“Does the book offer any explanations?” Pendleton asked.
“It offers one. However this theory stems more from folklore rather than proven science. In all these documented cases, the wild cannibal was believed to have turned into some kind of lycanthrope.”
“And what the bloody hell is that?” Pendleton asked.
Dr. Coombs grinned. “A werewolf.”
137
“Werewolves are nothing but creatures of fairy tales,” Tom said.
Dr. Coombs said, “I would have agreed with you entirely, Inspector, until I witnessed the cannibals you killed. Now that I’ve ruled out a virus, I am willing to entertain that our disease is a form of lycanthropy, also known as melancholia canina.”
Pendleton said, “What do you know about it?”
Dr. Coombs smiled, “I know volumes about the subject, actually. Lycanthropy, which means ‘man-wolf,’ derives from Greek mythology from Ovid’s tale Metamorphoses. In one interpretation, Zeus turns a king named Lycoan into a wolf as punishment for killing humans and eating their flesh. In the medical field, lycanthropy is typically diagnosed as a mental illness, where people behave like wolves because they believe themselves to be the animal. They run wild through the woods. They kill livestock. But in reality they are humans who have simply gone insane.”
“That I can believe,” said Tom. “But how do you explain the cannibal growing claws and canine teeth?”
“All I can do is postulate from previous cases.” Dr. Coombs set the Mysterious Ailments book on the table and opened it to an illustration titled “Werewolf,” created by the artist Lucas Cranach der Ältere back in 1512.
“Since Ovid’s Greek myth,” Dr. Coombs continued, “werewolf tales have spread throughout Europe, and the man-turned-beast has become a thing of legend. The French call werewolves ‘loup-garou.’ In the Shetland Islands of Scotland, the woman I described earlier was called a ‘wulver.’ Here in Canada, the Indians believe in shape-shifters. They call them ‘wiitigos.’”
Tom remembered the day he investigated the killings at the Ojibwa village. Kunetay Timberwolf had slaughtered ten people and all his dogs and dragged them into the woods where evidence showed a pack of cannibals had gathered to eat. Chief Swiftbear had called them wiitigos.
“I’ve heard stories about them,” said Hysmith. “Mostly campfire tales. The voyageurs call them windigos.”
Tom said, “Doc, tell us everything you know about these windigos.”
“Ah, the windigo legend is a fascinating one,” said Dr. Coombs with a gleam in his eyes. “The Indians of the Great Lakes region believe that a shape-shifter roams the forest each winter. They claim it is a spirit that can rise from the ground as a sudden snowstorm. It can shape-shift into animals or walk bipedal like a man, often in the form of a skeletal creature that has long claws and fangs like icicles. In its most monstrous form, the windigo can walk as high as the trees. The beast has a ravenous appetite that can never be satiated. So it devours every animal and man it comes upon. Hunters have claimed that the sound of the windigo’s scream can cause a man to get confused, and if the hunter escaped he would become a windigo himself.”
Pendleton said, “Doctor, I want answers, not legendary tales.”
“But what if the creature the Indians fear exists?” asked the doctor. “Not a spiritual creature, but an anomaly in nature. Some sort of wolf beast that carries the disease. From everything I’ve seen, I’m willing to entertain the possibility that what we are up against is an ancient form of lycanthropy disease that is causing people to mutate through some kind of metamorphoses. One that causes them to behave like wolves and hunger for human flesh. If so, gentlemen, then perhaps the time has arrived that science and legend have reached a meeting point.” Dr. Coombs closed his book and grinned. “This discovery could be a breakthrough in the studies of evolution.”
Tom said, “All very good theories, Doc, but none of them tell us how to stop another outbreak.”
“To do more studies, I’ll need another specimen. Preferably alive.”
“Out of the question,” Pendleton said. “I didn’t bring you here for a science expedition. I just want to stop this disease before it runs rampant.”
138
Werewolves and windigos.
