The Curse of the Wendigo

FOURTEEN

“The One Who Brought You Out ”

At first I thought I was dreaming. The room was at once foreign and familiar, as in a dream—the chipped bowl upon the washstand, the rickety dresser, the narrow window with the dingy white curtains, the lumpy mattress on which I lay. Either I’m dreaming or I’m dead, I thought, though I’d never pictured heaven as so depressingly shoddy. Still, it was the first bed I’d lain in for . . . how long? It seemed longer than a lifetime.

“Well, finally you’re up.” The old floorboards creaked; a tall shadow approached. Then the meager light fell upon his face. Gone were the grit and grime of the forest, the whiskers, the old duster and filthy breeches. His hair was freshly trimmed. I detected a hint of talcum.

“Dr. Warthrop,” I croaked. “Where am I?”

“Our old digs at the Russell House. I’m surprise you do not recognize the rustic charm.”

“How long have I . . .”

“This is the morning of the third day,” he said.

“Dr. Chanler . . . ?”

“He departs this afternoon for New York.”

“He’s alive?”

“I will forgive that question, Will Henry, as you’ve been out of sorts. But really.”

He was smiling. He dropped his hand casually upon my forehead, and quickly removed it.

“You’ve been running a bit of a fever, but it’s gone now.”

My hand went up to my chest. I felt the gauze of the bandage.

“You’ll have some scarring—something to impress the ladies when you’re older. Nothing more serious than that.”

I nodded, still unable to absorb all of it. It still felt dreamlike to me.

“We got out,” I said hesitantly, seeking reassurance.

He nodded. “Yes, Will Henry. We got out.”

The subject was dropped for the moment; he laid out my clothes and stood at the bedside impatiently while I struggled to dress. Every joint ached, every muscle quivered with fatigue, and my chest burned horribly with the slightest movement. When I sat up, the room spun around, and I gathered the sheets into my fists to ballast myself against the waves of nausea smashing against the brow of my enfeebled constitution. The shirt I managed to put on without aid, but when I lowered my head to slip on the pants, I toppled over—the doctor stepping forward to catch me before I smacked face-first onto the floor.

“Here, Will Henry,” he said gruffly. “Come now. Lean against me.”

He pulled up my pants, cinched the belt tight.

“There. Now, I trust you’ve too much pride to suffer the indignity of me carrying you downstairs. Here, hold on to my arm.”

Thus we proceeded to the lobby restaurant, where the doctor ordered a pot of tea and instructed our waiter (who also happened to be the bartender and the cook) to “unload the larder.” In good time I was stuffing my mouth with biscuits and venison gravy, pancakes glistening in maple syrup, fresh sausages and bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, hominy, and breaded trout filets. Warthrop cautioned me to slow down, but his warning went unheeded in the hurly-burly of my frontier bacchanal. It was as if I had never tasted food before, and the more I ate, the more exquisite became my appetite.

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” the monstrumologist said.

“Yes, sir,” I muttered around a mouthful of biscuit.

He rolled his eyes, sipped his tea, and looked out the window to Main Street, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

“Did you get a good look at it, sir?” I asked.

“A good look at what?”

“The . . . thing that was chasing us.”

He turned back to me. His expression was unreadable.

“There was no ‘thing’ chasing us, Will Henry.”

“But the eyes . . . you saw them.”

“Did I?”

“I did.”

“With the eyes of one suffering from dehydration, sleep deprivation, hunger, physical trauma, exhaustion, exposure, and extreme fear—not unlike my eyes at the time.”

“What about the tent? Something tore it right out of—”

“Wind shear.”

He smiled condescendingly at my baffled expression. “A freak meteorological phenomenon. Rare, but not unheard of.”

“But I heard it, sir. Coming after us . . . It was huge.”

“You heard nothing of the sort. As I’ve told you before, fear murders our reason. I should never have panicked, but I was, like you, in a state of heightened emotional distress. In my right mind I would have realized the best course of action would have been to stay where we were, as far from the trees as possible.”

