Windigo Thrall

by Cate Culpepper

  “Come on, I like them.” Becca set the small framed photos she insisted on carrying with them everywhere on the mantel of the large fireplace. “Grady has a good smile, and it’s cool that Elena’s familiar with spiritual lore. She might prove helpful in this study.”

  “Chambliss hired an anthropologist for this study, not her girlfriend.” Jo tuned the synthesizer carefully into the speakers. “She’ll probably want to throw in a lot of primitive superstition. We don’t need her mixing in Hispanic folk myths when this is a purely Native American phen—”

  Becca’s arms sliding around her waist from behind silenced her. “Dearest, do you plan to be in this mood throughout the upcoming blizzard? Because if you are, I’m moving directly to the dumping you outside in the slush option, and I’ll spend the night in here making s’mores with Grady and Elena and Pat.”

  Jo smiled reluctantly and turned in Becca’s arms. She sifted the softness of her hair in her fingers. Becca’s tone had been light, but there was a weariness in her gaze that made Jo uneasy. She quickly reviewed everything she had said to the other three women on the drive here. She had just answered their questions, hadn’t she? She hadn’t been rude.

  “I’ll cheer up. I promise.” Jo glanced up the wide staircase to check their privacy, then lowered her head and kissed Becca gently. “We brought plenty of groceries. If you like, we can make them a nice dinner.”

  Becca accepted her peace offering with a second kiss, a light brushing of lips that never failed to thrill Jo. “Uh, neither of us cook all that well, ace. Unless you brought lots of good deli stash…”

  “I did.”

  “Cold cuts it is. And s’mores. Thank you, honey.”

  “You’re welcome.” Jo heard voices on the stairs and released Becca. Grady and Elena had changed out of their traveling clothes and they looked inordinately refreshed as they joined them. Jo remembered the quiet rustling upstairs and surmised they had not spent the entire time unpacking, but that was none of her business.

  Jo wondered if Elena was the reason Grady Wrenn seemed lighter, somehow, than she remembered. She recalled a younger Grady’s disposition as rather somber. She had taken her studies seriously as a doctoral student, and Chambliss said she had been equally diligent and accomplished in her career. Grady hadn’t mentioned the class she took from Jo years ago, and she was grateful. Becca didn’t need to hear another account of her infamous social inadequacy. At least Grady hadn’t been among the cruelest of her students.

  “Our capitol building in Santa Fe is maybe this grand, but maybe not!” Elena turned in a circle, taking in the spacious living room. Jo hardly noticed the luxury of the cabin anymore, and it was interesting to see it through fresh eyes.

  She noted that Grady moved directly to the framed tapestries on the white walls, intrigued by their designs. She expected Elena to check out the large flat-screen television and other recreational amenities, but she focused instead on the photographs Becca had set on the mantel.

  “Such nice faces. Are these your parents, Becca?”

  “Yep, my mom and dad.” Becca smiled. Jo knew any mention of Becca’s lost parents pleased her now more than saddened her, and she was glad for that.

  “I see the resemblance. And these laughing women, these are your friends?”

  “Yeah, that’s me and Jo and our buddies at the Rose, a great place in town. Maybe we can take you there, after we stuff you with salmon at Ivar’s.”

  Jo wished Becca would stop promising these strangers social engagements, but she didn’t really mind. Not with Becca looking at her with a simple affection and pride that warmed her to her core. It was Becca’s reference to “our buddies” which she had spoken so naturally. She knew how hard Jo had worked to open herself to the friends Becca loved so much. How she had struggled to earn her place in their circle, and how pleased they both were that she’d won them over at last.

  “And this beautiful painting of Mount Rainier.” Elena stepped back to admire the large framed oil above the mantel. “Do you know the artist, Jo?”

  “Yes, Pat’s grandmother painted that. She was quite talented. I’m about set up here, Grady, if you’re ready to hear that interview,” Jo said in a friendly and welcoming tone.

  “Sandwiches first, then interview.” Becca headed toward the kitchen. “Somebody call Pat. I can also put cocoa on. That’s an inspired call. I’ll put cocoa on.”

