Blood of the Isir Omnibus

by Erik Henry Vick

  Wiggin harumphed and spat.

  “The main war party was elsewhere, and despite being outnumbered five to one, Donehogawa’s party fought so bravely and so hard that the Cherokee war chief broke off his attack. To honor their courage. Don’t you dare call him a coward.” John’s voice had risen to a near shout, and his eyes blazed at Captain Wiggin.

  Mad Jack clapped Donehogawa on the shoulder, but the Indian didn’t notice. The brave was staring into the woods on the far side of the clearing, his eyes darting from one shadowed hedge to the next like the wings of a hummingbird. Donehogawa raised a shaking hand and pointed. “Wendigo,” he said in a voice that was barely audible.

  “What is that word?” demanded Wiggin.

  “It means ‘evil that devours.’ Another translation might be ‘evil that eats.’”

  “And what, exactly, does that mean—with either translation?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” said John. “As best I can tell from the legends I know, it is some kind of demon that preys on human flesh.”

  “Bah,” said Wiggin, but his voice lacked conviction, and he all but ran back toward the group of horses.

  “John! We must leave. Now!” said Donehogawa. His eyes were fixed on a particular hedge across the clearing with an intensity that scared John.

  John turned to follow Donehogawa’s gaze. As he did, the brave strode to the center of the clearing and pushed John toward the horses.

  “These men fall under my protection!” called Donehogawa in his native tongue, his voice booming and echoing around them like thunder. “I am Donehogawa of the Onondowaga. Hear me!”

  With a majestic grace, Donehogawa turned his back on the hedge and, shoulders back, head held high, returned to his horse and mounted. The others followed suit, each one acting brave, pretending not to hear the soft laughter coming from the woods across the clearing.

  “Still think he’s a coward?” sniped Mad Jack.

  Wiggin just grunted into his beard.

  No one said a word as they rode back toward the village. Donehogawa never stopped scouring the woods around them as they rode. Even Wiggin kept his thoughts to himself, despite several fits of glaring at the Indian and muttering into his long, white beard. Mad Jack seemed to be lost in a reverie of some sort, eyes down on the neck of his mount, holding the reins in a lackadaisical manner and letting the horse walk where it would.

  John rode beside Donehogawa in silence. He had never seen his friend as ill at ease in the forest as he was that afternoon. Every cracking branch, every shifting leaf, every noise that would, on any other day, be considered normal and beneath his notice, seemed to garner the brave’s perfect focus.

  “What is it, my friend?” breathed John as soon as the village was within earshot.

  “Be silent,” whispered Donehogawa. “Listen.”

  John strained his ears but couldn’t hear anything but normal forest sounds.

  “Meet us at the ordinary, Black. The usual rules apply to the heathen,” said Wiggin, voice blaring.

  Donehogawa glared at the fat older man.

  The “usual rules” dictated that no tribesman could enter the village of Geneva on the shores of Lake Seneca armed. Because of John’s association with the tribe and the location of his cabin on the edge of the village, the Onondowaga usually left their weapons and horses in John’s corral. While the others rode straight into town, John and Donehogawa stopped at John’s house. They put up their horses, and Donehogawa disarmed. Then they walked into the village.

  Standing in front of the ordinary, tapping his foot with impatience, Captain Wiggin gave Donehogawa his customary look of disdain and then opened the door and walked inside. It was too early for there to be much custom at the ordinary, so they had the main public room to themselves. Wiggin took a seat at a table near the long bar and looked at Edward, eyebrows raised.

  With a wry grin at John, Edward donned his apron. “I expect you’d like a whiskey, Captain?”

  Wiggin grunted.

  “For us all, I think,” said John.

  They all sat at the table Wiggin had chosen and sipped the strong alcohol. Wiggin glared at Donehogawa, who returned his gaze, his face impassive, a disinterested look in his eyes. It was a look that John hoped Wiggin couldn’t interpret—a look that said Wiggin was beneath the brave’s notice.

  “To business,” said Captain Wiggin. “I believe I know the cause of Bryce’s death.”

