How the West Was Weird, Vol. 2

by Barry Reese

  In the time it has taken me to write this, my immobility has allowed the cold to pierce my very core. Looking out at the great bay, I think that without the wind to kick up the whitecaps on the water, the whole thing would be frozen solid. It is good, then, that I should find myself physically occupied for the rest of these last few hours before sunset.

  September 24th

  The past few days have been trying, but rewarding.

  Firstly, Lloyd and I have made strides in building the barracks. We have the skeleton of the structure, and hope that in the next few days, our living quarters will be complete. It could not happen too soon, as far as I am concerned!

  The wind shakes the tent so violently at night that sleep only comes when exhaustion takes me. Lloyd, on the other hand, sleeps the sleep of the just. And yet, ironically, the wind drowns out his snoring. There is a silver lining to every cloud, I suppose.

  The natives are warming up to us as well. This is a rewarding experience. We brought with us pelts from out west and distributed them yesterday. I would have done so sooner, but they would not come anywhere near us. Yesterday, a hunting party apparently decided to test our boundaries. They looked full of trepidation at first, but then were definitely delighted to receive their gifts. This has already worked out in our good fortune. For, when we woke this morning and went to the water’s edge to collect scrap from wrecked whalers, the Eskimo were already doing so for us.

  We have enough wood now to finish our barracks. I am very thankful for this, as Lloyd Martin and I have not been able to fill the silence in the downtime. He is not a personable man. Honourable, yes, but a conversationalist he is not. I feel as though he would be content to not speak a word to me at all. In fact, complete silence is not far removed from reality. We speak only about the day’s activities in the morning and rarely at all through the rest of the day. I am beginning to fantasize about teaching the Eskimo to speak English simply to have someone to talk to.

  I should not worry. In less than two months, another half dozen men will arrive to stand guard as the whaling season begins. I hope that I can last that long.

  September 26th

  We worked long and hard these past two days. We started before the sun rose and finished when it set. Lloyd has not spoken to me, and I am beginning to get used to it.

  If I’m being completely honest, I don’t much like him. One shouldn’t expect to find a friend in every man one meets, but the slightest bit of respect and acknowledgement is not too much to ask. I have decided to not speak to him unless absolutely necessary. Unless, of course, he deems me worthy of conversation. I hold no grudges.

  The good news is our barracks are finished. And despite, the organization of the interior, there is not much more work to do. The help of the local Eskimo people has been paramount in the success we have had these first few days. The barracks were finished a week before we had expected it. We originally intended to spend a good portion of this first week collecting supplies. The Eskimo are a kind people.

  Three of them, two men and a woman, came to our fire last night and shared a meat I can only guess was seal, and a kind of bread the woman cooked over our fire. I shared our whiskey with them. We sat until the early morning trying to communicate in our respective languages to no avail. We laughed heartily, however, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The Eskimo made sure to nod their approval to me and clasped my arm before they got up to leave. The best I can tell, they are hunters and have a camp just up the coast from where we are stationed.

  Lloyd never came out of the barracks the entire time.

  October 14th

  The days grow noticeably shorter. Had Lloyd not insisted we come up at this time of year, the springtime would have been a much more agreeable option. The cold doesn't bother me as much. Perhaps it is because we have been here nearly a month and I am accustomed to the discomfort, but I would prefer the much less oppressive cold of home.

  As a young man, I used to think that the cold washing off of the surface of Lake Superior in February was as frigid a thing as this earth could produce. That was a warm breeze compared to the wind pressing against the walls of our barracks. It is not much better inside.

  The three Eskimo have returned every night about an hour after nightfall. We replay the same events over and over, but it is a pleasant routine. Lloyd does not join us and I have stopped inviting him.

  I fear he is going mad. Though, I cannot blame him. If he only engaged in conversation, he might begin to enjoy his time here. If he drank with me and my Eskimo friends, even without talking, he would warm to his surroundings. I'm sure of it. Who doesn't need to warm to something in this weather?

  October 22nd

  Today I woke alone inside the barracks. This was not out of the ordinary, but I would normally find Lloyd sitting by the window. Not so, this morning.

  It was only the first thing today that registered as odd. I stepped down from my bunk, the noise of my loud boot heel on the floorboards sounding even more loudly through the empty wooden structure. I dressed before stepping out into the cold and noticed that Lloyd's warm outer clothes were still hanging on the hook beside the door. What possessed him to step outside even for only a moment without being fully protected from the elements?

  Naturally, I threw myself out the door to help him. He was no friend of mine, but any decent man would do what I did. I quickly scoured the base camp but could find no trace of him. Each moment that passed, the situation grew more and more dire.

  And then I found him.

  Lloyd stood at the water's edge, staring out at the vast expanse. I called his name as I pressed forward against the sharp wind. It forced my eyes closed as I stumbled toward him. I had to turn my head away from the lacerating wind and look peripherally to make sure I was still walking in his direction.

