Windigo Thrall

by Cate Culpepper

“Let’s get inside, sewa.” Pat wrapped her arm around Maggie’s shoulders, and she felt the immediate ease and rightness of that motion, the quiet click of their bodies fitting together. This was not the time to dwell on that, because they had to get under cover before the cold killed them.

  And first they had to make their way to the trailer to pick up a gun, because Maggie knew Pat always kept her promises.

  *

  What are you trying to tell me, old woman?

  Pat still spoke to her dead grandmother on a regular basis. Not daily, but often. She always listened for a reply from her spirit too, and would for the rest of her life. That was a reasonable expectation to have of someone lucky enough to be mothered by Delores Daka.

  Across the dark living room, her grandmother’s signature was faintly visible in the corner of the painting over the hearth. Pat brooded over the sinister changes in the landscape again. If wise ancestors really spoke to the living from beyond the grave, as Jo claimed, she wished they would do so more clearly than just muddy up what had once been a truly nice painting. If her grandmother was sending her a message here, she couldn’t dredge any wisdom from it.

  They had settled in on the lower level for the night. In addition to the Glock .22 now safely concealed in Pat’s belt holster, she and Maggie had brought armloads of fresh firewood in for this cold slumber party. The fire in the hearth was roaring, pushing back both the dark and the growing chill in the room for a precious few yards.

  Becca had coaxed Jo down again, her long form stretched out on one of the deep sofas, warmed by thick blankets. Becca sat on the floor near her head, sifting her fingers through Jo’s dark hair, her eyes on the flames. Elena and Grady were huddled closer to the hearth, heating more cocoa near the fire. One of them laughed softly. Maggie was making her way closer across the gloomy room, and Pat felt a small muscle between her shoulders relax at the sight of her, a welcome from her very sinew.

  “It’s warmer over there by the fire, Smokey Bear. I have to teach you everything.” Maggie’s eyes crinkled, but not in flirtation now, just friendly interest. “What are you doing all alone in the dark?”

  Pat shrugged. “I like a little space, I guess. I’m not used to being around people twenty-four seven.”

  Maggie nodded. “Look at it this way. If we were over at my place, all of us would be stuck back in that terrible little bedroom.”

  “I’m counting my blessings.” Pat did so literally, brushing her thumb over the prayer stick in her pocket.

  “Hey.” Maggie glanced over her shoulder at the others, then stepped closer. “What you told Jo out there. That you’d shoot her if she tried to hurt Becca again. Did you mean that?”

  “I promised her. Sure, I meant it.”

  “But you really care about her.” Maggie studied her. “How can you keep a promise like that to someone you care for?”

  “Well.” Pat watched Becca stroke Jo’s hair lightly. “I’ve never had that, what they have together. Elena and Grady have it too. If I had it, if I loved someone that much, I’d like to think I’d do anything to keep them safe. I’d ask the same promise from Jo.”

  Becca looked over at them with a tired smile. She had efficiently organized their sleeping arrangements, but with none of the cheerleading brio she had shown that morning. Becca was quieter now. She teased them less. Pat missed it.

  The wind outside had eased. It was no longer blowing in titanic bursts, but it still gusted around the cabin in sudden surges. That eerie moonlight was still shining through some portal in the clouds to bathe the snowfield outside in faint green light. Rainier was famous for the blue cast of the moonlight that washed its cliffs at night, but Pat had never seen this sickly green tinge.

  She started to pull out her cell, then remembered it not only couldn’t get a signal, the damn thing wouldn’t even light up. “You got the time, Maggie?”

  Maggie shook out the watch she wore on her wrist, a quaint relic but somehow in keeping with her eclectic style, and tilted it toward the fire. “Yeah, it’s just after seven. Jesus, were we eating sandwiches out of that trough only this morning? It feels like weeks ago.”

  “Sure does.” Pat smiled at Elena, who had left Grady by the hearth and was carrying steaming mugs over to them.

  “Here, you two. You need to try hot chocolate, Mesilla style.”

  Maggie breathed in the steam. “What did you put in this? Is it anise?”

  “No, not anise, but something like it. Also a whisper of cinnamon.”