  “I’m glad to help.” Grady followed her, and Jo sighed. She would have much preferred to review the protocol for this study with Grady than make small talk with her girlfriend. She just hoped Grady remembered to wash her hands.

  To her relief, the “spiritual healer” didn’t seem inclined toward aimless chatter. Elena circled the room with her hands clasped behind her, studying the rich leather furniture in oak frames, the sumptuous Pendleton throw rug warming the hardwood floor before the hearth. Soft laughter emerged from the kitchen and, thank goodness, the sound of running water.

  “I wouldn’t even know what to call many of these things.” Elena was standing beside Jo, her tone diffident, looking at the bank of computers and speakers lining the shelves. “You use these to speak to the dead, Jo?”

  At least with this woman, Jo didn’t have to deal with skepticism about survival beyond death, as she often encountered in the public. “Reliable communication with afterlife entities hasn’t been established yet, I’m afraid.” She remembered who she was speaking to and simplified. “We really can’t talk to the dead at will. We’re lucky if we can catch recordings of random messages. I’ve captured a few intriguing ones, though.”

  “Yes, me too.” Elena’s eyes crinkled warmly. “Do you ever hear from that old bat grandmother from Albuquerque? The one who keeps calling her son-in-law a pinche little bitch?”

  It took Jo a moment to realize Elena was joking. After long years of study, she was adept at reading faces, but humor still often eluded her. She chuckled stiffly, and wished Pat would show up to fill the hearth.

  They stood silently together, listening to the faint laughter from the kitchen. Elena’s easiness with the quiet, paradoxically, made it easier for Jo to converse. “It’s fascinating, though, trying to learn why these communications happen. Why ghosts, for lack of a better term, would make the effort to contact the living.”

  “They want us so badly.” Elena rested her shoulder against the mantel. “Our ghosts are lonely for us. They are bonded so strongly to the people they left behind, they cannot bear the silence.”

  Elena couldn’t know she had just described the guiding mystery of Jo’s life—the possibility of such vital human connection, such love. It was why she had gone into this field, why she listened to the dead, to try to grasp the strength of that bond. She had only recently begun to understand it, and the reason was in the kitchen making sub sandwiches.

  “But not every spirit is a harmless one.” Elena seemed somber now, and she stood very still. “They do not always come back for benevolent reasons.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Jo smiled indulgently. “I’ve recorded voices that sounded angry or bitter. But I feel the portrayal of evil, bloodthirsty ghosts is largely a pop culture phenomenon. Something more likely to sell movie tickets than evident in the research—”

  She broke off as Grady stepped down into the living room, carrying a heaping platter of thin-sliced meat and soft rolls. Becca followed with a tray of steaming mugs, her cheeks flushed prettily, apparently from the steam.

  “Grady tells me they make grilled bananas with rum ice cream and Mexican hot chocolate sauce in Mesilla, Jo,” Becca said. “Jo, we’re moving to this Mesilla.”

  Jo helped her settle the tray on the table and entered carefully into the spirit of banter. “Well, we have gourmet chocolate truffles here in Seattle.”

  “I think you’re missing the nuances of dessert, dearest, but I’ll never sneeze at a chocolate truffle.” Becca settled into a chair at the table and brushed her hands together greedily. The relish with which Becca consumed
any food that was not unduly healthy still charmed Jo. She looked up as the broad front door opened. “Oh good, Pat! Just in time for chow. Join us.”

  Pat was carrying a double armload of kindling from the tarped stack she kept fully stocked out back. She grunted something courteous at Becca as she hustled the wood down the flagstone steps to the fireplace. “That’s okay. I’ve got groceries in my trailer. Let me get a fire going here, then I—”

  “Then you will join us for dinner, please,” Becca said. “You guys want any of this? I’d be quick.”

  Apparently, Elena shared Becca’s appreciation of fine cuisine. She plunked down next to Becca and dug in, leaving Jo and Grady to do an awkward two-step around the table to find chairs. They smiled at each other woodenly as they sat.

  “You’ve got a pretty forested spread up here, Jo. Off the beaten track.” Grady lifted a roll and split it open. “It seems nice and secluded.”