As Tom sat alone at his kitchen table and wrote the day’s events in his journal, he didn’t quite know what to make of Dr. Coombs’ outlandish theories. Tom had always thought of man-turned-beasts as nothing more than folklore and myth. But he couldn’t deny the evidence. A month ago he had found Percy’s wife, Sakari, mauled to death by an animal that had left large bipedal tracks and claw marks high in the trees. Anika had feared a beast more terrifying than a bear, more spirit than animal. A windigo? Did the disease that turned people into ferocious cannibals originate from a spiritual beast?
In his diary, Father Jacques had spoken of a predator that was stalking Manitou Outpost, killing anyone who ventured into the woods. The sickness had spread through the fort, starting with Master Pierre Lamothe’s oldest daughter, Margaux. In a matter of a week, the entire fort turned cannibal. Down in the cellar they found the remains of Father Jacques, his head mounted on a post. Wenonah Lamothe attacked the soldiers. According to Lt. Hysmith, she had grown in height by at least a couple of feet. The rest of the Manitou trappers were thought to be roaming the woods as a pack. Zoé, who somehow escaped, had brought the plague to Fort Pendleton. Tom had witnessed the Indian girl and Doc Riley changing into long-boned monstrosities with jackal faces. Tom had seen white-eyed dogs and goats turn on one another. And today, he shot two more colonists who had become infected. Jean and Nadia Chaurette had each grown claws and fangs, every tooth as sharp as a wolf’s canines. They had displayed uncanny strength and swiftness.
Had they become werewolves? Tom noted in his journal that not one infected cannibal had grown fur like the werewolves of myth. Nor did it take silver bullets to kill them. If they weren’t werewolves then what were they? And what was the source of this disease they carried if not a virus?
Tom wanted to toss out Dr. Coombs’ theories as pure rubbish, but there was no denying that people were turning into beasts.
139
Later that evening, Tom returned to Anika’s cabin and heard flute music coming from around back. A warm glow emanated from a shed attached to the back side of her cabin. Dogs barked at his approach. He lifted a deerskin flap and peered through the kennel’s wire-mesh door. The colorful mix of bushy-tailed huskies and half-wolf dogs recognized Tom. Their barks softened to excited whimpers. Anika was sitting against the back wall. Her green eyes gazed intensely as she played haunting music with her flute.
Tom knocked. “I didn’t expect to find you out here.”
She pulled down her flute. “You don’t have to keep checking on me.”
“I’m not. I just have a few questions about the windigo.”
She looked at him askance. “I thought you didn’t believe in manitous.”
“I’m not quite sure what to believe, but I need to explore every possibility. I’d like to hear your theories. May I come in?”
Anika nodded and scooted over. Tom weaved through the exuberant dogs, brushing furry napes, and sat next to the Indian woman on the hay-covered ground. The huskies put their muzzles in Tom’s face, licking his neck and cheeks. She spoke commands in Ojibwa. The eight dogs settled and formed a protective circle.
“Rather affectionate, aren’t they?” Tom said, wiping his neck.
“They like you,” she said. Tom thought he witnessed a brief smile, before she turned and added some wood to a fire burning in a stove. The smoke smelled of pine, sage, and sweet grass. The kennel was surprisingly warm and cozy. The walls were covered with deerskins. Mounted on the back wall were painted animal skulls, and from the ceiling hung fetishes made of bone and feathers. At the far end of the shed was a storage area for the dogsled. Tracking gear and snowshoe boots were arrayed neatly on the wall.
Tom remembered the day he first
arrived at the fort. Master Pendleton had introduced Anika Moonblood, saying she would be Tom’s personal guide for whenever he needed to travel outside the fort. She was a highly skilled tracker. She would also be his interpreter with the Ojibwa who lived across the creek. Tom had looked this small Indian woman up and down, observing her deerskin clothes with frayed sleeves, antler-handled knife on her hip, jet black hair, reddish-brown skin, and those wildcat eyes, thinking she was all savage. Now, as she sat back against the wall with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and the orange glow of the fire highlighting her face, she looked so different, softer, more feminine, perhaps even pretty. Tom noticed deep within her eyes a beauty that her recent bruises couldn’t tarnish.