“Far from the trees?”

“The preferable place to be in an earthquake.”

“An earthquake,” I echoed disbelievingly. He was nodding. “It was an earthquake?”

“Well, what else could it have been?” he asked crossly. “Really, Will Henry, the alternative you’re suggesting is absurd, and you know it.”

I set down my fork. Suddenly I wasn’t hungry anymore. Indeed, I felt full to my ears, bloated and slightly nauseated. I looked down at my plate. The dead eye of the trout stared blankly back at me. Shards of white flesh clung to the delicate translucent bone. I would strip her bare. I would see her as she is. I thought of Pierre Larose. And then of Sergeant Hawk, his arms flung wide as if to embrace the limitless sky, his eyeless sockets regarding something we who retained our eyes could not see.

“If you are finished gorging yourself,” the doctor said, consulting his watch, “we are late for our appointment.”

“Appointment, sir?”

“They won’t allow us to leave until they speak to you, and I am anxious to quit this charming little backcountry outpost as soon as possible.”

“They” turned out to be two detectives with the North-West Mounted Police. The doctor had reported the deaths of Larose and Sergeant Hawk immediately, and Hawk’s body had been quickly recovered where we had abandoned it, less than ten miles from the northern shore of the Lake of the Woods. A party had been dispatched to locate Larose’s makeshift grave with the aid of a crude map sketched by Warthrop. He wasn’t sure of the precise location, he told his interrogators, but he knew it was off the main trail about a day’s hike from the Sucker camp at Sandy Lake.

The doctor was accustomed to dealing with all varieties of law enforcement; it was an inherent part of his work, since monstrumology was, in a way, the study of the criminal side of nature. He answered their questions forthrightly, his responses becoming vague only to the questions about the purpose of John Chanler’s journey.

“Research,” he replied cagily.

“Research of what, Dr. Warthrop?” the detectives asked.

“Of certain indigenous belief systems.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Well, he certainly didn’t consult me about it,” Warthrop said, a bit testily. “If you’d like to know more, I suggest you ask Dr. Chanler.”

“We have. He claims to remember nothing.”

“I’ve no doubt he’s telling the truth. He has been through a terrible ordeal.”

“Making out a little better than his guide, though.”

“If you are suggesting he had something to do with Larose’s murder, you are sadly mistaken, Detective Sergeant. I am not telling you how to execute your duties, but the person you should be asking these questions is Jack Fiddler.”

“Oh, we’ll be talking to Mr. Jack Fiddler. We’ve had reports about the strange goings-on up there at Sandy Lake.”

Then it was my turn. The detectives politely asked the doctor to leave. He staunchly refused. They asked again with noticeably less politeness, and he, seeing that further recalcitrance would serve only to delay our departure, reluctantly agreed.

For the next hour they walked me through the story, from first day to terrifying last, and I answered their questions as thoroughly as I could, omitting only those things the doctor had told me were borne of “dehydration, sleep deprivation, hunger, physical trauma, exhaustion, exposure, and extreme fear”—everything, that is, that smacked of Outiko.

“Do you know what Chanler went up there for?” they asked me.

“I think it was research.”

“Research, yes, yes; we’ve heard that.” Then, abruptly, they shifted gears. “What kind of doctor is he?”

“Dr. Chanler?”

“Dr. Warthrop.”

“He is a . . . natural philosopher.”

“Philosopher?”

“A scientist.”

“What does he study?”

“N-natural things,” I stuttered.

“And Dr. Chanler, he’s the same kind of philosopher?”

“Yes.”

“And what are you? Are you a philosopher too?”

“I’m an assistant.”

“You’re an assistant philosopher?”

“I provide services to the doctor.”

“What kind of services?”

“Services of the . . . indispensable kind. Is the doctor in trouble?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

“A sergeant of the NWMP is dead, boy. Somebody is going to be in trouble.”

“But I told you—he left us. He disappeared one night and he was dead when we found him.”