  “Yes, my family purchased the property many years ago.” Jo glanced over her shoulder at Pat, who was striking a match to ignite the firewood. She saw no need to get into the specifics of their shared history. “I had this cabin renovated more recently. Thank you,” she added.

  “It’s beautiful up here, but easier to imagine our cannibal monster in these snowy woods.” Becca bit deeply into her sandwich and still managed to talk around it gracefully. “With those tall trees pressing in and a storm coming on, this place is perfect for Windigo ghost stories.”

  “Strictly speaking, the Windigo isn’t a ghost.” Jo hesitated, then deferred to Grady, more the expert when it came to such myths, and hoped Becca noticed her graciousness. “Isn’t that correct?”

  Her mouth full, Grady shrugged, nodded, then shrugged again. Elena laughed and dabbed a smudge of mustard from the side of Grady’s mouth with her finger.

  “Right,” Grady said finally. “I know more about southwestern tribes than those who live in the north, but I believe the Windigo was never a living human being. It was a malevolent spirit that possessed humans and turned them into cannibals.”

  Pat approached the table, brushing wood dust off her palms, her blunt features ruddy from the cold. Becca smiled a welcome and scooted her chair to make room for her, then turned back to Grady. “That’s the Windigo’s entire résumé? That’s all it did? Boo, you’re a cannibal, go eat someone?”

  Grady grinned, but Elena was listening carefully. “Well, it was a pretty handy spook to have around. The northern tribes had to endure some terrible winters. Awful famines. Cannibalism was a tremendous taboo among the Chippewa because it was a very real prospect when people got desperate enough. Investing a lot of fear in a Windigo helped keep the social order.”

  “What a sad necessity.” Becca looked at the lavish spread of food before them. “There’s a miracle that rarely occurs to me. That none of us will probably ever know hunger like that.”

  “Gracias a Diosa,” Elena murmured.

  Jo helped herself to potato salad and studied Pat, unable to read her face. Jo had once been incapable of reading most facial expression or body language, but she had made a thorough and careful study of human micro expressions. Now she could write texts on interpreting them. She wondered if Pat’s guarded look was due to some offense she was taking at their conversation. Perhaps some politically incorrect insensitivity? “Are you familiar with this particular Native legend, Pat? I doubt that the Chippewa have much in common with your Makah tribe.”

  “No. I don’t know anything about the Windigo.” Pat accepted a sandwich from Grady with a nod of thanks.

  Jo sighed. Perhaps Pat’s frown was due to Jo’s comment about purchasing the property that had belonged to Pat’s family for generations. It was amazing how long some people could hold a grudge. Jo had been all of five years old when her parents bought this land; she could hardly be blamed if Pat’s people were disenfranchised. She had been more than generous, trying to atone. She scowled at her. Pat was strong as an ox, but she was looking a little thin. She lived alone now. There was no one around to make sure she was taking good care of herself. Jo pushed the bowl of potato salad toward Pat sternly and then heard faint chiming music.

  Becca peered around. “Is that ‘Season of the Witch’?”

  “We just sat down to eat, of course it is our witch.” Elena rolled her eyes at Grady and rummaged in the pocket of her jeans. “Grady set my cell to play this whenever my mother calls. Grady is going to hell. Would you excuse me for a moment? I won’t be long, believe me.” She stood and walked off toward the kitchen, murmuring into her phone.

  “Elena’s mother,” Grady explained. “She’s a little—attentive. So, this Chippewa family that traveled out here, Jo. They think the oldest among them has been cursed by a Windigo? That she might become a cannibal?”

  “Correct, the grandmother of the clan.” Jo touched her napkin to her lips and got up. “This recording I mentioned is of the interview between Pat and the grandmother. It took place in the family home, not far from here. A few weeks ago, Pat?”

  “Two weeks.” Pat hadn’t touched her sandwich, or the potato salad Jo had offered her.

  “Do we know if there’s any history of mental illness, Pat?” Becca asked. “In the grandmother, or other family?”

  Jo answered her. “The possibility that some kind of culture-bound psychopathology might be at work is the reason Grady was asked to join this study.” She went to the computer and clicked on the program containing the recording. “This interview is why our intrepid ranger here called me. You tell me what you think.”

