Dead of Winter

by Brian Moreland

  Chris was nowhere in sight.

  “Son!” Tom followed bloody tracks along the stockade.

  His throat clenched. He struggled to breathe.

  He raced into the woods. Branches clawing. Trees spinning. Bloody footprints everywhere. “Chris!”

  The trail ended at a snow mound with red blotches.

  Tom fell to his knees, digging.

  He dug up a hand, an arm, a shoulder, blond hair. So much blood. When he uncovered what was left of his son’s face, Tom fell back against a tree and wailed.

  Part Four

  Outbreak

  40

  The patrol of six riders returned to Fort Pendleton that evening. In the cemetery, the soldiers dug graves as a crowd of mournful villagers watched. Avery Pendleton stood among them in utter shock. Four bodies lay bundled in blankets on the snowy ground. Their boots were the only part exposed.

  The mission to Manitou Outpost had brought about horrifying news and more deaths. The French Canadian fur trappers he had employed were all gone. They apparently ran out of food and cannibalized one another for survival. Pendleton had heard of such atrocities happening during the long winters, usually among the Indians. He never imagined cannibalism would happen among his own workers. The chief factor, Master Pierre Lamothe, was never found. His daughter Zoé seemed to be the only survivor. The sick girl was still tied to her bed at Hospital House, recovering from pneumonia.

  The news that stabbed into Pendleton’s heart like a knife was the loss of Chris Hatcher. Pendleton had encouraged Tom to move his son out to the fort, a refuge far away from Montréal where they could start a new life. Now, two weeks later, Tom Hatcher’s boy was dead.

  As the soldiers began digging four graves, the inspector and Brother Andre watched with solemn faces. The Jesuit missionary had his bible open and mouthed a silent prayer. Tom just stood there, his eyes bloodshot.

  Pendleton offered a sympathetic look, but Tom kept his gaze on his son’s covered body.

  The soldiers rammed their shovels against the ground. After they removed the two-foot layer of snow, the black earth underneath was hard as slate. They were making very little progress. One of the soldiers rested on his shovel.

  “Keep digging,” Lt. Hysmith ordered.

  “Ground’s frozen solid, sir.”

  “Put some more muscle into it!”

  The soldiers continued to chip at the ground. After a few more strikes of the spades without so much as an inch of depth, Sgt. Cox turned to his lieutenant. “Sir, looks like we gotta store the bodies till next thaw.”

  Lt. Hysmith nodded. “All right, get some sheets.”

  “No.” Inspector Hatcher grabbed a shovel and started hacking at the frozen soil. He grunted as he struggled to dig his son’s grave. The shovel handle snapped. He cursed and hurled the broken pieces. He fell to his knees, his hands shaking.

  Pendleton put a hand on the inspector’s shoulder. “Tom, I’m sorry. We’re going to have to store them for now. We’ll give him a proper burial at first thaw. Andre, see to it he gets home.”

  As the Jesuit escorted Tom away, Pendleton gazed down at the four bodies that were wrapped like mummies. He nodded toward the soldiers. “Okay, men, store them in the Dead House.”

  41

  Tom slammed open the door of his cabin and went straight for a bottle of whiskey. He unplugged the cork and drank from the bottle. Coughing, he took a seat at the table and swigged again.

  Andre stood inside the den. “Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much.”

  Tom didn’t answer, just kept gulping and coughing.

  Andre sat down at the table and motioned toward the bottle. Tom slid it across the table into Andre’s hand. Together the two men drank, sinking deeper into their own misery.

  42

  Ojibwa Village

  Midnight

  Kunetayyyyyyy.

  Kunetay Timberwolf awoke to the calling of his name. With a violent jerk, he sat up in his bedding, the buffalo hide bunched around his legs. Sweat drenched his face. Fever burned beneath his skin, but far deeper, at the center of his chest, ached a painful coldness, as if his heart had turned to ice.

  Bad dreams.

  The Indian rubbed his damp face and got his bearings. The small hut was filled with the soft sounds of his wife and children sleeping at the far end. He could smell their skin, their hair, the moon time blood of his wife. Kunetay’s belly ached with hunger. He crawled out of bed and crouched in the orange glow from the cooking pit. He rummaged through the food, gnawing on a piece of deer jerky. He devoured all the salted venison, but it wasn’t enough. Outside, there came a distant howling. Kunetay jerked his head. The wind raked its nails across the birch bark walls. “Kunetayyyyyyy.”

