Over the Darkened Landscape

by Derryl Murphy

  “You spoil that dog, Simon,” said Mac. His eyes shone with mischief as he said this, and in response I sat on his pillow and noisily licked my rear.

  “Oh, no, Mr. King,” protested Simon as he folded the napkin and tucked it back into his pocket. “Pat is a wonderful dog, and besides, any pet of the greatest detective of our age deserves a little spoiling.”

  With these last words he gestured at the large tag that hung from the handle of Mac’s largest suitcase. I can’t read, of course, but the words on the tag were as well known to me—better, even—as to anyone else on this train, and well beyond: Mackenzie King, Psychic Detective.

  Greatest detective of our age, my fragrant rear. Not without a little help, at least.

  We reached the South River station late that afternoon. As usual, I allowed Mac to put a leash on me, and we waited on the platform while Simon sent out a porter with our bags. Of Mac’s client, there was no sign. By the time the train pulled away fifteen minutes later we were the only two, aside from the ticket agent, who remained at the station.

  “He’s late,” I said, scratching behind my right ear. “I don’t like it when people are late.”

  “Be patient,” said Mac. “He’s probably had to fight off vicious bears and nasty black flies to get here.”

  “Nothing quite so civilized,” came a voice from behind us.

  We turned to greet a man wearing a gray wool suit (well, really, almost everything is gray to my eyes, but later Mac assured me that it was indeed gray) and carrying a handsome walking stick. “Dr. James McCallum at your service, sir,” he said, and held out his hand.

  Mac shook it. “Mackenzie King, Dr. McCallum. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  McCallum gestured for Mac’s bags and a manservant stepped out from a nearby doorway and took them in hand. “Please follow me, Mr. King. We’ll have you at the house in no time.”

  “Is this your house, Dr. McCallum?”

  He shook his head. “I live in Toronto,” said McCallum. “And I have a cottage at Go Home Bay on Georgian Bay. But we’re here because this work recently came to my attention, and I wish to buy it.”

  “Which work is that?” asked Mac.

  “More after we get there,” answered McCallum.

  We rode in a horse-drawn carriage instead of a motor car, following a dirt road for the better part of an hour until we reached the house—really a mansion—where McCallum was visiting, and where we would stay for the night. South River was a pleasant little town, primarily there for the lumber industry it seemed, and that industry was the source of the homeowner’s wealth.

  “Our host has been called away on business,” said McCallum as we made our way to the house. “You and I will have dinner alone tonight, Mr. King. I shall see you at seven.”

  “I suppose that means I’m not invited to the table,” I said, after the manservant had deposited our bags in our well-appointed room.

  Mac shrugged. “We saw three dogs coming in, so it’s not like the owner hates them.”

  “Hunting dogs,” I replied. “Big hulking brutes that live outside all year round, I suspect. None of them ever come to the dinner table.”

  “Yes, well, you’ll just have to take your meals in here, then, or perhaps in the kitchen. But whatever he needs me to solve, you’re a part of the equation, so don’t feel too left out.”

  I turned and nibbled at a sudden itch in my left thigh, and after Mac retired to the toilet to freshen up I jumped onto the bed for a nap.

  Supper, Mac later told me, went well. A veritable feast, as a matter of fact, with only McCallum and a strange prickling sensation on the back of Mac’s neck, coming, he was sure, from the next room over. After they were served the manservant brought me a silver bowl filled with various meats and cheeses, placed on an old rug so I wouldn’t make a mess all over the floor. Apparently they had bad luck with dogs in this house.

  After the meal, McCallum asked Mac to join him in the sitting room. The prickling sensation came from that same room, and as Mac entered, the feeling practically jumped onto his scalp. He promptly asked for my company, and McCallum sent word that I was to be brought down immediately.

  I could feel it too, and I sniffed worriedly at the entrance to the room for several seconds before following McCallum. Mac hesitated another moment, and then came in as well. “What is it?” he asked our host.

