by J. M. LeDuc
On this eerie, moon-filled night, something birthed from that hole as if it had no choice. A deformed, skeletal hand gripped the side of the opening, pulling its body free from the timeworn sarcophagus. Its initial movements leaden, as if woken from deep hibernation, a beast birthed from the earth’s womb. As the creature continued to rise, there were signs of humanity—a humanity lost long ago. In this forgotten, underground world, the only things that shown through the pitch blackness were the glow of eyes, the yellow tint of flesh, and a red, slithering tongue: all features of a wendigo.
Unable to stand upright in the confined area from which it rose, the beast, hunched and brooding, made its way up to the mouth of the cave. Outside, it unfurled its lanky, paper-thin body to its full fifteen feet. As the beast inhaled, it felt the icy-heat of the sub-zero temperatures burn its lungs. Hissing distain, its breath crystalized and hung in the air, before a blast of frigid wind blew it elsewhere. The wendigo scrutinized its surroundings before peering up at the night sky. The corner of its lipless mouth quivered into an icy snarl, its beady eyes squinting at the intrusive light.
Anger seethed within the monster until it exploded outward. The wendigo stretched its arms downward like a toddler about to throw a tantrum, arched its spine, and craned the sinewy muscles of its neck and torso until it stared straight into the light of the moon, as if searching for a fight. With all its pent-up aggression, the demon howled into the night with venomous rage, its eyes bulging and bloodshot.
The monster relaxed its muscles, took a deep breath, and blinked away tears from the frigid winds as it searched the area as well as its own memory. The creature knew this place. It had been its home and hunting grounds for centuries before it was willed into hibernation—one the witches promised would last forever. Continuing to scan the mountain, the monster found what it sought. Drawn to the ice-covered lake below, which sparkled in the moonlight, the enraged beast trounced down the mountain, ripping through the heavy snow with ease, until it stood at the shore of Lake Mameigwess, one of the many lakes within the Kenora district of Ontario. Hunched on all fours, the wendigo punched through the thick ice, dipped its head into the frigid waters, and drank until it was no longer parched.
Standing next to the lake, the beast bent forward, hands on its knees, as a series of cramps rifled through its core. Spasms initiated by a pain—a hunger—that could only be satiated by human flesh.
With a final flick of the tongue, the wendigo lifted its nose and sniffed in all directions. Its ears stood at attention, and the fine hair that covered its hide tingled when it sensed what it longed for. The beast turned on its heels and followed the scent. The scent of flesh and blood.
* * *
High above the lake, a Golden Eagle perched like a statue on the branch of a tall maple. A week earlier, the majestic bird had received a signal from a sacred wind. Doing as instructed, the eagle, one of many, flew north, following the scent of a long-forgotten evil. The acrid odor grew stronger each day until the bird found itself on this mountain top. For days, the eagle stayed among these trees waiting for the unknown . . . until tonight when the evil could no longer be contained. Tonight, as the earth trembled, the miasma woke the dead.
When the wendigo emerged from the mouth of the cave, the eagle sank its claws deep into the branch, its feathers quivered, its pupils dilated. The large bird stalked in silence, its eyes mere slits, and its wings tucked close to its powerful torso. Only when the monster slinked far from the lake, did the Golden Eagle spread its wings and launch into the night. The massive bird soared high above the trees and flew south, hoping time was on its side.
* * *
January 1, 4:00 a.m.
The gravestones shook as the earth trembled. With each thunderous vibration, more of the stones crumbled along with the dirt and rock that held them upright. In the oldest parcel of this ancient burial ground, hidden among the dense forests of northeastern New England, one grave sat separated from the rest without a marker or a stone. Scratched into a nearby tree were words written in the language used by the Wabanaki Indians. Here lie the ashes of the last Skadegamutc. To disturb this grave is to bring certain death.
The quake which had begun moments earlier strengthened as it reached this parcel until the frozen ground cracked open like an eggshell. From the depths of this forsaken plot came a ghost-witch, a vampiric package of hatred, horror, and sadistic evil. The skadegamutc floated out of the grave, a mixture of gray smoke and ash, before materializing into flesh and bone. Naked and skeletal, the one feature that stood out from the rest was its eyes—or lack of. Her eyeballs consisted only of the sclera, the whites, no pupil or any other anatomy which would give the witch the natural ability to see.
The ghost-witch panned the cemetery, turning its head to and fro. A broad, lopsided, closed-mouth grin rose from her cracked lips as she shook totem beads clutched in her fist. The shaking of the beads caused other gravesites to crack open, dispelling other dark spirits. An ear-piercing screech rose from the skadegamutc’s throat. Upon hearing her shriek, the other ghost-witches materialized and raised their voices along with hers. The ear-splitting pitch and subsequent echo caused trees to fall and windows, miles away, to splinter and shatter.