  “Hm,” Pat murmured. Chocolate and something like licorice and cinnamon. It sounded terrible, but one sip and she vowed she’d never drink cocoa any other way. “This is da bomb, as Becca would say.”

  She shifted to cup the mug in both hands to warm them and felt her prayer stick slip through her fingers. Maggie bent to retrieve the little twig, but Pat moved swiftly and picked it up first.

  “Sorry. No touch but mine kind of thing.” She hoped Maggie wouldn’t take offense, but she just looked puzzled.

  “Can I ask if this is your prayer stick, Pat?” Elena was smiling down at the twig in Pat’s hand as if she were sharing a loved family photo, and Pat was surprised a Latina would recognize it.

  “Yeah. My grandmother found it for me. Much less bulky than a crucifix.” Pat slipped the stick back into her pocket. She used the crucifix line whenever one of the white men or women she worked with asked about the prayer stick, but Elena just chuckled understanding.

  “Sí, much less.” Elena slipped a delicate silver chain from around her neck. At its end was a small, smooth stick of petrified wood.

  “Hey, you have one too?” Maggie studied it with interest, but kept her hands respectfully clasped around her mug.

  “I do. Grady gave me this the day she asked me to marry her. She said a holy man from one of the tribes up here gave it to her as a gift during one of her field studies. A Cayuse tribe, Pat?”

  “Right. The Cayuse are an Oregon tribe.” Pat liked the way the polished wood shone in Elena’s palm. She could imagine it resting cool and smooth against her skin.

  “Grady told me that a Cayuse holy man breathed a prayer for her into this stick. She liked him, he was a nice old man, and she knew he would only wish a good thing. Grady thinks it was a prayer that she would find lasting love—that she would find me.”

  “Man.” Maggie smiled at Elena with open admiration. “That’s flat-out romantic, girl. Who knew college profs could be romantic? No wonder you married her.”

  “She’s also incredibly hot in bed,” Elena added, slipping the delicate chain back around her neck.

  “Yeah?” Maggie sounded even more admiring. “She is? Grady? Well, she’s really cute. But like, what kind of—”

  “The Cayuse live at the base of the Blue Mountains, Elena,” Pat interrupted. “That’s near Pendleton, Oregon.” She tried to think of more interesting facts about the Cayuse, but luckily, Jo chose that moment to stir.

  “Hello, sunshine.” Becca spoke quietly as if not wanting to startle Jo, and settled on the side of the sofa to look down at her.

  “What time is it?” Jo mumbled, rubbing her face in her hands.

  “Just after seven at night, Jo,” Pat said. “You were out like a light for a couple of hours.”

  “I’m starting to really like Elena’s tea.” Becca helped Jo sit straighter, then folded the blanket back over her lap. “She promised to send some home with us so I can sleep through staff meetings. How goes it, ace?”

  “I feel better.” Jo turned her head carefully, as if loosening her neck, and she did look better to Pat. “More myself, anyway.” She smiled at Becca and touched her face tentatively, and Becca held her fingers briefly against her cheek.

  “Elena’s tea can’t hold a candle to Elena’s cocoa.” Grady was pouring a cup from the kettle near the fire. “Take a few swigs of this, Jo. It’s about time we all put our heads together on how to get through the rest of the night.”

  Pat was grateful for Grady’s calm sum
mons; she might have been introducing a lecture on cave dwellings. Becca and Jo arranged themselves on the sofa, and Maggie drifted over to the cushioned armchair beside it. Pat watched her go, drawn by the subtle music of sensuality in Maggie’s movements as she simply crossed a room.

  “May I see your prayer stick again please, Pat?” Elena asked.

  Puzzled, Pat pulled the stick from her pocket and cupped it in her palm. Elena glanced at Maggie, then up at Pat, and then folded Pat’s fingers gently closed over the small twig. She whispered a few words in Spanish, too softly to be heard.

  Elena nodded and patted Pat’s hand. “Thank you. Okay, come join us, please.”

  Pat stared after her, confused by the ways of curanderas, but trusting Elena was kind. She followed her and settled into another armchair in the firelit circle.

