Blood of the Isir Omnibus

by Erik Henry Vick

  Achak’s fight with the wendigo had been dire, and his body bore witness to the ferocious violence of the battle. The bone of his left thigh jutted through his skin like a tree stump. The brave man’s chest had been sundered, his blood and entrails smeared on the ground around his corpse.

  “The evil creature ate his heart,” murmured Donehogawa.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “To trap his soul, to keep him from traveling, from moving on.”

  “I’m sorry, Donehogawa. Achak was a brave man, indeed.”

  “He was. His death today was proof that his eagle feathers were well-earned.”

  John moved in closer to his friend and spoke whispered, “Donehogawa, you’ve always spoken of the wendigo in the singular.”

  The brave raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “When he howled, something answered.”

  “A wolf, perhaps.” Donehogawa cut his eyes away.

  John looked at his friend and frowned. “Friend, you’ve never found a reason to be less than honest with me in the past. What is it?”

  Donehogawa sighed and met John’s gaze. “There is an ancient legend that the wendigo—”

  An eerie, heartbreaking wail reverberated through the gathering. A young woman stood next to a pile of small bodies. Donehogawa sprang to his feet and ran to the woman. John followed him, dread invading his heart. The woman fell to her knees, rocking back and forth.

  Three broken forms of small children lay in front of her. The oldest child looked no more than six or seven. Their wounds were horrific. All three bore the marks of savage bites. The bodies of two mauled women lay nearby, their wounds painting the picture of their attempt to stand against the wolf-like beast to protect the children.

  John turned away, fury and anguish at war in his soul. “All this death,” he muttered. “For what? What did we accomplish?”

  Donehogawa didn’t speak for a time. When he did, his voice was funereal and black. “We drove the beast away. We kept him from killing more. That is all we can hope for.”

  John gestured at the bodies of the dead Onondowaga children. “This doesn’t feel like hope.”

  Donehogawa sighed. It was a doleful sound. “Do not give in to your grief, my friend. We must be strong and deal with this threat. What happened here today is but a taste of the destruction the creature can wreak. You heard Achak’s account of what happened in my grandfather’s time.”

  John nodded. “Is there any question that we must drive the beast off for good?”

  The brave shook his head. “I don’t think any who saw this battle today would stand in opposition to a war party.”

  “Then I must rally my own people to the fight.”

  “Bring more muskets. The beast seemed to dislike them,” Donehogawa grunted.

  John nodded. “I will bring them here in the morning.”

  Four

  J

  ohn knocked on Captain Wiggin’s door. He had come straight to the man’s house from the disaster at Ganundasaga as fast as his horse would carry him. The other eight survivors were bringing Victor Cross’ remains home for a proper burial.

  Wiggin opened the door, buttoning his black waistcoat. “Black. I didn’t expect to hear from you again so soon. You left in quite a state.”

  John waved his words away. “I took ten men to Ganundasaga. We were invited to a war council to discuss the wendigo.”

  Wiggin’s face wrinkled up with annoyance. “Is this more of that heathen’s nonsense?”

  John slapped his hand on the door frame. “Will you listen for once?”

  The militia captain’s eyes widened. John Black was known to be a man of even temperament, not given to emotional displays such as this. “I am at your service, young Master Black.” The words were conciliatory, but his tone was mocking.

  John gathered himself, suppressing his ire at the man. “While we were there, the beast attacked. I saw it. I shot it! Victor Cross…Victor’s ball took the beast in the chest. He—”

  “Victor is an excellent shot. Perhaps the best of the village.”

  “Not anymore,” said John in harsh tones.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The beast tore him apart, and I am not being poetic.”

  Wiggin drew his head back, eyes showing an intense interest. “Explain this, Black.”

  “The beast picked Victor up. First, he tore off Victor’s face with his teeth, then both of Victor’s arms. He finished by tearing off both legs.”

