Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1)

by Josh Reynolds

  He positioned the arrow against the bow, the two smooth feathers picked and fastened by Ma’iingan himself.

  “I will seek my revenge on you Little Makwa,” the windigo spat backing away into the trees.

  Ma’iingan drew the arrow back, his feet steadying the arrow in his aim. Taking a deep breath he released the deadly stone-arrow at the same time as he exhaled.

  The windigo’s scream peeled through the air. It batted at the arrow, the stone tip barely missing it as it darted back into the trees. The heavy footsteps reverberated through the frozen ground. Ma’iingan shuddered as he felt the effects of the scream this time, it felt as if his muscles had crystallized painfully within his skin. He retrieved his cannon-bone knife from within the furs and sawed a tuft of hair from the windigo’s corpse. As he pulled the hair free he felt the welcoming warmth returning to his muscles.

  Taking one last glance at the clearing for any sign of the predator he pondered taking out the sweet grass again but didn’t want to stop and build a fire. Stinging instincts warned him not to linger.

  Shouldering the bow once more he kept the bone knife in his hand, the windigo’s threat echoing in his head. The warmth hadn’t completely returned to his numbing body but it was improving with the demon’s retreat. Layered in rabbit fur he doubted it would take long to work the blood again. The wolf pelt lining was weighed down with icy balls of snow from the long days in wilderness. His long midnight hair was tucked into the wrap-around, covering his ears from the cold.

  After a mile he stopped looking over his shoulder and focused on his long journey home.

  He couldn’t wait to teach the elders a thing or two. Aasemaa-ikwe, his wife, was the reason for his fasting away from the village. His brethren and the medicine man, Gaag weren’t able to cure her. No amount of prayer, ceremonies or smudging seemed enough to repair her withering body.

  This deed of killing the cannibalistic windigo would gain him favor with the spirits. With Gichi-Manitou. It had to.

  The tribe’s Ogimaa-Migizi had vehemently protested to Ma’iingan wandering off to fast for his sick wife. Migizi believed he’d be vulnerable to the evil spirits, especially without the protection of the drums. But here he was, he found himself in the precarious situation of being predator. The smile parted his lips as he recalled the kill, the sound of victory when the arrow had plunged deep into the beast’s eye. He chuckled softly and thought of his wife. She would be very proud of him.

  On his journey he braided the tuft of white hair keeping his senses sharp for any sign of the other windigo. He didn’t doubt that the creature would seek revenge. He could be stalking him right now. Just in case, Ma’iingan walked in a few circles, created false trails whenever he could just to keep the creature off his trail.

  By nightfall he slept for only a few minutes here and there, determined not to let the demon get too close. The cold night brought snow, but not a blizzard. Sometimes windigo’s could carry blizzards with them. Trudging through the thick snow he indulged in a drink, letting the white crystals to melt in his mouth. His fasting was over, something in his heart told him so. He wasn’t sure what it was, perhaps the spirits reassuring him of his deed. He would be rewarded. Taking great comfort in the idea he imagined the Ogimaa’s face when he’d relay the story. He imagined many different outcomes. Especially where he could talk to the medicine man about his warnings. They were so set in their ways that youthful ideas—mostly his ideas—were too drastic or different for them to accept.

  Walking in the early morning light, his thoughts were interrupted by color in the snow several yards ahead.

  Pausing in mid-step Ma’iingan scanned the smooth surface for any sign of a predator. There were tracks that lead to the lump and away in the same direction but they were filled in with snow from the night before, leaving only smooth indents in the snow. He couldn’t even identify what kind of predator it had been.

  Wondering if it was safe to approach, Ma’iingan pulled the stone knife from his cloak of furs. He was a man after all, the master hunter of these woods. His eyes narrowed in their determination as he inched closer. Was it an abandoned kill? He wondered as he moved forward.

  Reaching it he brushed small mounds of the snow away from the corpse.

  Ma’iingan froze. It wasn’t an animal. It was a man stripped naked and draped in rust-colored blood.

  His eyes snapped up to the trees, his quickened breath curling away from his lips in a mist.