  The wiitigos had tracked him.

  Somehow the trapper did not feel fear. At the doorway, the deerskin flap flew upward. The freezing gale entered his home. It whirled around him in a frosty embrace, merged with the cold in his chest. It spread to his loins, causing his member to grow stiff. He had visions of mutilated bodies. Blood on the walls. Blood on him. Voices whispered inside Kunetay’s head. He grabbed a knife and approached the bed.

  His wife sat up. Mumbled something about the cold.

  He threw more wood on the fire. His wife buried herself beneath the fur blankets. He stood over her. One of the children got up and stared at his father with sleepy eyes.

  Kunetay froze. “Go back to sleep, Little Elk.” The small boy climbed back in bed with his mother.

  Kunetay glared at the knife in his hand. What was he about to do?

  The voices returned, whispering in his head.

  “No, not them,” he said.

  Fully naked, the Indian stepped out into the night. He welcomed the frosty air. His bare feet stepped through the snow. His dogs barked. He opened the pen, and they backed to the corner, showing their fangs. He grabbed the closest dog by the nape and dragged it out. Behind the hut, the trees swayed, the branches clacking. The night shape-shifted into many animal forms. One towered above all the others. Kunetay craned his neck, staring upward. The full moon outlined a head with broad antlers, a long snout. The beast’s fangs glistened with frozen drool as it released a breath that smelled like carrion. The thing growled. Kunetay felt his own cravings for meat as he crouched behind his dog and dragged the knife across its throat.

  43

  The entire fort colony—over forty men, women, and children—gathered inside the chapel for the funeral service. Wearing a black mink coat and matching hat, Willow Pendleton cried. They all hung their heads as Brother Andre gave his eulogy.

  “Dear God in heaven, we are gathered here today to pay respects to those we’ve lost.” The Jesuit lit candles at an altar that displayed oval photos of Chris Hatcher and Sakari Kennicot, as well as trinkets belonging to the victims who had died within the past three months. A flask, a comb, and a few uniform buttons represented the three soldiers who had been slain yesterday. Also on the altar was Father Jacques’ rosary and bible.

  The congregation stood in the nave and sang hymns. Willow stared numbly at Tom Hatcher, sitting in the front pew, stoic beside a teary-eyed Percy Kennicot. Tom’s red eyes gazed at his son’s photo. Willow wished she could take away Tom’s pain. Seeing him lose his only child made her heart ache.

  Sniffling, Willow pressed a handkerchief to her nose. Her husband Avery gripped her other hand. She searched the faces of the crowd. Lt. Hysmith stood in his red uniform along with his soldiers. Behind the garrison stood Anika Moonblood. She wasn’t singing. A bandage covered part of her forehead. Willow glowered at the Ojibwa woman. Rumor was she was supposed to be protecting Chris yesterday. She probably wanted the boy to die like the others.

  You put a curse on our fort, didn’t you, witch?

  Anika looked up. Feeling pierced by the witch’s gaze, Willow glanced away.

  44

  One by one, the colonists approached the altar and paid their respects. When Anika got her turn, she opened a rabbit
pelt, taking one last look at the object inside. The antler carving of a white buffalo was her most treasured gift from her uncle Swiftbear.

  Anika held back any tears, withdrawing the sorrow into her tight face. She set the tiny buffalo on the altar beside Chris’ photo. May this guide you safely to the land of White Buffalo.

  Tom stepped beside her, whispering his own prayer. His eyes were full of pain and rage. Anika felt she needed to say something. Apologize. But there were no words.

  Brother Andre and the mourners sang more hymns. The native woman walked back up the center aisle, feeling a dozen angry eyes upon her, accusing her. A man mouthed the word “Witch,” then returned to his singing. She walked back to her pew feeling as if a clawed hand were wrapped around her heart, squeezing tighter and tighter.

  The chapel went quiet. Everyone bowed their heads.