  McCallum shook his head. “All I know is that it comes from the item I wish to buy. Here, let me show you.” He took us over to a wall that held several paintings, a variety of sizes and styles and, I imagine, of colours as well. All were of trees and lakes and clouds and other things that reminded the viewer of the northern woods, although each one exercised the artist’s own particular vision. “Quite beautiful art,” said Mac. “I think I’ve seen some work like this before, in Toronto and Ottawa.”

  McCallum nodded. “Still a new and mostly unknown thing, this Group of Seven, but I foresee big things for them. This is the one here, though,” he pointed at a squiggly-looking painting of dead trees beside a lake, with a horizon that seemed to stretch on forever. “The artist’s name was Tom Thomson, and I was his patron and friend.”

  “Was?”

  “He died not long ago, at Canoe Lake, not far from here. The owner of this house came into possession of this, probably his last painting, and knew I would be interested in buying it. But . . .” he let his voice trail off.

  Mac stepped forward, as did I. This painting was the source of whatever strange feelings came from this room. But I was too short to see if there was anything on the painting to tell us why, and so had to wait for Mac’s opinion.

  “Canoe Lake,” he read, and then was silent for a minute or two. Finally, he pointed to one corner of the painting. “What is that, Dr. McCallum?”

  McCallum took a swallow of his drink and nodded. “That’s the problem, Mr. King. I have some sensitivity to occult matters, but obviously nothing like what gives you such renown. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel, I know, that somehow Tom is in trouble.”

  Mac looked down at me. “Tom. You mean Tom Thomson, the artist who is dead.”

  McCallum nodded. “It sounds crazy, but I’m sure I’m right. Tom needs help.”

  “Dr. McCallum,” announced Mac after a moment or two of thought. “I’ll need this painting down off its hook and leaning against the wall. And then Pat and I will have to have this room to ourselves.”

  McCallum nodded and lifted the painting down. “How long will you need?” he asked.

  Mac shook his head. “Hopefully not long. Close both doors, and don’t come in until I call you.”

  McCallum nodded and left.

  “Well, Pat, shall we see what this picture has in store for us?”

  I padded over to the painting. The blot was small, in the bottom right corner, grayish-white to my eyes, and vaguely in the shape of a man. The energy it gave off was too negative, too disturbing, for me to look at it for more than a few seconds, and it certainly ruled out any direct contact with that portion of the painting.

  “I sense something else over here,” said Mac, kneeling now and pointing at another part of the artwork, some quiet shoreline along the far left. “Something much more positive.”

  I stepped beside him, relieved to be away from the awful sensation emanating from the other corner of the painting. “Shall we try to speak to whatever or whoever is involved in this side of things, then?”

  Mac nodded, and took me up in his arm. “Can’t hurt, can it?” And with that, he reached out and touched that artistic piece of shoreline with his other hand.

  A slight breeze blew, and the tall grasses near the lakeside calmly hissed and scratched as they waved about. The smell was odd, to say the least, part great outdoors, part oil paint. Everything around us was slightly smeared, closer to reality than the actual painting had been, but still showing signs of brush strokes.

  Mac set me down. He also looked a little less than real, but not so off as the
surrounding scenery.

  We were successfully in the painting.

  “Now what?” I asked. My voice was muted, hollow.

  “I was thinking about asking Mother for help,” said Mac, looking at me.

  I looked inside, then shook my head. “She’s not with me, Mac. Maybe she’s off doing something else right now.”

  Mac shrugged. “Or maybe spirits of the dead can’t exist inside an oil painting.”

  There came a sound from behind us, the scritch and pop of a match being lit, followed closely by the smell of tobacco and paint, both burning. “Spirits of the dead do just fine in oil paintings, fellows.”

  We turned. Sitting in a canoe on the lake was a man smoking a corncob pipe. I hadn’t looked too closely at the scenery before, but now that I saw this man I could see that the perspective was a bit off, a result of the nature of being in a painting, I would guess. Was he ten feet away? Twenty? Was he really straight across from us, or was he a little higher and smaller?