  “But Donehogawa said—” started Jack.

  “Come now, Mad Jack! We are learned men in this village. There is no such thing as what this heathen described.”

  “Captain, the Bible describes demons on several occasions. If demons exist in the biblical lands they can exist everywhere—even here. Do you not agree?” said the barman.

  “Edward, you should know better. Demons don’t manifest as physical beings! They are forces that influence the world by the temptation of men. And that leads me to what I believed happened to Bryce—if, that is, I might be allowed to continue speaking…” Wiggin glared at each man in turn—except for Donehogawa, whose emotionless eyes he avoided. “As I was saying, I have reasoned out the cause of Bryce’s demise, and I don’t need to fall back on superstitions to explain it. Nathan Bryce was killed by the heathens—or at least one heathen.”

  The three village men gaped at Captain Wiggin in astonishment. Donehogawa’s face flushed and his eyes blazed with anger.

  “Come now, Captain, the Onondowaga—”

  “Your pet heathens are not the only red men who walk in the forest, John,” snapped Wiggin. “We all know that the heathens conduct savagery on their enemies of the same race. What wouldn’t they do to one of us? The Mohawk? The Choctaw? The Cherokee?”

  “Captain! It is true that some of the tribes take slaves—‍”

  “And scalps!” added the Captain.

  “—and that some of the more savage tribes might burn captives or even smoke them like meat. But none of the tribes around here have practiced rites like that for the Lord knows how long.”

  “For longer than any of us have lived,” snapped Donehogawa.

  “That’s right, Captain,” said Edward, which earned him a glare.

  “Even if I grant you your argument—which I do not, by the way—what’s to stop some member of another tribe moving to these woods? A man who has been run off by his own tribe. A loner. An outsider.”

  “The Onondowaga Nation and the Iroquois League,” said John.

  “All well and good, but they wouldn’t—couldn’t—stop one man. They might not even know about the man.”

  “No!” said Donehogawa. “This was not one of the people. He may have started life as one, but now he is wendigo.”

  “So, then you admit this might be the work of a man?” asked Wiggin.

  Donehogawa’s brow furrowed. “No. You are not listening. Just talking about things you don’t understand.”

  “Come on, man! It’s what you just said: that he might have once been a tribesman—”

  “I know what I said,” snapped Donehogawa. “You refuse to hear my words, though.” He turned to John and spoke in Onondowaga. “This is a waste of time. I have to warn the council.” With that, he stood and clasped John’s shoulder. “Stay out of the woods.”

  John nodded. “How do we kill it?”

  “Wendigos can’t be killed. They are gluttonous demons that live to eat. They can be starved, but they don’t die. They can be harmed, but they won’t die. The best we can do is trap him in his lair and seal it up. But it won’t hold him forever, sadly, no matter what we do.”

  “What is all this jibber-jabber? Why is this man getting ready to leave? I haven’t dismissed him.”

  Mad Jack shot Wiggin a disgusted look and stood as well. He put his hand on Donehogawa’s arm and then turned toward the door.

  “Jack Martin! Where do you think you are going?” snapped Wiggin.

  Mad Jack whirled to face him, his face a portrait of anger and frustration. “You ask
ed us! You said you wanted our help, but you won’t listen. You don’t need him,” he said, crooking a thumb at Donehogawa, “or me. You need someone to follow you around like a dog!” He turned and stomped through the door, leaving the room in a state of shock. No one present could remember Mad Jack stringing that many sentences together at once.

  “Well!” muttered Wiggin. “We’ll see who needs whom when the snows fall.”

  “He will always have a place at my table,” John said, voice fierce, eyes blazing.

  “Or with us,” said Donehogawa from the door before following Mad Jack outside.

  Wiggin glared at John across the table.

  “What’s more is that Mad Jack is right. If you won’t take our counsel, there is no point in offering any.” John shook his head. “Now, you have no trackers willing to help you. Well done, Captain.”

  “I don’t understand what has gotten into all of you today. Why is everyone so snappish?”