“You have some questions?” she asked.
Tom realized he’d been staring. “Right, um…” He pulled his small detective’s journal from his pocket and started writing. “What can you tell me about the windigo legend?”
“It is not just a legend. The manitou exists as you and I do.”
“Okay, assuming that this beast is real, what do your people know about it?”
“My people?” Her face hardened again and she shook her head.
“What’s wrong?”
“Tom, when are you going to see that the Ojibwa are your people, too?”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?”
At the rise of his voice, the dogs all perked-up their ears. Anika picked up a knife and stick and started whittling. “Chris told me your mother was Ojibwa, and that you were born among the tribe. Why haven’t you ever talked about that?”
Tom’s jaw muscles tensed. “That’s not a matter for discussion.”
“And why not?”
“I’m here to get facts on the case, not get sidetracked. Now, if you can just answer my question…”
She grumbled. “You are the most stubborn man I’ve ever met. You want to understand the spirits the Ojibwa fear, yet you won’t admit that you share the same blood.” Anika sliced the wood with intense strokes.
“Why are you so upset?”
“Because for weeks I’ve watched you trying to solve your case like an arrogant white man from the city, insulting my tribe, treating us like we are heathens. You think what we fear is nothing more than superstition. Well, Inspector Hatcher, we have survived in these woods for many winters, because we understand the nature of the manitous and respect their territory.”
“Anika, that’s why I came here tonight. I’m trying to understand.”
“Then tell me why you hate my people so much.” She stared at him, the muscles around her high cheekbones tense. Her eyes looked as furious as the morning after Anika and Tom had slept together and he rushed her out the back door. The Indian woman was so full of anger. No matter what he said, something was always setting her off.
He sighed and gazed into the fire that popped in the stove. “I have no memories of being born among the tribe. My father, who was a soldier at the time, thought very little of Indians. He took me from my mother when I was a toddler and brought me to Montréal. Growing up, I always knew I was different than the other kids, but Father wouldn’t tell me anything about my tribe or my mother. Her name was Spotted Fawn. That’s the extent of how much I know about her. I never learned which band of Ojibwa I was born into or where they are located. My father, who became an inspector in Montréal, raised me to be like him. He was a highly respected man and a good father, but I always thought he was cruel that he wouldn’t tell me about my mother.” Tom looked back at Anika. “The more I get to know you, the more I realize everything Father told me about tribal people was wrong.”
Her face softened, the green of her eyes brighter than he’d ever seen them. She touched his hand. “I can show you so much, if you will only open yourself up to that part of you that is Ojibwa.”
140
Father Xavier blessed the chapel’s nave, exorcising the evil presence that lingered after the infected woman was killed. When the host’s body is destroyed, the evil spirit lives on. He thought of the words his mentor, Father Jacques, had spoken back when Father Xavier was training to become an exorcist. In places where unclean spirits dwell, an exorcist must trust only the righteous and the signs from God, for evil hides behind many faces.
At the prayer altar, tributaries of dried blood stained the Virgin Mary’s eye sockets, cheeks, and outstretched palms. Father Xavier was no stranger to witnessing the miracle of stigmata. The sight of it brought back a memory of when young Xavier was ten years old and the exorcists were trying to save his sister, Mirabelle.
141
The Goddard Mansion
Montréal, 1830
For two weeks, the demon had a hold over Mirabelle Goddard. Xavier’s thirteen-year-old sister cursed and flopped and spoke in strange tongues. The priests performed ceremonies day and night to exorcise his sister. Ten-year-old Xavier vigilantly prayed outside her doorway.