  He stood there for several minutes watching the area for the predator. It had to be the work of an animal. Entrails were missing entirely, the rib cage cracked open as if it were as easy to rip apart as a duck’s fragile bones. Everything was frozen, even the blood pooled inside the hollowed body had solidified but wasn’t quite covered in snow, the warmth would have melted it during the snowfall at first.

  Ma’iingan knew he should start moving again, to remove his scent from the scene but he couldn’t help but to wonder whom the man was.

  Meat had been stripped from most of the bones, leaving only bits behind.

  The head had been removed completely from the corpse. Ma’iingan remembered the pearly skull rolling through the snow. Could it have been his?

  Ma’iingan shuddered as he imagined the agony the man must have endured before his death.

  He knew he had to flee before the surviving windigo decided to come back for its meal. It wouldn’t be long before it did, as they were always hungry.

  Hurrying through the snow he began to make new false trails, just to be safe. The image of the dead man haunted his memory as he walked non-stop back to the village. He was exhausted by the time he saw the smoke.

  The lack of food had drained his energy almost entirely. The idea of collapsing into the furs within his home almost made him lose his footing.

  Breaking through the trees he walked along the shoreline of the frozen lake, revealing himself so not to startle anyone. The lake lay untouched, blinding white and vast, the white-cloaked evergreens on the other side were nearly shadows in the distance.

  Stepping past the empty fish racks he watched the smoke curling into the gloomy gray sky.

  Tall timbers surrounded the village protectively. The sky was a permanent gray in the winter months it seemed. The village consisted of several domed wiigiwaam housing. They were generally tall enough to duck inside and kneel. They were covered in leather, furs and supported with green willow saplings and birch.

  Surprisingly only a few of his fellow villagers waved a reluctant greeting in his direction.

  Several had their heads down, didn’t even take notice of him. His people were kind and family oriented. They didn’t shun or distract themselves from one of their own.

  Confused, his steps began to slow as he felt an oppression fall over his shoulders. He could feel the presence of something dark, something that was plaguing the small tribesmen and women.

  A familiar scowl caught his attention and he shuffled towards the medicine man. “Did someone die?” He asked bluntly, motioning to the strange behavior all around him.

  Gaag, the medicine man raised his dark bushy eyebrows. “They feel something coming.”

  Ma’iingan stopped and listened to the air, hearing little beyond bird-calls in the air.

  Gaag poised another question before Ma’iingan could investigate. “Back so soon?” The numerous wrinkles had sunken around the corners of his mouth.

  “Yes,” Ma’iingan answered, swallowing dryly. “I was fortunate indeed. I found a sign.” He reached into his furs with one hand as Gaag passed him a sealed rawhide pouch. Taking the pouch with one hand Ma’iingan produced the white hair for the medicine man to see.

  At first Gaag narrowed his already slit eyes at the hair. He began to reach for it when his fingers appeared to cramp up before Ma’iingan’s eyes. His face contorted in pain before he retracted his hand, promptly holding it protectively to his chest. “You’ve come across an evil spirit. I warned you that you’d be vulnerable out there. You
should have stayed where you could hear the drums and the singing could protect you…”

  Shaking off the speech he had heard numerous times before he left, Ma’iingan interrupted. “How’s Aasemaa-ikwe?” He placed the braid back into his furs and pulled apart the sinew to get to the pemmican within the pouch.

  Gaag frowned in disappointment at the youth.

  Ma’iingan smiled brightly, knowing he’d irked the old man. He stuffed the first food he had in three days into his mouth. It had to be the best pemmican he had ever tasted. “Is that blueberries?”

  Gaag sighed patiently and decided to answer Ma’iingan about his wife finally. “She suffered several bad dreams. However, this morning…”

  As if hearing her name, Ma’iingan’s wife emerged from a wiigiwaam several feet away. She was wrapped tightly in furs, but she was walking.

  Ma’iingan froze staring at her, she was still thin but she could stand. She had been too weak to do much of anything for the last three weeks. Elated, he brushed past Gaag, sprinting towards the skeletal woman. Despite her malnutrition, the bags had smoothed under her eyes, the bright intelligence glistening her dark eyes once again. She locked gazes with him and the smile split her lips winsomely. Calling his name she hurried to meet him, not quite a run, but almost a jog.