  John sighed and folded his hands on the table. “Is there anything else, Captain?”

  “Come now, Black, you can’t believe all this superstitious nonsense.”

  “I’ve learned a lot from the Onondowaga in my life, Captain. One thing I’ve learned is that they believe what they say, and they never ever lie. If Donehogawa says he believes a demon is responsible for the death of Nathan Bryce, I will act on his belief until it can be proven otherwise.”

  “But a demon, Black?”

  “Whatever it is,” said John, “our best bet of dealing with it lies with the Onondowaga. They’ve lived and hunted this forest for a lot longer than white men have been on this continent. They are the experts here, not us.”

  “Experts? Those unwashed heathens?”

  “Sir, I have never seen an Onondowaga go unwashed. Aspersions will not help us get to the bottom of Nathan Bryce’s death and indeed might slow our progress. Recall, sir, that you asked me to bring Donehogawa this morning.”

  “Of course I did! I wanted help tracking an animal, Black. I did not want a bunch of primitive superstition!”

  John spread his hands, palms up. “As you’ve said repeatedly. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Everyone is so snappish,” Wiggin muttered. He leaned back in his chair until in creaked under his weight. “No, Black. There is nothing else.”

  John stood and, with a nod to Edward, left the two men alone.

  Two

  T

  he next morning, John was still seething at Captain Wiggin’s ignorant, close-minded treatment of Donehogawa. Wiggin asked for Donehogawa’s help! John thought. Why do that and then reject everything he said out of hand? And to question his courage… John scowled.

  After eating a bit of honeyed bread, John went to the spring at the edge of his property and washed his breakfast down with clear, cold water. He had half a mind to go tell Wiggin what he thought of him in no uncertain terms. He could only hope that, when the time came to face this wendigo, whatever it was, the Onondowaga could overlook the man’s small-mindedness.

  “John,” came a voice from the thicket of underbrush on the other side of the small spring. It sounded like Donehogawa.

  John looked up, a half-smile on his face. “Donehogawa, I’m in no mood for games. The way Wiggin treated you has me in a mood.” When there was no answer, John’s budding smile faltered. Maybe it had been another of the Onondowaga? “Who’s there? Come out and talk.”

  “No. Come in, and we’ll talk.” The voice now sounded like Captain Wiggin. A chill ran through John.

  Suddenly, the silence was complete. There were none of the ever-present sounds of small animals or the chirping of birds. “Who’s there?”

  “Little Goody Two-Shoes.” Now the voice sounded like a young girl.

  John backed away from the edge of the voice. There could only be a supernatural cause for what he’d just heard. Witchcraft—though John didn’t know if he even believed in witches—or worse.

  “Don’t run away. I’m just having fun,” said the voice. It was now that of a grown man, deep and resonant.

  “Who are you?”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t recognize my name. And even if you did, you would discount my story as a heathen thing, worthy of only the fire.”

  “I don’t believe in destroying knowledge, heathen, pagan, or Christian.”

  The woods rang with pealing laughter.

  “Who are you? Are you responsible for the death of poor Nathan Bryce?”

  “Poor Nathan Bryce.” The voice matched John’s down to the last detail. “He, and many, many more before him. Many, many more in the days ahead, as well.

  Tendrils of terror gripped John’s guts, burning like the fire of a forge. “What do you want here?”

  “Have I asked for something?” The voice was mocking, derisive.

  “Then why have you come?”

  “Can’t two men talk? Can’t two people speak of inconsequential things?”

  “Why not come out then? Why not let me see you?”

  “Ah, my brave little friend, you do amuse me. We should spend more time together.”

  John didn’t know what to say to that, or even what to think of it, so he stood, quiet, watchful. The moment stretched like taffy. In the silence, the pounding of John’s heart was like thunder.

  Finally, John spoke. “Are you there?” There was no answer. John scanned the woods. “Have you gone?”

  “No, John, I’ve just arrived. Sgeno, friend.” When the brave’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, John jumped.