  A subtle electronic purr filled the large room, followed by the crackling of an inferior recording device. Pat’s low voice issued from the speakers.

  *

  “Okay. It’s what, the third of January, about ten a.m. I’m Deputy Marshall Patricia Daka. I’m here with members of the Abequa family.”

  Pat’s faint nausea returned at the prospect of hearing this. She would have to start smoking again if Jo insisted on playing this thing all weekend. She fingered the smooth prayer stick in her pocket, then slid out a toothpick to clamp in her teeth. Becca and Grady probably had no idea what they were getting into, but they were about to get a hint, and she felt a twinge of sympathy for them. Her own oddly flat voice continued.

  “I’m here about a report that the Abequas, a pretty large family, have been living on Lot Two-Four-Seven-Seven without a permit. But you’re telling me you’re all hiding here, hoping to escape someone, sir? Someone’s out to get your family?”

  More rustling, then a man’s gruff voice. “No. Not someone.”

  “That’s Frank Abequa. I’m in the home Mr. Abequa shares with his grandmother, Selly Abequa, who’s also present. Not someone, then—but what did you call whatever’s chasing you, sir?”

  “Witiko.”

  Becca leaned forward, intent on this pronunciation. Grady was listening quietly beside her. Jo crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall, watching them.

  “We call it Witiko. It’s also called Windigo, or Wendigo,” the man continued.

  Pat remembered the deep circles beneath his eyes, his pallor, his weak chin. According to his Minnesota driver’s license, Frank Abequa was fifty, but he looked twenty years older.

  “My grandmother thinks it followed her here. She’s afraid it’s going to hurt us.”

  “A Windigo?” Pat sounded puzzled. “Can you say—”

  Abequa broke in, impatient. “You should talk to Margaret. She deals with you people. She’ll be here in a few days.”

  “I’m fine with talking with this person in a few days, but I do need more information today. Ma’am? Mrs. Abequa, your grandson mentioned a Windigo. Would you like to tell me about this?”

  A sighing sound came over the speakers, as if this woman was so old she could no longer summon a voice, so ancient she could only moan in pain.

  “Maybe you’re right, I won’t be able to help,” Pat said. “But I’d like to give it a try.”

  The sighing sound wa
s heard again.

  “And when was this?” Pat asked.

  “She’s not picking up very well,” Becca murmured. “I’m not hearing what the grandmother says.”

  “Keep listening,” Jo said.

  Pat’s voice. “I see. This is when you lived back in Minnesota?”

  That strangely unnerving gust again, a long, unbroken exhalation of breath.

  Both Becca and Grady looked at Pat, puzzled.

  “Pat’s voice,” Jo said quietly, “and the voice of Frank Abequa, came through clearly on this recording. But whenever the grandmother speaks, all that registered was this.”

  Becca shuddered visibly as the low moaning filled the room.

  “Pat, you weren’t hearing that?” Grady’s eyes were large, and Jo smiled as if she were rather enjoying her reaction. “No one’s saying anything about that wind, and you sound like the grandmother’s answering you.”

  “Selly Abequa responded to all my questions very clearly.” Pat raised her voice slightly to be heard over the discordant tone. “She told me the story we all know so far, about her family being chased by a Windigo. And she was calm and lucid through the whole thing. That’s why this shook me a little.”

  “Listen.” Jo nodded toward the speakers.

  On the recording, Pat was asking more gentle questions, but her voice was fading. The wind was taking over. The sigh had become an eerie blast, and the powerful speakers sent it whistling around them.

  There were atonal chords within this wind, a grating, animalistic growl that lifted the hair on the back of Pat’s neck. And it grew in volume, filling their fire-warmed space with a nerve-jangling roar. Both Grady and Becca blanched, and Pat bit her toothpick in half.

  A fleeting image of Pat’s dream coasted through her mind. The Native woman racing in terror through a haunted night, chased by the unearthly howling of that same wind. She shivered, hard.

  “That’s what we needed to hear.” Jo moved quickly to shut down the computer. “That sound continues for another three minutes, unbroken, and then stops. End of recording.”