  Brother Andre held open his bible. “‘Ashes to ashes and dust to dust…’”

  When the service was over, Anika remained seated as the mourners left the chapel. Avery Pendleton tugged at his wife’s arm, but she shrugged it off. He walked up the aisle, buttoning his black fur coat. He grimaced and tipped his hat at Anika, then exited the chapel.

  As Brother Andre went to his chambers, Anika found herself inside the nave with only Tom Hatcher and Willow Pendleton. The chief factor’s wife sat in the second row pew, sniffling. Why had she remained behind?

  Anika approached the altar. Candlelight outlined the silhouette of Tom’s head. She set a hand onto the inspector’s shoulder. He tensed, but let her keep it there. Pulling out his son’s whittled flute, Tom blew into it, whistling a shrill sound that had no melody.

  45

  Brother Andre tapped on the open door to Master Pendleton’s office. “Sir, I was wondering if I could speak with you about a matter?”

  The chief factor was sitting at his desk, writing notes in his log. Without looking up, he said, “I’ll be with you in a moment. Have a seat.”

  Andre sat down in one of the plush leather chairs that faced the enormous cherry-wood desk. He surveyed all the mounted antlers and stuffed animals, including a marble-eyed wolverine that seemed to bare its fangs at the corner of the chief factor’s desk.

  Pendleton stabbed his quill into an inkwell. “All right, so what is this matter?”

  Andre fidgeted with his hands. “It’s regarding Father Jacques’ diary, sir. His request was that it reach Father Xavier at the Notre Dame basilica in Montréal. The message seems urgent and, after all that’s happened—”

  “With Father Jacques dead, the diary serves no purpose now.”

  “But maybe if Father Xavier translated it, we could learn more about what happened at Manitou Outpost.”

  “We’ve assessed what happened. The bloody trappers turned cannibal on each other. It occurs out here during winter, especially at the more remote posts. Sorry, Andre, but your priest chose the wrong fort to do his mission work.”

  His heart ached for the loss of his mentor. “But Father Jacques stressed how important the diary is to the Church. He risked the life of a little girl to deliver it to us.”

  Pendleton sighed, “What are you proposing? That I send my couriers to Montréal in the middle of winter?”

  “Actually, sir” –Andre sat forward– “I wish to deliver it personally. The bishop needs to be informed that Father Jacques was killed.”

  “And how do you propose to get there?”

  “I was hoping your voyageurs could take me in one of the canoes. I just need to get to Ottawa. From there I could catch the ferry—”

  “Out of the question. No one leaves the fort until spring.”

  “But it would only take a few days—”

  “My decision is final, Andre! End of discussion.”

  Andre huffed, his upper lip shaking. “Then may I at least have his diary back?”

  “No, it’s staying with me.” Pendleton returned to writing in his log. “Now, if you’ll kindly see yourself out, I have more urgent matters to deal with.”

  Andre glowered at the chief factor. He had disliked Avery Pendleton since the day the Jesuit missionaries had first left Quebec and journeyed to Fort Pendleton. Now, with the denial to carry out his mentor’s holy mission, Andre wanted to dump the inkwell on Pendleton’s stubborn head. But Andre had endured enough Catholic discipline to refrain from acting out his hostile emotions. And he had plenty of self-inflicted bruises to remind himself of his devotion to the Church.

  As Andre rose to leave, Lt. Hysmith knocked at the open door. “Beg your pardon, Master Pendleton, but we got an Indian messenger outside the gate. There’s been more killings at their village.”

  46

  A patrol of soldiers on horseback followed an Indian messenger across the creek to the Ojibwa village. Tom and Anika rode among them, gripping rifles. Tom’s head ached from a hangover. Vengeance burned in his blood.

  As the horse riders rode into the village, Tom saw several red patches in the snow. Anika made a sobbing sound and put a hand to her mouth. According to the Indian messenger, Kunetay Timberwolf had gone on a murderous rampage in the middle of the night. At least ten men, women, and even a few children were missing. One trapper’s body was lying facedown. His head was split with an axe, the weapon left jutting from the back of his skull. The killer’s bloody tracks crisscrossed into numerous trails. As Tom and Anika dismounted their horses, Chief Mokomaan approached with three Indian warriors. They all carried bows nocked with arrows.

  “What happened?” Tom asked.