  He stuck his paddle in the water and pushed, whorls of paint and water slowly spinning off as he drifted to shore, where he climbed out to stand beside us. “Tom Thomson,” he said, hand extended.

  Mac shook it and introduced himself. Then Thomson leaned over and patted me on the head, thump thump thump, which I hate, and said, “And what’s your name, pup?”

  “Pat.” My fur felt sticky and oily where he’d touched me, and I could see Mac trying to wipe his hand on his trousers.

  “You lads here to help me, then?” He gazed off towards the far side of the lake, eyes squinting against the very setting sun he’d painted on that side.

  Thomson was tall and thin, with a sharp nose and short dark hair. Suspenders held up his dark pants, and he wore a watch cap atop his head. There was a large bruise poking out from beneath the cap on the right side of his head, and dried blood trailed down from his right ear.

  “Dr. McCallum sent us,” said Mac. “He wants to buy this painting, and he’s worried about you.”

  Thomson smiled. “Jim always did claim he was sensitive to things from the other side. My talent was always a little more personal.” He took a puff from his pipe and then waved it at the perpetual sunset. “Beast that did me in is coming to finish the job.”

  The wind shifted, and a smell drifted across the lake and over my nose, rotting flesh and, strangely, cold breath overwhelming the sticky sweet odour of the paint. My fur danced and crawled in response, and then the beast howled: high, drifting, angry, not like a wolf, not like anything I’d ever heard before.

  “Beast? What sort of beast?” asked Mac, his voice high and panicked.

  Thomson hefted his paddle. “Windigo. Someone who took to eating human flesh years ago here in the north woods. Pretty soon the bad magic worked its way over him and changed his body. Now he knows no thought but hunger, lust for a cannibal’s meal.”

  “This Windigo killed you?” I asked.

  Thomson nodded, pipe back in his mouth. The creature howled again, closer, and I saw that the dried blood was flowing from his ear again, slowly, like a thick stream of paint.

  “Then how did it end up in this painting with you?” asked Mac. “For that matter, how did you end up in here?”

  “Blood and paint tied us together,” said the artist. “I knew he’d been stalking me for months before I died, so I took to stalking him as well. Found a thorny branch he’d scraped against, left a speck of blood, mixed it into my palette along with some of my own blood, then I finished this last painting, sprinkled in a bit of my own magic.” He shook his head. “Didn’t work the way I’d hoped, though. It tied us together, made it impossible for him to eat me, yes, but he could still bash me on the head and send me into the lake to drown. When I died, so did he.”

  “And now he’s in this painting with you, and coming to, what, kill you again?” Mac’s voice was incredulous.

  “That’s about the size of it,” said Thomson. “Maybe he figures he’ll get out when he does it. Or maybe he figures he’s earned himself one last taste of raw humanity, not that the paints would make anywhere near a decent marinade.” He smacked his lips together and grinned.

  Across a meadow, trees parted, and from the darkness stepped a creature, immense, impossibly tall, dark gray body made of an artist’s sensation of stone. Its eyes were black holes, empty and yet staring straight at us. Human bones decorated its body, necklace and bracelets and anklets. The painted air around it stirred and realigned itself as it fought to get out of the Windigo’s way, and slowly it made its way towards us.

  Against such a beast stood a dead man with a canoe paddle, another man with no visible means of defense, and a dog with a good set of teeth but not a lot of size.

  “How can we stop such a thing?” asked Mac. “Pat, come here; we’re leaving.”

  “And leave Mr. Thomson to certain death again?” I shook my head. “Uh uh. You can figure something out, Mac, I know you can.”

  “You talked about your mother when you first arrived,” said Thomson. “I assume she’s dead as well?”

  Mac nodded. “She’s usually good for advice and insights, but not at a time like this.”

  The Windigo howled again, now no more than ten paces away, the trail behind it nothing but a slurry of mixed up shades and lines, in the air and on the ground. When Thomson moved through the painting it changed as well, but always peacefully, and then it fell back into place. The Windigo did the opposite, disturbed the essence of the painting and left it that way, and it had to fight for every step. It wasn’t natural to this piece of art, even though the paint held a taint of its blood.