  What was truly amazing was that he appeared to not even be steeling himself. He acted as if he looked at sailboats on a lake in the summer. Clad only in his long-sleeved shirt, long underwear and riding boots, he was sure to die regardless of how nonchalant he appeared. But when I reached out to touch him, his body did not move with the force of my hand. He was solid and unmoving, as if frozen.

  I removed my glove and put my hand to his face; it was soft and warm. The paradoxical strangeness did not escape me at the time. I grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him violently. His body was rigid and, despite being roughly the same size as my own, only allowed for its head to loll back and forth slightly.

  Though I stood directly in front of him, his eyes seemed to peer right through me, out into the massive bay. They were open and moist, unaffected by the wind. But only when the wind died down for a moment was I able to see what it was Lloyd's gaze was transfixed on.

  Far out in the bay, a dark ship sat unmoving. To be that large at that distance, it must have been a whaler of immense size. It was still far too early for whaling, but we had been expecting them. It was likely American or Russian and would be sitting there waiting for the whales to come for a very long time. I have heard about things like this and the men aboard would be unlikely to come as far south as Churchill. It is the reason why we are stationed here on this west coast of the Hudson Bay: to keep an eye on the activities of foreigners who had been known to partake in illegal unlicensed seal and polar bear hunting, among other things.

  In part, I was glad that he wasn't just staring out at phantoms, but I couldn't help but feel as though he was predestined to die before we even got here. At that moment, it was clear. In my mind, and seemingly, in his as well. The way those eyes were set, it makes sense that that boat out there had something to do with it. He certainly took a change when we reached this place, but he was not exactly a happy fellow before we came here.

  I yelled at him to try and break his attention. I threw my shoulder against his chest and tried to knock him to the ground, but I failed. I even slapped him. The cold began to get to me and I couldn't think of anything but getting warm. I wanted to get Lloyd away from that ship, but
I could do nothing short of bringing the back of my revolver against his head. I didn't even know if that would work. So, I brought his coat from the barracks and draped it over his shoulders. Then, I left him there.

  As I walked away he spoke a word that was barely a whisper over the moaning wind. I recognized it instantly. It was a word the Algonquin back home sometimes bandied about when they were feeling superstitious.

  Wendigo.

  The Eskimos did not come to join me tonight. I want to be alone, so that suits me just fine. Perhaps, I need to be alone. To think, I mean. To think about what I am doing to Lloyd by leaving him there. He will die out there tonight, and I suppose that death will be on my head.

  October 23rd

  This morning, the ship was much closer.

  When I woke, I dressed and went to see what was left of Lloyd. He was still there, naturally. And, to my surprise, he was in the same state I saw him in last night. He was still catatonic, for sure, but definitely alive. He was even still warm to the touch.

  It was, and is, unexplainable. Unexplainable is the only word that could come within the vicinity of giving justice to a description of this horrid day.

  Last night I stirred to the noise of movement outside the barracks. It was a crunching and scratching sound. The best I can gather is that it was footsteps matched with something being dragged across the hard, dry snow. But it was in the middle of the night and I only entertained the thought of going to see what it was for a moment. The poor bastard has lost his mind. What good would I do getting mauled by the same polar bear that killed him? It was how I felt and I am not proud of it. My dealings with Lloyd have not been to my liking and, though I do feel as though I have made every effort to bridge the peace between us, it still does not sit right with me. So, you understand my perplexing thoughts seeing him in the same condition this morning as he was last night, and, indeed, as he was yesterday morning.

  Today, I saw that a large patch of fresh, and now frozen, blood adorned the icy ground beside him. Right where I stood yesterday, in fact. It must have had something to do with the noises I heard last night.

  Whatever caused it was no longer there. It was as if a polar bear killed a seal directly beside where Lloyd stood. Or perhaps someone put it there. It might explain the early morning’s noises. Maybe it was an offering for a polar bear or something else to come out of the water, or out of the blizzard strewn landscape, to devour it whole. But what puzzles me is why Lloyd was left standing. Surely living prey would be more enticing? Especially one who did not try to flee.

  My job, however, is not to ponder on the eccentricities of northern wildlife; it is to police these lands. That ship will need to have a close eye kept on it, and preferably one that belongs to someone who has not lost his mind. But I needed to try and get Lloyd's attention one more time. I had one more thought running through my frantic and worried mind about what to do.

  I stood before him. His eyes looked straight though me, once again. Though they appeared to not be directly centred on the ship. The line of sight still drifted out towards the horizon where he had been looking when last I left him. The ship had shifted over to the east slightly on its slow nocturnal movement towards land.

  The ship moved at night. It had to. Now that it was closer, it gave no appearance of movement and even at the slowest drifting pace, it would have been noticeable. There is most definitely something untoward about that whaler.

  Fearing I was procrastinating over what I had to do, I centered my attention back on Lloyd. His eyes, steeled immobile in their sockets, were locked on some point out beyond where I believe my eyes could not see. I was happy about that. Whatever Lloyd has seen, it is not meant for man. I had to try and bring him back.

  “Tell me about Wendigo,” I said to him.