  The old chief shook his head as he gazed at the carnage all around them.

  Tom searched the village for the killer. “Where is Kunetay?”

  “Gone,” Chief Mokomaan said, his voice filled with pain. “Into the woods.”

  Tom said to Lt. Hysmith, “Spread out the men and find Kunetay.” With the lieutenant relaying orders, the dozen soldiers charged off on a manhunt.

  Anika said, “Is Grandmother Spotted Owl alive?”

  “She’s with the tribe.” Mokomaan pointed to a large wigwam where two warriors guarded the entrance. Anika hurried to the wigwam and stepped inside. Tom felt a stabbing in his chest, as he remembered the night Chris had been sitting among the elders and smoking a ceremonial pipe. He suppressed the pain, doing his best to concentrate on the crime scene. Tom turned to the chief. “Where is Kunetay’s hut?”

  Mokomaan led him to a birch bark hut that was set off from the others, bordering the tree line. The air reeked of offal. The gate to a dog pen stood open. There were no huskies inside, but the snow was saturated with blood and tufts of fur. At the hut’s entrance, Tom saw something on the outside wall that stopped him in his tracks.

  Red spirals. A dozen of them were marked around the entrance.

  Tom turned to the chief. “What do these symbols mean?”

  Mokomaan kept his distance from the hut. “Warnings of evil spirits.”

  Tom stepped inside Kunetay’s hut. Butchered limbs and ropy entrails hung from the rafters. Boiling in a stewpot was a woman’s head and heart. Tom covered his nose with a handkerchief and explored the rest of the hut. In the dark corner lay two small bodies. What the trapper had done to his own children turned Tom’s stomach. He stepped back outside as Anika was approaching.

  Tom marched past her. “We have another cannibal on the loose.” He cocked his Winchester rifle, heading toward the woods. “Let’s find the son of a bitch.”

  47

  Fort Pendleton

  Hospital House

  Willow sat in a rocking chair, cradling an Indian doll. Zoé Lamothe was still sleeping, her thin arms tied to the bedposts. She hadn’t woken in over a day, and Doc Riley had said she might have gone into a coma. The girl was unaware that her mother was dead and her father missing. Zoé was the only known survivor who had escaped the massacre at Manitou Outpost. The thought that Pierre Lamothe might well be dead troubled Willow. She had first met the French Canadian officer back in Montréal last summer. She was attending a compa
ny banquet with Avery. Pierre, a handsome gentleman in his thirties, had sat next to her. As Avery gave one of his typical speeches about the upcoming fur-trading season, Willow had felt a hand caress her thigh. Her heart rising in her chest, she glanced toward Pierre. He gazed at her with a mischievous look in his eyes.

  A wheezing sound snapped Willow out of her reverie. Once again, Zoé’s eyelids were half-open, the pale white irises gazing blankly.

  Willow shivered. She left the girl’s room and sat down at the kitchen table with Doc and Myrna Riley. The elderly couple were playing cards.

  Doc asked, “Did Zoé wake up yet?”

  “Not so much as a stir. Her forehead is ice cold.”

  “I don’t know how that lass keeps hanging on. She should be dead.” Doc coughed into a handkerchief. His skin had a sick pallor to it, as if he were coming down with a cold.

  “Take some more castor oil,” Myrna said.

  “I just had some.” He winked at Willow. “Sometimes she forgets who the doctor is in this house.”

  Myrna dealt the cards. “He forgets I worked in a hospital in Dublin for fifteen years before he dragged me out to this godforsaken land.”

  “You love Canada and you know it.”

  Willow smiled as the old couple quarreled. The three drank tea and played a hand of Reverse, her favorite card game.

  “Christ, this pain,” Doc Riley grumbled when it was his turn to deal. He peeled back the bandage on his hand. The bite had turned the skin a purplish-black. Vile yellow pus oozed from Zoé’s teeth marks. Three fingers had swollen to the size of sausages.

  Myrna shook her head. “Quit fussing with it.”

  “It burns like the Devil’s tits.” Doc pressed a knife to the engorged skin and lanced out more of the mucus. “Get me some more morphine, will you, love?”

  “You’re getting poison all over my clean floor,” Myrna said. “Come with me. I’ll redress it for you.”