  Ma’iingan dropped the bow and rawhide filled with pemmican into the packed snow to embrace his wife. His hands wrapped around her back and held her close. The sensation twisted his heart as the pessimism he had been told began to lose its oppressive weight. “Are you really alright?” He asked into her thinning raven hair.

  She whispered gruffly. “Yes.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday. I woke up from a bad dream and I was sitting up. I walked all the way to the edge of the lake. I couldn’t believe it. Neither could Gaag.” She beamed up at him, her narrow features stretching over her skull taut. He held her tight again, pulling her close. He had worried for weeks that he would lose her.

  “They said you refused to fast in the circle,” she whispered against his ear, her breath was chilled in the winter air.

  He squeezed her protectively. “Gaag couldn’t do anything so I found a way.”

  “What did you find?” She asked in her soft throaty whisper. Pulling back, her eyes wide with wonder she appeared as beautiful as the day he married her. He basked in her attentions for a few moments before opening his mouth to reply.

  “Ma’iingan!” A voice boomed, it belonged to the one and only Ogimaa-Migizi. The man wasn’t tall but he had the shoulders of the plains buffalo and a scowl that could intimidate even starving bald eagles. The youngest children often gave the chief a wide berth when playing.

  Ma’iingan reluctantly lowered his arms from his wife. “You are better?” He asked again, cautiously.

  She nodded after a moment’s hesitation, eyes flickering towards the Ogimaa uncertainly. For an instant he thought he saw a shadow of fierce apprehension cross her brown eyes. “Are you in trouble?” She asked lightly, turning her attentions back to him. The sweet innocence returned so quickly he shrugged off the oddity as his imagination. Aasemaa-ikwe had always held a high regard for their Ogimaa-Migizi, he was her uncle after all.

  Brushing back her hair reassuringly he answered. “I’ll be fine.” Smiling down at her she smiled back credulously.

  It took all of his will power to let her go and started towards the largest wiigiwaam that the Ogimaa-Migizi stood beside. Upon seeing Ma’iingan’s approach he ducked inside.

  Seated on the floor around the small fire was both the Ogimaa and Gaag the medicine man.

  Easing into the structure, the flap fell back into place behind him. The crackling fire rippling warmth through the small space, he felt it sting his cold cheeks.

  Motioned to join them the Ogimaa waited as Ma’iingan sat. “I see Aasemaa-ikwe is feeling better.”

  Sitting across from the two men around the fire he inspected them both, the smoke lingered in the air though the majority escaping through the hole in the ceiling.

  Ogimaa motioned for Ma’iingan to begin. “Tell us what happened.”

  Briefly, Ma’iingan related the tale of the windigo and its empty threats. He assured them of his tracking techniques and that he hadn’t felt its presence since he left.

  “You don’t have to feel it around. It can inhabit a body by a simple dream,” Gaag snapped. His eyes grew round, understanding beginning to seep into his gaze. “The hair. You brought its hair back. You should have burned it!”

  “With what?” Ma’iingan demanded. “There was a second one. I couldn’t stay.”

  “This is why our people have felt the cold liked never before these last few days. You sought out the…”

  “I did not. It found me!”

  The Ogimaa’s booming voice thundered over both of theirs, muting them instantly. “Last night she complained of chest pains and this morning she woke feeling better.” The Ogimaa stared at Ma’iingan sternly the silence stretched amongst the men for several seconds. “Windigos are foul creatures, the spirit of that creature can still survive in that single hair you brought back with you. The one left alive could have followed you back here.”

  Ma’iingan shook his head as he felt the edge of hysteria creep into his throat, closing it completely.

  Ogimaa-Migizi lowered his voice, gently saying, “windigo’s don’t cure. They infect.”

  “I’ll burn the hair now.” Ma’iingan fumbled within his wrap-around for the hair. Gripping it in his fist he thrust it into the fire between them without a moment’s hesitation.

