Odd Whitefeather

by Nicholas Antinozzi

supposed to build a fire out there, barrel or not.

  That’s when I noticed what remained of Terry’s Buick. My mouth hung open and I took a deep breath. The car, what remained of it, lay strewn in the driveway. A large chunk of the roof lay on its side, looking like a half eaten slice of bread. The other parts hadn’t fared much better; the mangled chunks lay scattered around the yard like a child’s toys. How we were supposed to fight something capable of such destruction was beyond my comprehension. I began to pray for strength as Terry and I picked up some chunks of wood.

  Terry grabbed the axe and walked over to join me. “I’ve spent some time on the inside, man. I swear, I was gonna tell you that.”

  I looked at him and again saw the shame. Who was I to judge? I nodded and began walking to where Odd Whitefeather had instructed us to go. Terry followed.

  “I got a gambling problem, a big one,” he said, staying just behind me and leaning close so his words weren’t lost in the wind. “I stole some money and got ten years for it. I just got home, yesterday.”

  I wanted to stop and confront Terry, to give him a piece of my mind about the evils of compulsive gambling, but I continued on. If he hadn’t learned his lesson by now, he never would. “Who did you steal the money from?” I asked, already expecting what he’d say.

  “Doug. I stole it from Doug and the Little League fund. I’m not proud of it.”

  I continued walking, watching for signs of the Windigo; knowing I was foolish to do so. The Windigo would only allow itself to be seen when it was too late. Running from it was the worst thing a man could do. A running man’s feet would catch fire as the Windigo chased him into the woods. There was no stopping. I remembered all of this as I walked, thinking that on some level I had always secretly believed in the creature. I believed now, there was no doubting that.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything? I just bared my soul to you. Are you ashamed of me? You can tell me. I won’t hold it against you.”

  I stopped and faced Terry. There were tears on his cheeks and he tried to wipe them away with his shoulders. “What’s done is done,” I said to him. “I am no better than you; I walked away without ever looking back. At least you didn’t have a choice in the matter. No, man, we both turned our backs on Doug, on our homes. We’ve got to face this thing like men. We’ve got to trust Odd Whitefeather, do you understand me? Can you do that?”

  “I hope so.”

  I hoped so, too. We walked past the barn, the wind shrieking above us in the rotting beams. I could see it sway under the pressure, nearly billowing in that hammering wind. The sky was dark and angry and my bare hands were freezing in the cold. We crossed the field, about two hundred paces from the barn was the burning barrel. We dropped our supply of oak and Terry began to shave away at a chunk for some kindling. I stuck my hands deep into the pockets of the parka and tried to warm them. I found something inside one of the pockets and I removed it. I came out with an old section of newspaper, folded into a thick square. The pages were yellowed and threatened to crumble in the wind. “Look what I found,” I said to Terry.

  “Odd Whitefeather’s toilet paper,” said Terry. “That’ll make this a lot easier.”

  I preferred to think of it as what he would use to start a fire, but I realized that Terry was probably right. I held the folded pages up to my eyes and searched for a date. I found that the paper dated back to October of 1977. I almost hated to burn it.

  I will spare you the details of the next hour, but imagine two proud Natives failing to build a fire with split oak, newspaper and a butane lighter. Finally, on the last page of yellow newsprint, the little fire sparked to life. We were cold and frustrated, but at least it had given us something to do. After we were satisfied with our efforts, we both held our hands over the little blaze and looked at each other.

  “What do you remember of the Windigo?” asked Terry.

  “Just what I learned as a kid,” I replied, holding my hands closer to the sputtering flames. “I remember that it can be thirty feet tall when it takes the shape of a man, and that we’re never supposed to run from it. I remember that it can only be defeated with the help of a powerful medicine man. Do you think Odd Whitefeather has what it takes?”

  Terry shrugged his shoulders without looking up. “He’d better, or we’re dead men.”

  I took that as a yes. I also took some comfort in the fact that the old man had been expecting us.