  The captain harrumphed. “Come, come, Black. That is simply not possible. No man is strong—”

  “It is not an ordinary man!” John shouted, blood burning in his face. “Will you not listen, Captain Wiggin? Will you not hear the truth? I’ve said ‘the beast,’ and that is exactly what I mean. He shouted some word and began to grow. He grew to such a height that my forehead came to his waist. He was—”

  “Master Black, I have no time for children’s tales.”

  John closed his eyes and counted to ten in his mind. “Nor I, Captain, nor I. I am telling you what I saw, sir, with my own eyes.” John turned and strode over to his horse. He pulled the two halves of the musket the wendigo had broken over his knee out of his riding pack. “See this musket? The beast broke it over his knee after I shot several rounds at him. He did not seem to enjoy being shot.”

  Captain Wiggin’s eyes brushed over the broken musket without seeing it. “Then you’ve killed it? I can see the body of this beast?”

  “No. While he didn’t like being shot—and he was shot, oh, call it five times—he did not fall. One of the shots was a good one—Victor’s ball—hitting the thing in the chest. I should say that a man struck thus would surely die.”

  “But this…this mythical creature was not killed?”

  “As I said, no. The creature was also struck countless times by Onondowaga war clubs and flint knives. Donehogawa hit the creature in the neck, impaling him on his club’s spike. The beast treated all these things as annoyances. He adds more victims to his list. There were three children—”

  “Heathen children, yes?”

  “Yes, Onondowaga children. There were three of them butchered, along with the two women who were no doubt defending them. Old Achak was killed—”

  “Who?”

  “Achak. An old Onondowaga brave. You may have seen him trading. White hair, feathers tied therein. Three of the feathers were eagle feathers, which means he did three brave deeds in service of the people. Deeds like fighting a bear, protecting the village, and the like. One of those feathers was from facing the beast we fought today, alone, in the time of Donehogawa’s grandfather. Achak made a bargain with the beast that if he gave him a good fight, the monster would leave the village alone.”

  “Ha! And yet the beast is here, and Achak lies dead.”

  “The bargain was struck more than forty years ago, and for those forty years, the wendigo hunted elsewhere.”

  The captain rolled his eyes. “Do we not count as elsewhere? Does not Nathan Bryce count as elsewhere?”

  “And to that tally, add Mad Jack Martin and Victor Cross,” snapped John. “And yes, we would be fair game, but that isn’t the point. The point is that Achak fought him and convinced him to leave. We have to—”

  “We need to kill this man. These fanciful tales are not necessary, John. He’s murdered three of our own, and we’ll sort him out with the rope.”

  “Captain Wiggin,” said John, “this beast is old—older than yours and my age added together. More than the sum of ages of every man, woman, and child living in Geneva.”

  “Hogwash, Black. Such a thing is impossible. Yes, perhaps he faced Achak forty years ago, but anything beyond that is outside the scope of the believable. And, if I have my say, he will add no more years to the tally.”

  “He can’t be killed. The Onondowaga legends tell—”

  “You put too much faith in these heathen beliefs, John.” Wiggin put his hand on John’s shoulder. “I say this as your
father would have, God rest his soul.”

  “No. My father respected the Onondowaga.”

  “He traded with them, yes. He used them as guides, surely. Respected them? I think not.”

  “I knew my father’s mind on the matter,” John snapped.

  “You knew him as a son. I knew him as a man and a friend.”

  John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “It is neither here nor there, Captain. We must call out the militia and join with the Onondowaga. We must assist them in driving the beast away. Perhaps we can trap—”

  “No,” said Wiggin.

  John stopped and stared at the man, bewildered. “No?”

  “No.”

  “But, Captain, can’t you see—”

  “Master Black, I assure you I can see this situation more clearly than you can.” Wiggin’s voice cracked like a whip. “You have let your imagination run free. Your fondness for these heathens has led you to accept everything they say no matter how foolish it may be. There is no magical beast stalking the forest. There are no men who can transform themselves into beasts. Not even witches, with the blessing of the Evil One, can manifest such magic.