  Gaag stared at the sizzling frays in the flames uncomfortably. Sorrow swelled in his eyes and he didn’t quite meet Ma’iingan’s gaze, revealing how helpful the burning truly was at this point.

  Ma’iingan implored desperately. “You can’t kill her, she’s not a windigo. I just spoke to her and she seemed perfectly fine.”

  Suddenly the flap was flung open and one of the scouts poked his head inside. He froze when he saw Ma’iingan. “Back so soon?” He parroted Gaag from earlier.

  Sighing patiently, the Ogimaa said evenly. “What is it?”

  “Mother told me that Genebig wandered off the night before last. He hasn’t come back from his hunt.”

  Ogimaa asked. “What about the two that went with him?”

  “They’re back. But, they said he wandered off. Kept hearing his name being called in the trees…”

  “Did they hear his name?” Gaag asked apprehensively.

  The scout shook his head reluctantly.

  Gaag’s cocoa-colored eyes snapped to Ma’iingan accusingly. “You let evil spirits follow you back. You weren’t protected out there. You would have been here.” He started to stand muttering about the amount of sweet grass he would have to use to smudge away Ma’iingan’s selfishness.

  Ma’iingan sat dumbfounded as he tried to consider other possibilities.

  The Ogimaa stood up as well, hunched in the confined wiigiwaam. “Go with them, Ma’iingan. I want everyone here so we can warn them.”

  “Of what?”

  “The windigo. We have to prepare ourselves.”

  Ma’iingan was about to argue. He was certain it hadn’t followed him. He had been so careful. Blinking away the surprise he remembered the body in the woods. Could it have been Genebig the hunter? He started to warn the Ogimaa when a sharp scream forced everyone’s attentions outside.

  Racing out of the wiigiwaam the three men nearly fell over each other to get outside.

  The strong scent of fire was the first thing Ma’iingan noticed. His eyes focused on the intense blaze. It had cross over four wiigiwaams already, gaining momentum as he watched a woman gather her infant in her arms, fleeing the area and screaming names.

  A few of the elders were helping guide the children towards the trees, away from the flames.

  “How did that happen?” Ma’iingan gaped.

  “The demons have their ways,” Gaag said in a flat tone.r />
  Glancing at the medicine man Ma’iingan saw something on his face that he didn’t expect. Fear.

  Ogimaa began to shout orders over the ruction trying to move people towards the trees in groups. “Don’t split up!” He continuously shouted.

  Ma’iingan began searching for his wife, sorting through the crowds, trying to find her frail figure amongst the fray.

  People burst past him in a blur. One of the hunters nearly bowled him over in his haste. Ma’iingan started to call his name when he realized the man was naked except for the leather moccasins at his feet. Blood spread around his shoulders and back so thick it had plastered his dark hair against his back and it almost appeared as if he was wearing some form of clothing even though he wasn’t. The hunter struggled in his pace but didn’t show signs of slowing.

  Ma’iingan saw the bite marks down the side of the man’s arm. He left a splattered trail of crimson in the snow. It was here. The windigo was here. He felt the realization strike him sickeningly deep, the guilt swelling inside of him like storm cloud.

  Grimacing, he tried to shout for Aasemaa-ikwe, but his voice could not be heard over the flames and desperate clamor.

  Struggling around the crowd he yanked one of the children to their feet before the boy was trampled. Shoving him towards the trees with the rest he shouted her name. “Aasemaa-ikwe!”

  The cacophony of voices overcame his before he could finish calling her name.

  Shoving past a few of the villagers he bumped into Esiban, one of his fellow hunters.

  Esiban flashed a humorless smile, revealing the coating of blood within the crevices of his teeth.

  Startled Ma’iingan instinctively took a step back, which saved his life.

  Lunging Esiban shoved an obsidian knife at his stomach. There were only three men in the tribe who had sacred obsidian knives and Esiban wasn’t one of them.

  Ma’iingan grabbed for Esiban’s wrist, trying to avoid another attack but the man was too quick. Avoiding the grab, Esiban hopped back his eyes wildly flickering from side to side.