  “Can you find someone else and bring him here?” asked Thomson. “Does it work that way?”

  Mac stared at the oncoming monster for a few seconds. Then he turned to Thomson. “I can try. Who am I looking for?”

  “Big Goose.”

  “A what?”

  “Not a what, a who. I don’t know his Ojibway name, but he was a shaman, a medicine man, a long time ago.” Thomson spun the paddle in his hand and hefted it, ready to swing at the giant monster when it came into range.

  “What can this Big Goose do for us?” I asked.

  “When he faced the Windigo he was turned into Missahba the giant, and defeated the beast.” The Windigo was no more than a half-dozen steps away from us now.

  “Great,” muttered Mac. He mopped at the sweat rising on his forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket, his skin smearing into a new series of patterns. “So I get to go digging for a medicine man who may not speak any English so that he can come and turn into a giant and defeat the monster, all before this Windigo gets to us.” His voice rose as he spoke, near hysteria by the end.

  “Mac!” I barked. “Just try to find the Big Goose!” I jumped forward and bit the Windigo’s foot, and at the same time Thomson swung his paddle through the air, connected with a solid thunk on the creature’s forearm. It roared in response and slowly kicked at me, but I easily jumped out of the way.

  Thomson hit the Windigo again, and this time it struck out and hit him in return. He stumbled back, his feet splashing through the shallows of the lake. “Hurry up, Mac!” I shouted.

  “I’m trying, Pat, I’m trying, but nobody’s answer . . .” Mac’s voice trailed off, and the Windigo raised an arm, now close enough to strike him.

  I bared my teeth and prepared to jump again, but a powerful new voice stopped me dead in my tracks. “Wetikoh! The Great Manitou helped me strike you down once before. Today he will help me do so again!”

  I turned and looked, up and up and up. Mac was still there, but he was huge now, a giant every bit as big as the Wendigo. The voice wasn’t his, but it came from his mouth. He reached across and grabbed the creature by the throat; it let out a strangled cry and fought back, scoring lines in Mac’s body, but it seemed to my colourless eyes that he didn’t bleed, that instead the paint just furrowed and ran. He cried out and let go of its throat and it immediately leaned its head forward, striving
to bite Mac, to eat his flesh.

  “Tom!” I yelled. “We need to help!”

  “I’m on it, pup!” Thomson called back. He ran from the water and pulled a book of matches and something that looked like a cross between a spatula and knife from his pocket. He knelt on the beach and, using the spatula, pulled portions of painted shore and plant together and built an enormous bonfire, which lit up with one spark of a match.

  “Missahba!” he called. “Big Goose! Into the fire now!”

  Mac—Missahba, Big Goose, whatever he was called right then—looked down and grinned, slapped the Wendigo’s head away just before it had reached his throat, then pushed it down towards the fire. “Your heart of ice will melt, Wetikoh, and the stone of your body will be destroyed.”

  The Wendigo howled one more time, and then its body made contact with the fire, flames roaring higher and higher. The stone of its body cracked and popped, and within seconds steam hissed from the cracks as its heart of ice disappeared into the air. It made one more attempt to lash out, this time swinging at Tom, but he stepped back and took the spatula—something that Mac later told me was a palette knife—and worked away at what remained of the creature, scraped at it and rubbed its stone colours in until the paint of its body was a part of our surroundings.

  “Thanks,” said Thomson, looking up at the still-giant Mac. “Without you and Missahba the giant, shaman, I don’t know if we could have stopped the Wendigo.”

  “You did much of this, fire builder,” said Big Goose. As he spoke, Mac shrank back to regular size, the excess paint spilling off and mixing with the background. “Medicine man,” he said, now speaking to Mac from Mac’s own body, “you may return me to the lands of my fathers.”

  Mac blinked in surprise. “Medicine man? Me?” He smiled, and then closed his eyes. I could sense the change as Big Goose returned to his own afterlife, and once more it was Tom Thomson’s painting alone, with Mac and me as guests.