didn’t.”
“Billy…” Terry said, holding his arms out to me. I promised.”
I felt like a complete idiot and I could feel the blood running to my face with shame. Frank Warner had seemed like a good man, but what had I really known about him? There really wasn’t much. Doug had always made the effort when it came to our friendship. Doug, where was he now? Did he know the truth about us? I wanted to ask and suddenly found that I didn’t want to know. “What do we have to do to save Doug?” I asked. “Let’s kick some ass.”
“Right on,” said Terry, raising his big fists.
Odd Whitefeather smiled then, a toothless merry grin that I shall never forget. “Welcome back,” he said. “I agree, let’s kick some ass.”
We stood there and made small talk as Terry continued to feed the hungry flames. I felt as if a seed had been planted inside my heart, which was the knowledge that Doug Warner was my half-blood brother. That seed quickly took root and blossomed into something beyond rational explanation. I had a brother and he needed me.
“What do we need?” asked Terry, his dark hair tangled in ribbons around his head. His eyes were clear and bright; I’d seen the look before, he looked ready for a good scrap.
“We could use a White Buffalo,” quipped Odd Whitefeather.
“Can’t help you there,” said Terry.
“Didn’t think you could.”
The snow was drifting around the Polaris and I surveyed our dwindling supply of wood. We would need to act fast or one of us was going to have to go back and find what was left of the woodpile. I didn’t want to think about that. The time to act was now. “How do we fight this thing?” I asked. “What are we supposed to do?”
“That’s the trouble with a Windigo, we must wait for him to make his move. I was told long ago that a Windigo needs fear to survive. He feeds on it now. It can’t be killed with weapons, only powerful medicine can destroy a Windigo.”
“So, shouldn’t you be making some?” asked Terry. “We’re like sitting ducks out here.”
“Who said I’m not. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
We stood there at the barrel and looked at each other. Terry looked ready to say something when an explosive roar echoed through the woods. The source of the sound was very close, perhaps fifty feet away, maybe even closer than that. The roaring made my knees weak.
“Bear,” said Odd Whitefeather.
Terry moved closer to my side of the barrel where he could face the woods, not that it would’ve helped. By that time we were surrounded by total blackness and only the flickering firelight hinted at the woods, beyond. Over the sound of the wind in the trees came a deep-throated growl. It was much closer now. I had no doubt that the old man was right, it certainly sounded like a bear. Terry began to back away from the fire.
“Don’t move,” said Odd Whitefeather. “Stay close to the fire.”
“Why?” asked Terry. “So he can get a good look at what’s for dinner?”
“Hush!”
There was a crashing sound followed by a satisfied snort. I watched in terror as the dark form of the bear ambled towards the fire and stopped just five feet away. It stood on its hind legs and seemed to sniff the air. I couldn’t be sure, but I was pretty sure it was a black bear, not the ten thousand pound grizzly that I’d been expecting. Still, for a black bear, this bear was very large, perhaps three hundred pounds. I watched it as it watched us. Then it returned to its feet, walking on four legs and ambling up to Odd Whitefeather.
“Like the Eagle, Bear is our friend. He has come to help us,” said Odd Whitefeather, scratching the beast behind the ears. “What we need now are a few more friends.”
“Can I pet him?” asked Terry.
“I don’t think so,” replied the old man. “He’s just woken up from his winter’s sleep and he’s very hungry.”
“Gotcha.”
Odd Whitefeather closed his eyes and began to speak in the old tongue. The bear was lying on its side and warming its large belly by the barrel. Seeing that gave me hope. I could read the same thoughts in Terry’s eyes. We stood our ground, listening to the old man’s chants as the wind howled through the trees.
I never heard the cougars. They slunk up from out of the woods, a pair of them, and they too sniffed the air with a distinct interest. Terry hadn’t noticed them and I gave him a nudge, nodding my head in their direction. They were long and lean, their muscles rippling in the firelight. They stalked around the barrel a few times before positioning themselves behind Terry and I. Odd Whitefeather never opened his eyes, but I was certain that he knew they were there.
Still, Odd Whitefeather continued to speak the old words, asking for help from our brothers in the forest. Five minutes after the cougars silently joined our ranks; five large wolves padded their way out of the blackness. They stopped at the edge of the dancing firelight and sat on their haunches. I looked to Terry and he nodded his head in approval. A moment later came a terrific thrashing from the woods, and we were treated to the sight of a huge bull moose. Somehow, the sight of the moose startled me more than any of the other creatures. This bull hadn’t shed its antlers, and they were the strangest set that I’d ever seen. One side of the antlers grew straight out at a ninety degree angle, like a great wing protruding from its skull; the other, drooped down before spiking upwards and fanning out. The moose took all of us in, scenting the air as the others had done, before settling in next to the bear.
I cupped my hands over the fire and tried to warm myself. The temperature had continued to tumble and the wind lashed at my parka. What snow that fell was driven into my ears and down my neck and I found myself compulsively brushing it away.
The laughter began low in the trees, low enough so that I wasn’t immediately sure of what I was hearing. The sound began to build in intensity, growing into a shrieking fit of r
oaring laughter that seemed to rattle my bones. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end and I shivered with fear. The thunderous laughter echoed on the wind and died in the pit of my stomach. Terry’s eyes were large and his head darted from side to side. Even the animals from the forest took notice; lifting their heads and perking up their ears.
Odd Whitefeather never opened his eyes and continued with his ritual. The sight of the old man standing there, dressed in his snowmobile outfit; long white hair flapping in the wind, was nearly comical. Still, I never thought it was funny. As the terrible laughter from the Windigo faded away, I wondered if I would ever laugh again.
Then, from out of the murk emerged the form of a man. He stood just outside our firelight and seemed to be taking us all in. Could this be the Windigo? I thought to myself. I didn’t think so, for the appearance of the form had somehow given me a great comfort, as if our army was now complete.
Odd Whitefeather stopped his chanting and opened his eyes. “Grandfather,” he said. “My heart is filled with joy. Thank you for joining us.”
The man emerged from the shadows and walked directly to Odd
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