  “Donehogawa? Is it truly you?”

  “Yes, friend.” Donehogawa’s eyes traveled across John’s face, reading his expression. Then they followed John’s gaze to the edge of the woods. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I…I don’t know. A dream? A voice?”

  “Tell me,” said Donehogawa.

  John recounted what had just happened.

  “The wendigo,” said Donehogawa, switching to Onondowaga. “I fear for your life, John.”

  “He said I amused him.”

  Donehogawa shook his head. “To be noticed by the wendigo is never a good thing. He is mischievous but spiteful. He plays with men as if they were toys. When he tires of his games, the end is always savage—or so the old people of my village say when they tell stories of the wendigo’s last visit to our lands.”

  John shook his head, feeling lost.

  “But come, John,” said Donehogawa. “There is another body.”

  “No!”

  “I’m afraid so. He is a friend to you.” Donehogawa’s gaze fell to the ground. “And to me.”

  John felt suddenly sick. “Who is it?”

  Donehogawa turned to face him. His eyes were impassive. “It is Jack Martin.”

  “Bloody hell! We just saw him yesterday.”

  Donehogawa inclined his head.

  John grimaced. “Is he…was it the same as Nathan Bryce?”

  Donehogawa looked up at the morning sky. “Worse.”

  “Worse,” John murmured.

  “But come, John, you must gather your people. We have called a war party to discuss confronting the wendigo and asking it to leave.”

  “Asking?”

  Donehogawa sighed. “Yes. The wendigo can’t be killed, as I said yesterday. Punctured by arrows, he does not pause. Hit with clubs, he laughs. Cut with hatchets or knives, he bleeds but doesn’t slow.”

  “We have muskets. A few anyway.”

  “Maybe they will be more effective, but the wisdom of the people says the wendigo cannot die.”

  “Then there is no hope,” murmured John.

  “Do not despair, John. The people have been dealing with the wendigo since the time of my grandfather’s grandfather. We have learned in all that time.”

  “What have you learned?”

  “That if deprived of food, the wendigo will grow feeble, sluggish. If the beast can be herded into a cave and the cave sealed up, he may be trapped and become too weak to dig h
imself out.”

  John’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll see who I can bring to the council.”

  “Not Wiggin.” Donehogawa’s expression remained impassive, but his eyes danced with loathing.

  “No, not Wiggin,” said John in a weary voice.

  Three

  T

  he war council was held a short ride to the west of Geneva in the center of Ganundasaga, the village of the Onondowaga tribe. The braves sat in a ring with the women and children standing behind them. It was as John had told Captain Wiggin: The people were clean—cleaner than the villagers of Geneva in many cases.

  John led ten men from Geneva into the square. They stopped and dismounted, but he was unsure where they should sit or stand. He caught Donehogawa’s eye, and the brave raised a hand in greeting.

  Donehogawa stood and spoke in Onondowaga: “The wendigo has killed again. Many of you know this. John Calvin Black joins us, bringing men and muskets.”

  Heads turned, looking at the ten men from Geneva.

  “The wendigo has grown restless.”

  “Yes, but he has killed only the whites,” said another young brave.

  Donehogawa nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then let him.”

  Donehogawa shook his head. “No. We know what happens in the end. He will feast on the people once again, as he did in my grandfather’s time. The muskets of the whites can help us if it comes to a battle.”

  An older man stood up. His hair was gray, tending toward white, and fell down his chest in two braids. His face was browned and weathered by the sun. Feathers were tied in his hair, including three eagle feathers. The braves looked up at him with respect.

  He glanced at John and treated him to a slight nod. “I am Achak. You of the people know me and know my deeds.” His hand gestured to the three eagle feathers. He pointed at the man who had argued to leave the wendigo alone. “I was a young brave like this one when the wendigo came last. At first, he killed few with maybe a moon between them. Then he started to hunt more often. His attacks blazed through this tribe like a forest fire. When we finally gathered our courage to go out to meet him, he was insane with blood lust and would not listen to our pleas. Worse for us, his power was great.”