With another shake of her beads, the lead ghost-witch silenced her followers. She floated amongst the others, corralling them into a tight group. With a cursory nod, she shook her totem necklace one last time. In the fraction of a second it takes a humming bird to flap its wings, all the skadegamutc transformed into orbs of light and disappeared into the night.
* * *
A Golden Eagle hidden among the dense pines watched in horror the scene that took place mere yards away from its hiding place. As the orbs disappeared from sight, it took flight to warn all who would listen and to relate the grotesque happenings to its brothers and sisters who waited for a message.
* * *
January 2, 6:00 a.m.
Deep within the Kisatchie National Forest in northern Louisiana, the Kowi Anukasha gathered for an emergency meeting. The Choctaw Little People had not gathered in one place in many years. Murmuring and gossip spread among the forest dwellers, getting louder by the second. The sound of a walking stick banging on a tree stump silenced the noise.
All eyes were on the one who now stood on the stump. Kwanokasha—the Watcher—and chief shaman of all Kowi Anukasha instilled awe and trepidation in the Little People. Legends and stories recounted for generations told that he could read the minds and intensions of those in his presence.
“Word has come from the north of a great evil which has awoken after many years of peace,” Kwanokasha said in a voice, little more than a whisper. “Someone or something,” he emphasized, “has called forth the wendigo and the ghost-witches from their graves.”
The murmuring amplified as the Little People began shouting questions at their leader.
“Quiet!” the Watcher yelled. “This is no time for disbelief. Word has come down from our Muskogee cousins, the Fastachee. They have been told of the wendigo’s presence by a Golden Eagle who is warning all who will listen as it flies south. The Wabanaki have witnessed the skadegamutc as they destroy everything and everyone foolish enough to look them in the eye.”
Kwanokasha squeezed his walking stick tighter as he looked out at his people. “This is a time for action. We must go out and warn all the tribal little people. Break up into groups and scatter across the land. It will take all of our combined magic to try and stop this evil from spreading.” The old, bearded, little person pointed his stick at those gathered and commanded them to prepare and depart immediately.
As the Choctaw Little People scattered from the glen, Kwanokasha held two back. “I’ve been told you are fleet of foot, is that true?”
The two, stunned to be speaking to their great leader, just nodded, lost for words.
“What are your names?”
The first opened his mouth to speak, but it came out as a squeak. He cleared his throat and once again a
ttempted to answer. “I am Mantema and this is my brother, Shikoba.”
“Hmm,” the Watcher said. “The deliverer of what is sacred, and feather; it seems your names mark your destiny.” He hopped off the stump and stood eye-to-eye with his tribesmen. “I will not lie to you, there is little chance we alone can stop these evil spirits. But the wind carries word of one who has emerged with enough power to possibly stop this evil before it kills many and gathers other evil in its wake.”
Shikoba nudged his brother and whispered in his ear. Mantema nodded and bashfully eyed the Watcher. “May we ask who you speak of?”
“It only seems fitting since I’m going to send you to find her, but why doesn’t your brother speak what’s on his mind?” Kwanokasha said.
“Shikoba has a bad speech impediment and is bashful to speak in front of those he doesn’t know.”
The Watcher grunted his understanding, and answered Mantema’s question. “The wind speaks of the Kiche, or the one who will one day become the Sky Spirit Goddess. If this is true, her powers may be enough.”
Just hearing the name reflexively caused the brothers to suck in air.
“It is said that she lives south among the Cree and Seminoles,” the Watcher continued. “I need you to leave without haste, find her, and send word back to me.” He pointed his walking stick at both. “You are not to let yourselves be seen or to make your presence known to her. Is that understood?”
They nodded, mouths still gaped wide.
“Only I have the ability to judge if she is the one legends speak of,” Kwanokasha added. “When I receive word from you, I will come and question her. Now go.”
Translations
The Native American words and their translations are listed below. I used a variety of Cree dialects to keep the narrative flow as consistent as possible. I have a deep respect and admiration for this country's First People and meant no disrespect in doing so.