Then abruptly, the possession ended. Mirabelle returned to normal, settling into a deep calm. Satisfied, the exorcists left. The doctor prescribed some sleeping pills, then left, as well, patting Xavier’s head on the way out. His mother returned to planning her next party, and his father remained absent, unaware that Satan had entered his home and nearly taken his daughter.
One evening, while lying in his bed, Xavier heard Mirabelle calling him from down the hall. “Brother, help meeee…” He rushed into his sister’s bedroom. There was enough moonlight lancing through the windows to see her bed was empty.
“Mirabelle?”
“In here,” her voice moaned from the washroom. She was crying.
“Are you okay?” Xavier padded through the gloomy bedroom. He stayed clear of her four-poster bed, afraid that it might rise up from the floor again.
Water splashed.
He pushed open the door to the washroom. Silver glass from a broken mirror covered the tile floor. Mirabelle was sitting upright in the tub, staring straight ahead. Her thin arms were propped up on her knees. One hand gripped a mirror shard that resembled a dagger. Black liquid trickled from two slashes in her wrists into a tub of dark water. Mirabelle twisted her head, facing him. Her eyes were solid white.
“I belong with him now.” She giggled and floated upward, rising out of the water. “He wants you to come with us, too.”
“No...” Xavier stumbled back into her bedroom. The bed and dressers shook, tapping the floorboards, the vibration pulsing up his bare feet.
“Come play with us, Brotherrrr…” Mirabelle’s stick-thin silhouette stepped into her bedroom, her bones popping. Her neck cocked toward one shoulder. Her hands curled into raven claws. Dark water dripped onto the floor. Her red-soaked nightgown clung to her jutting bones, pronounced ribs, and small breasts that pressed against the transparent fabric. “Don’t be afraid. Let me take you where the children play forever.” She reached out a blood-covered hand.
Xavier bolted down the hall and locked his bedroom door. He pulled his crucifix off the wall. He prayed to Jesus and the Virgin and every saint he could remember. Fingernails scratched the door from the other side.
“She’s mine now, Little Lamb,” spoke a guttural voice. “And I’m coming for you next!”
The following morning he found Mirabelle lying in the hallway, her stiff arms jutting upward, the hands curled like bird talons. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing.
His sister was laid to rest inside the family mortuary behind the garden. After the funeral, he prayed each night that the thing that took his sister would never find him.
A few weeks after Mirabelle’s death, Xavier visited her grave. A statue of her stood atop her crypt. He swore an allegiance to God and promised his sister vengeance on the Devil. Mirabelle’s stone eyes began to stream red tears. The miracle was confirmation that Xavier was to join the Jesuits and become an exorcist.
Now, Father Xavier extinguished the dozen candles that had been lit by an unholy force. He relit them, praying, “Holy Lord. All-powerful Father. Eternal Go
d. Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Cast out all devils and unclean spirits. Return this house of God to a sacred and holy sanctuary.” Father Xavier blessed every corner of the nave, flicking holy water onto the walls and floor. He concentrated heavily on the bloodstains where the native woman had been shot in the head.
When he was done, the air inside the nave felt lighter. Father Xavier looked around, realizing he was alone. Where was Brother Andre? He had been missing for quite a while. Father Xavier went into the bedchamber behind the front altar. “Andre?”
His room was empty.
Andre had been acting strange ever since they arrived at Fort Pendleton. And he was keeping secrets. Last night, Father Xavier had gotten out of bed to relieve himself. He heard voices coming from the nave. He was shocked to find Andre talking intimately with Willow Pendleton. They kissed and embraced one another for a long spell. All day today, Father Xavier had waited for his novice to fess up, but he never did. When Willow collapsed earlier, Andre had worried over her.
Has another succubus latched onto him?
Father Xavier noticed something black protruding from beneath Andre’s mattress. Father Xavier pulled out a diary. As part of his excamen, the apprentice was ordered to journal his thoughts at the end of each day.
He flipped through Andre’s diary, skimmed the passages and saw the name “Willow” repeatedly. He shut the book.
Dead of Winter Page 28