  His eyes flickered for a moment to our waking world. They darted to meet my gaze and then shot back out to the horizon. His demeanour had been shaken, that was for sure. He stood much less rigid for a moment and, as his mouth began to move, I expected him to regale me with how much he hates me. Or perhaps, I expected a rational explanation for all of this nonsense. I hoped for an apology, but knew not to expect one.

  What I heard still confuses me.

  He spoke in tongues. That's the best way I can put it. It was nonsense, really. He broke back into English to mention something of “the glory of the wind-walker” or some such drivel. The poor bastard has gone mad. That much was clear.

  Then, as quickly as he began his nonsensical rant, he stopped once again. Peering out at the bay as if I never appeared in front of him, he was unresponsive to my shouts and gesticulations. I left, feeling no more understanding than before I asked the question.

  The Eskimo stayed away again today. I am beginning to think that we have worn out our welcome. Or perhaps they sense something about Lloyd that I do not and are staying as far away from him as possible.

  Here's to hoping tomorrow brings sanity to this awful place.

  October 25th

  Another noise woke me in the early morning yesterday. This time I was determined not to be scared back to sleep. I climbed down from my bunk immediately and dressed in my warm clothes.

  The noise was not the ambiguous scratchings of something being dragged on snow. Nor was it footsteps. It was, indeed, as alien a sound I had ever heard. A strangely compelling sound.

  It was a howling.

  The high pitched terror fixed itself, it seemed, inside my head. It grabbed me as never before. I did not know what it was, but I knew I was being drawn to the bay.

  Was it the howling that pushed Lloyd over the edge? It was something that did not escape my thoughts this morning, that's for sure. The howling was a siren song.

  I needed to get to the bay. I needed to look. I only know now what it was I needed to see, and I think that I only just barely missed it that morning.

  When I stepped out of barracks, the wind was mild, but it was still sharply cold and almost pitch black out. I stepped solidly on the hard snow, the noise barely audible when the howling picked up again. I turned the corner of the barracks and, just as I was trying to see in front of me towards the bay, the howling increased and a violent gust picked me up and threw me back into the air.

  I must have been thrown thirty feet before I slammed into the hard, icy ground and slid to a stop. Amazingly, I was not perturbed. Yes, it scared me at first, but once I stopped sliding, I simply concentrated on getting back to my feet. I had the wind knocked out of me; but the only thought in my mind was to get to the bay.

  But when I got there, I realized I was standing in the very same spot that Lloyd had been standing in not six hours earlier. I did not call out his name because, if I'm being completely honest, I was not at all concerned with Lloyd.

  The noise of water splashing was evident at the same time that my eyes began to adjust to the darkness. It was then that I could make out Lloyd's determined form as he waded out into the dark water. I knew at the time that the proper response would be to voice my concern, but I said nothing. Neither did I feel any concern. If I felt anything, it was a strange jealousy.

  When Lloyd was too far away to see, which could not have been more than the length of the barracks, I straightened my back and stared out into the blackness.

  I stood in the face of cold wind and light snow for hours on end. On occasion, a frigid gust of wind blew in off of the bay straight into my stony visage. Not even then did I flinch.

  Then I knew, Lloyd was not looking out at the bay, but waiting for a signal, a sign. I understood that he was awaiting the glory of Ithaqua, he who walks upon the winds, just as I was now waiting. The wind whispered to me Ithaqua's name. It told me his glory would come and I would be its beneficiary.

  The hours passed and with it, the world brightened.

  With the new morning light, the whaler appeared right before me. It had run aground sometime in the early morning without capturing my attention. I was too busy looking out over the bay even though I could not see
a thing. I could not risk not seeing Ithaqua.

  The waiting felt like an eternity. I did not know what was to come, but the anticipation held great sway over me. Stranger still, though I could not move my eyes from the horizon, the Wind-Walker had given me a greater understanding of what was happening around me. Without even looking to my left, I knew that the three Eskimo hunters stood watching me. They were at least a hundred yards away, but they were clear as day in my mind's eye.

  Soon the Eskimo turned and walked home. Even with my awareness, I was alone. No polar bears on nearby floes. No birds circling in the sky. I had to believe they stayed away out of respect. This land was hallowed now.

  It was a day of solitude.

  When night came again, I did not feel the cold. The wind picked up but it did not bother me in the slightest. It was a summer’s breeze off of Lake Superior. The same breeze I felt as a child. I could almost see the glowing orange sun as it passed before my eyes in the afternoon. However, it was the darkness of night that comforted my soul.

  I felt a change. An ascension that man was not meant to feel. Unlike what they told me in Sunday school, I was moving on to a higher plane in physical form. I stopped going to church a long time ago and cannot help but feel that old Reverend Howard would tell me it was blasphemy. But isn’t that what those who represent the establishment always say when something challenges their dearly held philosophies? Besides, this is something one can only experience and cannot be described, for there are forces at work in our world far stranger than what the good book says.

  Comfort in the cold void brought about much time for introspection.

  Then, in the peak of black night, the wind stopped dead. My body, like a marble statue, stood unmoving; my mind, however, raced. The anticipation built in my heart.

  And then I heard the howling again.