  “No, young Master Black, this fanciful story will not go further. I will find the man who has committed these murders, and I will see him hang. The rest of this is childish nonsense.”

  “Captain, without us, many of the Onondowaga braves will perish.”

  Wiggin shrugged. “Better that they perish than men from Geneva.”

  John glared at him, shaking his head. “I think it is time for a change in leadership for the militia, Wiggin. My father once told me you were a brave man and a good leader. He misjudged you on both counts.”

  “There is no call to let this conversation degenerate into insults, Black.” Wiggin stepped back and slammed the door in John’s face.

  “Fine,” John hissed. “Then I will call out the militia myself.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, John rode from house to homestead to farm, telling everyone he spoke to the tale of Ganundasaga and the wendigo. From each man over fifteen years, he extracted a commitment to join the militia in the morning or to remain in Geneva and guard the women and children.

  John spent the night lurching awake from one nightmare after the other. The wendigo starred in them all.

  Five

  B

  efore sunup the next morning, John’s horse was saddled and ready. His musket was cleaned and oiled, and he had melted down enough lead to create a plethora of rounds. Three full powder horns hung from his shoulders, as did a leather case filled to the rim with wadding. He had two meals packed and a roll of blankets tied behind his saddle. He had sacrificed two bed sheets to the making of bandages.

  He rode to the village square and tied his horse in front of the ordinary. He waited as the men of the village who had committed to helping the Onondowaga assembled. His eyes widened as Captain Wiggin joined the assembled militia.

  Wiggin stood in front of the door to the ordinary and faced the men. “This is a mistake,” he called. “Master Black here is a good man, a fair man, but, I think, a man given to flights of fancy where the heathens are concerned.”

  The men grumbled and murmured to each other, but no one broke ranks.

  “Come now,” said Wiggin. “A man who can turn into a beast? You can’t believe that nonsense.”

  “Captain,” said John in a low voice. “You are not needed here.”

  Wiggin whirled to face him. “I think I am, Black. Now, you’ve had your say with the men, and I’ve allowed that. It is a tribute to their courage and good hearts that they assemble here this morning. But I will not let this go farther. No, I will be heard.”

  John climbed into his saddle. He turned his horse to face the militia. “Let’s mount up, men.”

  The square was filled with the rustling sound of men climbing into their saddles.

  “Men,” shouted Wiggin. “This is not a legitimate militia action. As persuasive as Black may be, what he claims as truth is neither credible nor true. We seek a man. A man who has developed a taste for murder and a thirst for blood, I’ll grant that, but a man nonetheless. To think otherwise is wrongheaded. Dismount, men.”

  No one did.

  “Come, now. I am captain of the militia, not Black. To believe in these flights of fancy is one thing. To undertake an action to track down such fancy is…is…absurdity. Come. Dismount, men.”

  Ethan Smith walked his horse forward a step. “You’ve had your say, Wiggin. We’ve listened and found your argument to be wanting. Man or beast, we ride with John Black.” No one else moved.

  “Now, men, this is getting annoying.” Wiggin swept his hat off his head and threw it on the ground. “I am captain of this militia, and I order you to dismount.”

  Ethan shrugged his massive blacksmith’s shoulders. “If you want to know my mind, Wiggin, John Black is twice the leader you are, even at his young age. It is, as he says, time for a new captain.”

  Wiggin harrumphed and stomped his foot.

  “Lead on, John,” said Ethan.

  With a nod of thanks, John rode out of the square. The assembled men followed, leaving Wiggin alone in the brightening morning. John led the men, riding in grim silence, to Ganundasaga.

  When the men arrived, Donehogawa looked over the militia and nodded to John. “You’ve done well, my friend.”

  “Thanks.”

  The brave made a show of searching the men’s faces. “And where is your leader? Where is Captain Wiggin? Where is Nyakwal?”