  “I have to admit, some of what’s happened the last two days I think I understand, but so much of it just mystifies me.” A good facilitator, Grady was turning them directly to the task. “I understand that freak storms can happen, and that power can go out. But the personality changes we’re seeing around here—those worry me more.”

  Grady paused and looked at Becca, who didn’t meet her gaze. No one rushed to fill the silence, but it was obvious to Pat that Grady was talking about Jo. Pat wasn’t sure day turning into night and that creepy moon should be dismissed as a “freak storm,” but she was willing to see where this was going.

  Finally, Grady continued. “Maggie, we talked about a few things on the way over to interview Selly yesterday. One was a phenomenon that’s linked to the legend of the Windigo, called Windigo Psychosis.”

  Pat felt the words thump home in the room. Becca looked at Jo, but Jo merely frowned into the mug she held.

  “Are you familiar with it?” Grady asked Maggie. “It’s a psychiatric disorder that’s supposed to afflict some people who believe in the Windigo.”

  “You’re being tactful.” Maggie’s tone made it clear she wasn’t paying a compliment. “It’s an excuse some crazy fuckers have used for killing and eating their families. Yeah, we’re familiar with it.”

  Grady took Elena’s hand and held it on her knee, but Elena was looking into the fire. “Jo, I think we need to talk again about the possibility that you’re showing signs of this psychosis. I don’t mean you’re psychotic—you’re obviously reality-based, right now. But earlier, when you were with Becca…”

  “You must have been dreaming, honey.” Becca inclined her head, as if trying to catch Jo’s gaze. “When we were resting together. Some hell of a nightmare that made you lash out?”

  “I don’t remember my dreams, Becca. You know that.” Jo sipped from her mug.

  “What about the painting, Grady?” Maggie gestured toward the framed oil over the hearth. “Are you saying Jo went crazy and messed with that?”

  Maggie sounded contemptuous, but Grady only shrugged, and with a start, Pat realized that’s exactly what she thought.

  “We all slept in this morning,” Grady said. “This room was deserted for a few hours.”

  “And without waking Becca, I crept in here and used my stellar skills to paint that.” Jo nodded curtly at the painting. “I have no artistic talent whatsoever, Grady. Look at it. That’s an oil landscape, and it’s clear as a photograph.”

  That was still true. Pat’s grandmother had been a uniquely gifted artist, and her painting of Rainer had once been a sun-drenched splendor that enchanted the eye. Now it was an ominous mass of cliffs sheathed in dark clouds, the setting for a horror story, but it was still expertly rendered. There were no fresh brushstrokes on the canvas. The painting was more than two decades old, and there was no new shifting of color in it; it was a uniform blend of aged and murky oils.

  “Then either I forgot about altering that painting, or I’m lying now about doing so,” Jo continued. “Two rather large leaps, in my opinion.”

  Pat frowned. “If Jo changed the painting this morning, wouldn’t we have noticed it? We were all in here before we went to the hill to sled.”

  Grady raised her eyebrows. “You might be right, Pat. Maybe we would have noticed. But do you remember specifically looking at that canvas this morning?”

  Pat closed her eyes, struggling with an instinct to protect Jo from yet another cold, academic diagnosis, this time a truly damning one. She couldn’t remember if she looked at her grandmother’s painting before they left the cabin. She could only remember the storm closing over them, and asking Elena if they were already too late. “No. I wouldn’t be able to testify in court that the painting was the same this morning.”

  “What about that wind, Grady?” Elena stirred finally. “The wind we all heard in the recording of the interview, our first night here? Were we all psychotic then?”

  “Jo thinks there was something off with the instrument used to do that first interview, sweetheart.” Grady rubbed Elena’s fingers, as if they were cold. “Remember? Last night, she listened to the session we all had with Selly yesterday, and her voice came through just fine.”

  “Wait.” Maggie frowned, the fire casting shifting red light across her features. “You have recordings of Selly’s voice?”

  “Yes,” Becca said. “Pat recorded the first talk she had with Selly, two weeks ago. It was kind of…unpleasant to hear. Whenever your great-grandmother spoke, there was this terrible, howling wind.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that wind.” Maggie sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “But now you’re saying Selly’s second interview came through clearly? Interesting. No one ever successfully recorded Selly’s speaking voice before, not her entire miserable life.”