“Bush fever—climbed a tree and froze to death. A local boy who grew up in those woods, who hunted in them and fished in them, who’s hiked them from here to the arctic circle. Just runs off, hauls himself up a tree in the middle of the first big storm of the season . . . You see how it doesn’t add up, Will.”

“Well, that’s what happened.”

I was practically giddy with relief when they escorted us outside without metal bracelets adorning our wrists.

“We shall be in touch, Dr. Warthrop,” said they, rather ominously.

Having just survived my first interrogation as a detained foot soldier in the service of science, I was subjected to another by my master, who demanded to know every question and hear every answer.

“‘Assistant philosopher’! What the devil is that, Will Henry?”

“The best I could come up with, sir.”

We were walking toward the waterfront, away from our hotel.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Chanler,” replied the monstrumologist curtly. “For some unfathomable reason, he’s gotten it into his head he owes you a word of gratitude.”

He was recuperating in the private residence of the town’s apothecary and sole dentist. The residence was located on the second story directly above the business establishment, in a precarious-looking structure across the street from the wharf.

I will confess my ascent to John Chanler’s room was fraught with no small measure of apprehension. Perhaps sensing my distress, the doctor drew me aside before we entered.

“He remembers nothing, Will Henry. His physical recovery has been nothing short of remarkable, but mentally . . . At any rate, try to control your tongue, and remember he has suffered more than either of us.”

John Chanler was sitting in a rocking chair by the window. The late afternoon sun bathed his face with a kind of washed-out radiance, as sometimes the dead will seem to glow in their coffin. I noticed first that he, like the doctor, had had a shave and a trim. The fullness of his face made his eyes appear smaller, more in proportion with the rest. Of course, he was still horribly thin. His head seemed to be balanced precariously upon his spindly neck.

“Well, hullo there!” he called softly, motioning me closer with a freshly manicured claw. “And you must be Pellinore’s Will Henry! I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

His hand was icy cold, though his grip was hard.

“I am John,” he said. “I am so glad to meet you, Will—and I’m delighted to see you up and about. Pellinore told me you’ve been under the weather.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“And now you’re feeling much better.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Glad to hear it!” His eyes had lost their yellow hue. The last time I had looked into those eyes, they’d seemed to burn with golden fire.

“You look just like him,” Chanler said softly. “Your father. The resemblance is remarkable.”

“You knew my father?” I asked.

“Oh, everyone knew James Henry. He was practically attached to Warthrop’s hip. A terrible loss, Will. I am sorry.”

In the awkward silence that ensued, we stared at each other across a space that felt far greater than the few feet that separated us. There was an odd blankness about him, a flatness to his inflection, like a poor actor reading from a script, or like the parroting of words in a language he did not comprehend.

“Will Henry,” the doctor said. “John wanted to thank you.”

“Yes! Pellinore tells me your services were indispensable to my rescue.”

“It was Dr. Warthrop,” I said quickly. “He rescued you from Jack Fiddler and he carried you, sir; he carried you all the way. For miles and miles he carried you—”

“Will Henry,” the doctor said. He shook his head slightly and mouthed the word “no.”

“Well! You are your father’s son, William James Henry! Glad to be of service, honored to be in his august company, et cetera, et cetera.” He turned to my master. “What is this magic you work on underlings, Pellinore? Why can’t they see you for the irascible old mossback you are?”

“Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that my company happens to be august.”

Chanler laughed, producing a rattle deep in his chest. He wiped the resulting spittle from his chin with the back of his hand.

“That was my chief mistake,” he said. “I should have brought you with me on the expedition, Pellinore.”

“I would have refused.”

“Even for old times’ sake?”

“Even for that, John.”

“It doesn’t matter that I failed, you know. The old man won’t give it up.”

“I’m prepared to deal with von Helrung.”

“You know who’s to blame for all this, don’t you? That damned Irishman Stokely.”

“Stokely? Who is he?”

“Or Stockman . . . Stickler . . . Stoker . . . Stocker? Oh, I don’t know what’s the matter; got moss on the brain or something. His first name is Abraham, but he doesn’t go by that.”