* * *
Cree – English translation (in order of appearance)
pakosîs - mouse
Kihci - great
Macimanito - demon
Pimihawin - flying
Mistikwan(ec) - head
Koskonowewin (ec) - awaken
Tatawaw - there is room
Ota(ae) - here
Kîyânaw (cw) - we
Natohtamawin (ec) - request
Kiya(cw) - you
Ôma(cw) - this
Wîcihiwewin (ec) - presence
Kiya(cw) - you
Katikaweyin (cw) - are
Peyakotipiyimisiwin - free
Ohtâyihk(pc) - from the place
Ana (cw) - that
Asahpicekewin (cw) - binds/enslaves
Ayapi (mc) - stay seated
Niyâ(pc) - go
Michi (mc) - eat
Eha (mc) - yes
Pimihawin (ec) - flying
Mistikwân (ec) - head
Kisata(mc) - stay
Cîkâhtaw (ec) - close/by my side
Kisemanito (ec) - Creator/God
Kahkakow (ec) - The raven/raven
Kâkesimototâkew (ec) - one who communicates with the spirit world
Powamow(ec) - animal identity
KicheSky - Spirit Goddess
Kisâcimiwêw (cw) - he tells people to stay put
Atahk (mc) - star/ big bright star
Mistik (cw) - tree
Ayisiniwak (ec) - people
Êkây (ec) - not
Tapwe (ec) - possible
Kanaweyimowewin - protect
Wiya(ec) - her
Astam (mc) - come here
Koskwawatapi (mc) - sit still quietly
Nipawi (mc) - stand up
Nakiwin (ec) - stop
Kiyam (mc) - it’s all right
Piyak (ec) - one
Namoya (ec) - no
Omiyosiw (ec) - the beautiful one
Keko (ec) - what is it?
Tapasîwin (ec) - fly/escape
Kaso (mc) - hide (quickly)
Akwana (mc) - cover him
Pakitin (mc) - release him
Sisiwê (pc) - scatter
Kisâcimiwêw (cw) - he tells people to stay put
Itôtâ (ec) - do
Nama (cw) - not
Astâsiwin (ec) - fear
Ka sipwecisahikehk - sent
Niya (ec) - me
Ay-hay (pc) - thank you
Michi-Pichoux - water panther
* * *
Iroquois – English translation
Kanontsistonties - flying head (demon)
* * *
Navajo – English translation
Yee NaaldlooshiiSkin - walker
* * *
Dialects
mc = Maskwacis dictionary
cw = Woods Cree
ec = Alberta Elders’ Cree
pc = Plains Cree
Acknowledgments
There are so many to thank, so I apologize if I leave anyone out. First and foremost, I’d like to thank Kim Thompson and Magic Quill Press for their trust in this new journey.
* * *
To Amy Lignor. Amy is not only a great editor, but an amazing author and a great friend.
* * *
To my Beta-readers: Julie Cummings Carter, Lollie Martin, Lyn Askew, Paula Howard, Diane Maynard McCormack, Jenn Turkette, Abigail Kennedy, Sherry Bagley, Delaney Louse, and all the teens who took the time to read “Evil Awakened,” a HUGE thank you. You have all made this a better book by your comments and honest appraisal.
* * *
To the First Peoples of this great country, the Native Americans, thank you for your inspiration.
* * *
Last, yet always first, I thank God for His grace, mercy, and love.
Also by the Author
Sinclair O’Malley series:
Painted Beauty, Book 2; 2016
SIN, Book 1; 2014
* * *
Phantom Squad series: (Including Trilogy of the Chosen)
Cornerstone, Phantom Squad novel; 2013
Phantom Squad, Prequel to Trilogy of the Chosen; 2013
* * *
Trilogy of the Chosen:
Cursed Days, Book 3; 2012
Cursed Presence, Book 2; 2012
Cursed Blessing, Book 1; 2010
About the Author
Mark Adduci, writing as J. M. LeDuc, shares his love and life with his wife, Sherri and his daughter, Chelsea.
Blessed to have had a mother who loved the written word, her passion was passed on to him. It is in her maiden name he writes. J.M. LeDuc’s first novel, “Cursed Blessing,” won a Royal Palm Literary Award in 2008 as an unpublished manuscript in the thriller category and was published in 2010. The rest of the Trilogy of the Chosen: “Cursed Presence” and “Cursed Days” followed in 2012, as well as a novella, “Phantom Squad”—a prequel to the trilogy. “Cornerstone,” the continuation of the Phantom Squad series was published in 2013 to critical acclaim. Two years after its original publication, “Cornerstone” became a # 1 Best Seller on Amazon in November of 2015.
“Sin,” the first book in the Sinclair O’Malley series, was published in May of 2014. “Painted Beauty,” the second in the series, followed in May of 2016. The Providence Journal called Painted Beauty “terrific crime noir and the best serial killer tale in a long time.”
J.M. is a proud member of the prestigious International Thriller Writers (ITW) as well as the Florida Writers Association (FWA) and loves to interact with his fans. He can be reached at [email protected], on Facebook on his author page, as well as on Twitter @JMLeDuc1.
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