  Terry shook out a smoke and lit it up. He smoked in silence, the wind flying through his hair and the smoke sailing away in the blink of an eye. When he’d finished half, he handed it to me and I accepted it, gratefully. I finished the cigarette and gave thanks for the smoke, hoping it would help. It didn’t.

  A second after I pitched it into the fire there came an explosive crashing through the woods. The sound of snapping tree limbs, and perhaps trunks, filled the air and rode on the breeze. My heart sank and I looked at Terry for support. He had his large head bowed and his eyes were closed, his lips were moving in silence. I quickly understood and I followed his lead, even as the crashing grew ever closer.

  As the sound approached, it began to slow at a gradual pace. The diminishing speed sounded as if the creature was stalking us, planning its attack. I opened my eyes and was startled to be staring into the face of Odd Whitefeather.

  “Are you ready, boys?” he asked. “This is what you came to see.”

  And I found that I wasn’t ready. I just wanted to go back home to my room and close the door. I wanted my old life back, as wretched as it had been.

  Odd Whitefeather was wearing a snowmobile jacket and matching bibs, the outfit made him appear much younger. “Do you call this a fire?” he asked. “Add some more wood as if your life depends upon it, because it does. One of you is going to have to go back and get another armload. I’d help, but I’m an old man.”

  Terry picked up the axe and began to split the few remaining chunks of wood we’d brought. He then began to feed the fire, carefully placing the pieces into the small flames. The wool coat fit him poorly, the sleeves ending just past his elbows and that terrible smell somehow survived in the gale-force winds. I wondered how he could stand it. I looked up to the house, which seemed a mile away and I realized that I’d been elected to gather wood. The wind was howling through the trees, but whatever had been crashing inside those woods had apparently stopped. I suspected it was watching us.

  I looked back to Odd Whitefeather and he nodded to me. “Go now,” he said. “You will be safe, I think.”

  I could see there was no getting out of this and I set off towards the house. The field was ice-packed from the March sun trying to melt the snow. I jogged across the barren field, feeling the wind lash at my back as I neared the barn. I suddenly wished I had a pair of gloves and a hat, along with a good hunting rifle.

  I steered clear of the barn, staying fifty feet away from the old outbuilding as it groaned in the heavy wind. I thought it would collapse at any moment and I kept one eye on it as I passed. I continued jogging until I reached the woodpile and found that I was out of breath from fear and the exertion. I paused for a second and tried to steady my racing heart. A chunk of Buick tumbled by, which didn’t help. Suddenly, the back door opened to Odd Whitefeather’s house.

  “Why did you leave him alone?” the old man asked.

  The snowmobile suit was gone and I was struck dumb by the sight of him. There was no way he could have passed me. I suddenly realized what had happened and I began to panic. “The Windigo,” I managed to say. “It’s out there with Terry…”

  Odd Whitefeather scowled at me with blood in his eyes. The look was enough to send me scampering back to the field. I was running at full speed by the time I passed the barn and I didn’t give it a second thought. From one hundred yards I could see the Windigo, disguised as Odd Whitefeather, beckoning Terry to join him inside the woods. I should’ve known better than to leave him. The signs had been there and I had ignored the obvious. I screamed for Terry to st
op where he was and I continued running, knowing I’d never make it in time. Terry was taking long strides to join the old man.

  Huge gusts of wind tried to repel my advance, nearly bowling me over as I ran. Terry was walking towards the dark woods, slowly following after the creature that he thought to be Odd Whitefeather. I felt like I was running through cement and I screamed, knowing the sound had been carried away like a twig in a raging river.

  Just when it appeared that all was lost, a bald eagle fell from the sky and descended upon the form of Odd Whitefeather. He held up his arms to defend himself against the attack as the great bird tore at him with its mighty talons. The Windigo bellowed a deafening roar of anger and swatted at the eagle. Terry froze in his footsteps and I continued to run towards him. The eagle circled around for another attack.

  “Terry!” I screamed. “Get back to the fire!”

  Terry finally heard me as I stopped at the barrel. He looked at me with obvious confusion before the terrible truth dawned upon him. Arms chugging at his sides, big Terry ran back to join me at the fire. The