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They talked little, and then only of the most wholesome and commonthings, for their minds were charged with painful thoughts thatclamoured for explanation, though no one dared refer to them. Hank,being nearest to primitive conditions, was the first to find himself,for he was also less complex. In Dr. Cathcart "civilization" championedhis forces against an attack singular enough. To this day, perhaps, heis not _quite_ sure of certain things. Anyhow, he took longer to "findhimself."
Simpson, the student of divinity, it was who arranged his conclusionsprobably with the best, though not most scientific, appearance of order.Out there, in the heart of unreclaimed wilderness, they had surelywitnessed something crudely and essentially primitive. Something thathad survived somehow the advance of humanity had emerged terrifically,betraying a scale of life still monstrous and immature. He envisaged itrather as a glimpse into prehistoric ages, when superstitions, giganticand uncouth, still oppressed the hearts of men; when the forces of naturewere still untamed, the Powers that may have haunted a primeval universenot yet withdrawn. To this day he thinks of what he termed years laterin a sermon "savage and formidable Potencies lurking behind the souls ofmen, not evil perhaps in themselves, yet instinctively hostile to humanityas it exists."
With his uncle he never discussed the matter in detail, for the barrierbetween the two types of mind made it difficult. Only once, years later,something led them to the frontier of the subject--of a single detail ofthe subject, rather--
"Can't you even tell me what--_they_ were like?" he asked; and the reply,though conceived in wisdom, was not encouraging, "It is far better youshould not try to know, or to find out."
"Well--that odour...?" persisted the nephew. "What do you make of that?"
Dr. Cathcart looked at him and raised his eyebrows.
"Odours," he replied, "are not so easy as sounds and sights of telepathiccommunication. I make as much, or as little, probably, as you doyourself."
He was not quite so glib as usual with his explanations. That was all.
* * * * *
At the fall of day, cold, exhausted, famished, the party came to theend of the long portage and dragged themselves into a camp that atfirst glimpse seemed empty. Fire there was none, and no Punk cameforward to welcome them. The emotional capacity of all three was tooover-spent to recognize either surprise or annoyance; but the cry ofspontaneous affection that burst from the lips of Hank, as he rushedahead of them towards the fire-place, came probably as a warning thatthe end of the amazing affair was not quite yet. And both Cathcart andhis nephew confessed afterwards that when they saw him kneel down inhis excitement and embrace something that reclined, gently moving,beside the extinguished ashes, they felt in their very bones that this"something" would prove to be Defago--the true Defago, returned.
And so, indeed, it was.
It is soon told. Exhausted to the point of emaciation, the FrenchCanadian--what was left of him, that is--fumbled among the ashes, tryingto make a fire. His body crouched there, the weak fingers obeying feeblythe instinctive habit of a lifetime with twigs and matches. But therewas no longer any mind to direct the simple operation. The mind hadfled beyond recall. And with it, too, had fled memory. Not only recentevents, but all previous life was a blank.
This time it was the real man, though incredibly and horribly shrunken.On his face was no expression of any kind whatever--fear, welcome, orrecognition. He did not seem to know who it was that embraced him, orwho it was that fed, warmed and spoke to him the words of comfort andrelief. Forlorn and broken beyond all reach of human aid, the little mandid meekly as he was bidden. The "something" that had constituted him"individual" had vanished for ever.
In some ways it was more terribly moving than anything they had yetseen--that idiot smile as he drew wads of coarse moss from his swollencheeks and told them that he was "a damned moss-eater"; the continuedvomiting of even the simplest food; and, worst of all, the piteousand childish voice of complaint in which he told them that his feetpained him--"burn like fire"--which was natural enough when Dr. Cathcartexamined them and found that both were dreadfully frozen. Beneath theeyes there were faint indications of recent bleeding.
The details of how he survived the prolonged exposure, of where he hadbeen, or of how he covered the great distance from one camp to theother, including an immense detour of the lake on foot since he hadno canoe--all this remains unknown. His memory had vanished completely.And before the end of the winter whose beginning witnessed this strangeoccurrence, Defago, bereft of mind, memory and soul, had gone with it.He lingered only a few weeks.
And what Punk was able to contribute to the story throws no furtherlight upon it. He was cleaning fish by the lake shore about five o'clockin the evening--an hour, that is, before the search party returned--whenhe saw this shadow of the guide picking its way weakly into camp. Inadvance of him, he declares, came the faint whiff of a certain singularodour.
That same instant old Punk started for home. He covered the entirejourney of three days as only Indian blood could have covered it. Theterror of a whole race drove him. He knew what it all meant. Defagohad "seen the Wendigo."
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