  “Oh,” Becca said weakly.

  “Maggie.” Pat waited until she met her gaze. “Jo doesn’t have any reason to lie about this. If she said she heard Selly’s voice in the second recording, I believe her.”

  “I believe her too.” Maggie was trying for a jaded air. Pat could see her fighting for it, but beneath it, she knew she was deeply unsettled. “Pat, the wind wasn’t in Selly’s voice anymore because the wind wasn’t in Selly anymore.”

  Maggie looked at Jo with sadness, a regret that chilled Pat. “You want to hear that wind, Jo? If our electronic gadgets ever work again, you talk into that thing.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Grady hadn’t seen cold like this in the Pacific Northwest. The high desert of New Mexico could be cold in deep winter, but the mild nights of her home region had never been this bitter. Particularly not inside the comfortable confines of a lavishly appointed cabin.

  “This is looking to be a pretty long night.” Pat was muscular, but she looked puffed to superhero status inside a sturdy jacket and that long coat. They were all bundled up and staying close to the hearth. “It’s just getting colder out there, and in here. But the winds have died down, so I want to go start the Outback and make sure its tank is full. If worse comes to worst, I guess we can pile into it, run the heater and stay warm enough to sleep.”

  “Yeah, it might come to that.” Grady held her hands out to the fire. “We might need to look at putting some food together soon too.”

  “I’m still full of corn chips.” Maggie was pacing restlessly in front of the hearth. She nodded toward the sofa, where Becca and Jo and Elena were talking quietly. “Jo didn’t touch any of those chips. Did you notice?”

  “No,” Grady said flatly. Jo’s food intake was not uppermost in her mind at the moment. “I’m sure there’s enough in that fridge to get us through breakfast, though. Jo claimed she could pay someone to plow us out in the morning. You agree there’s a good chance of us getting out of here then, Pat?”

  Pat shrugged toward the side windows. “It’s freezing up pretty solid. I’m not counting on any early road clearing rescue, no.” She flicked a glance at Grady, a silent acknowledgement of what could be a grim reality. “I still don’t understand why that generator out back hasn’t kicked in. It’s top of the line. I’ll check that while I’m out there.”

  “I�
�ll go with you, in case you get lost.” Maggie sounded annoyed, but Grady was learning she often sounded annoyed when she was worried. “Maybe while we’re out there we can check why none of the batteries in our flashlights work, either, or the batteries in your pricey computers.”

  Pat grimaced. “One thing at a time, Maggie.” She hesitated and turned back to Grady. “Will you keep an eye on Jo?”

  Grady’s feelings toward Jo were still ambivalent at best, but she was touched by Pat’s protectiveness. “Of course, pal.” She hesitated. “Pat?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know you’re worried about Jo. We all are. But I’m not sure she’s our only concern here.”

  “What do you mean?” Pat stepped closer to hear her.

  Grady shook her head. “Nothing specific. We’re just seeing some personality changes since our trip to the Abequas that really puzzle me. I have a feeling Jo’s not alone in all this.”

  She wouldn’t mention the fact that Becca hadn’t looked her full in the face all night. Grady would follow her gut in terms of trusting Pat, but she couldn’t confess that kiss.

  “Do you need anything from me?” Pat was watching her closely.

  “No. Just wanted to share that thought.” Grady nudged her. “You two be careful, and come back quick.”

  Pat nodded, her brows furrowed, and followed Maggie to the back door.

  The discussion between Elena and Jo and Becca seemed a little intense; they hardly looked up as Pat and Maggie slipped out of the cabin and into the night. Grady lifted a heavy brass poker from the rack by the fireplace and slipped it behind the screen to poke listlessly at the burning logs.

  A familiar warmth settled between her shoulder blades as Elena rested her head there and slipped her arms around Grady’s waist.

  “Hey, you,” Grady said.

  “Hey, my Professor Gringa.” Elena squeezed her gently. “This crazy storm. I like it, I’ve decided.”

  “Oh, you like it.” Grady poked at the log. “Why is that?”

  “Well, we don’t understand why our cell phones won’t work, but do you realize our chances of having hot monkey sex without being interrupted by a call from my mamá are much better right now?”