  Ethan Smith leaned forward and spat on the ground. “I think calling him our leader is no longer accurate, sir.”

  Donehogawa looked at John and arched his eyebrows.

  John shrugged. “Lead on, brave Donehogawa.” John noticed Donehogawa had a new feather tied in his hair. An eagle’s feather. Looking at it, he nodded.

  They rode in silence for a short while, then John reined his horse close to Donehogawa’s. “Yesterday, you started to tell me of a legend.”

  His friend’s face darkened. “Yes. There is a legend in the Pygmy Society of three gods—two men and a woman—who had powers like what we witnessed yesterday. At one time, the people worshiped them. Fed them. Gave them gifts of blood, fought for their amusement.”

  John raised his eyebrows but nodded, keeping his tongue.

  “The legend doesn’t say why, but at some point, the people grew dissatisfied with the gods. The story is mostly lost, you understand. What remains is more a skeleton than a live beast. The people rebelled and refused to worship the blood-thirsty gods. The gods were incensed. They vented their anger on the people, killing many, feeding on them.”

  “Gruesome, but familiar.”

  Donehogawa inclined his head.

  “There are only two of these beasts? Two wendigos and a woman?”

  Donehogawa shook his head and shrugged. “You heard the answering howls of another beast as well as I did, John. Beyond that, I know nothing.”

  “Wonderful,” muttered John.

  They crisscrossed through the forest for the rest of the day, covering more than thirty square miles, but they found no evidence of the beast. Tired and dejected, the militia from Geneva left the Onondowaga warriors at Ganundasaga and rode home in silence.

  As they approached the outlying homesteads of Geneva, the scent of smoke filled the air.

  “Home, men,” called John. He kicked his horse into a gallop, leaving the others to follow his lead or go to their own homes. He reined up at the edge of the village, eyes sweeping left to right, mouth set in a horrified frown.

  The village had suffered an attack while the militia was searching the forest. Heaps of ash and charred wood smoldered where several homes had stood in the morning. One of the houses belonged to Martin Wiggin. Another belonged to John’s eldest brother, Bartholomew. John made for his brother’s dooryard and called out. His horse shied away from the smoke billowing in the wind.

  No one answered his calls, no one moved.<
br />
  John turned his horse and continued on to the square, where he found a mob of his fellow villagers. He dismounted and tied his horse to the rail in front of the ordinary, which appeared to be unscathed by the attack. “What happened here?” he shouted.

  “The beast!”

  “We were attacked by demons!”

  “Can’t you see, man? Can’t you see what happened here?!”

  “They came out of the forest, two great beast-men.”

  “No, one was a female.”

  “What? Are you daft? The beasts were male. The witch was female.”

  John held up his hands for quiet but was ignored. “Neighbors!” he shouted. “Neighbors, please!”

  When the mob of people quieted enough that he could be heard by all, John asked, “Where is my eldest brother? Where is Bartholomew Black?”

  “Dead!” someone cried. “Dead, defending his family.”

  “And Annabelle?”

  “Taken! Along with Bart’s son!”

  Mark! Blood crashed in John’s ears like the Atlantic’s waves pounding granite rocks along the shore, like thunder. The beast killed my brother! The thought savaged its way through his mind. He said he would do this. Why didn’t I believe him?

  Ethan Smith strode up to John and put his hand on John’s shoulder. “John, Martin Wiggin is missing as well. There is a trail of blood leading from his house into the woods.”

  John swallowed hard. “Who else is missing? Who else is dead?”

  Only Annabelle, Mark, and Martin Wiggin had been taken away. Five men, two women, and six children had been killed, mostly at the homesteads on the edge of town. Chunks the size of an over-large bite were missing from all the corpses. Some had been torn open, their organs fed on.

  John stared at the devastation wrought to his village. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking that the wendigos had known John would go looking for them following the battle at Ganundasaga. They’d planned on most of the men being away—if for no other reason than the beast hadn’t liked being shot with a musket.