“I’ve never heard the name—or any variant of it. Is he a monstrumologist?”

“Good God, no. He’s in the theater. The theater, Pellinore! Met the old man through his patron, that British actor—Harold Lerner—is that it?”

Warthrop was shaking his head. “I’ve no idea, John.”

“He’s very famous. Been knighted by the queen and everything. Over here on a tour last year and . . . Henry! That’s the first name. Sir Henry—”

“Irving?”

“That’s it! Sir Henry Irving. Stickman is his personal clerk or something. Sir Henry introduced him to von Helrung, and ever since the two have been as thick as two peas in a pod.”

“Thieves,” the doctor said. “The expression is as ‘thick as thieves.’”

“Yes, I know that.” Chanler’s face darkened. “I misspoke, professor. Thank you so much for correcting me, though.” He looked at me. “He does it to you, too; you don’t have to tell me.”

“So this personal secretary of Sir Henry convinced von Helrung of the Wendigo’s existence?” Warthrop seemed dubious.

“Did I say that? You aren’t listening to me. A vain man has no room in his head for the thoughts of others—remember that, little Bill! No, I don’t think Stockman knows a Wendigo from a Welshman—but he’s positively obsessed with all things monstrumological—even wants to write a book about it!”

The doctor’s eyebrow rose. “A book?”

“He’s an aspiring novelist, too. Fixated on the occult, native superstitions, that sort of thing.”

“None of which has anything to do with monstrumology.”

“That’s what I told the old man! But he’s slowing down; you know he’s been slipping over the past couple of years. And this Stroker won’t leave him in peace. Back in England now and writing letter after letter, forwarding von Helrung what he called ‘eyewitness accounts,’ excerpts from personal diaries and such, some of which von Helrung showed me. I told him, ‘You can’t trust this man. He’s in the theater. He’s a writer. He’s making it up.’ Well, the old man won’t listen. Goes off and writes this damn paper to present to the congress and asks me to head up here—because proof of one lends credence to the existence of the other.”

“The other,” echoed the doctor.

“Nosferatu. The vampire. That damned Irishman’s pet project.”

“So Meister Abram sends you to bag its North American equivalent,” Warthrop said. “Utter folly, John. Why did you agree to it?”

Chanler looked away. He did not answer for a moment. When he did, it was with a voice so soft I could hardly hear him.

“That is none of your business.”

“You could have turned him down without hurting him.”

The bulbous head whipped toward him; veins popped in the spindly neck; and John Chanler’s eyes burned with anger.

“Don’t preach to me about hurt, Pellinore Warthrop. You have no concept of the word. What did you ever care about his feelings—or anyone’s? When did you ever shed a tear for another human being? I challenge you to name one time in your miserable little life when you gave a damn about anyone but yourself.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” returned my master calmly. He did not appear fazed by this vehement outburst. “Least of all with you, John.”

“Oh, that. What a hypocrite you are, Warthrop. You must be a hypocrite; you’re too intelligent for any other explanation. Throwing yourself into that river was the ultimate act of vanity and self-centeredness. ‘Woe is me, poor tragic Pellinore!’ Pitiful! I wish you had drowned.”

The doctor refused to rise to the bait. “You have been through a terrible ordeal,” he said gently. “I understand you are not yourself, but I pray in time you’ll see your anger is misdirected, John. I am not the one who sent you here; I am the one who brought you out.”

I thought of him crashing to the frozen ground, Chanler cradled in his arms, and the wild look in his eyes when Hawk tried to help him with his burden—the revolver inches from Hawk’s face—and his broken cry so pitiably small in the unforgiving desolation: No one touches him but me!

“One and the same,” whispered his friend cryptically. “One and the same.”

Before Warthrop could ask the meaning of this remark, a knock came upon the door. The doctor stiffened at the sound and briefly closed his eyes, breathing to himself, “We have stayed too long.”

Muriel Chanler stepped into the room, seeing Warthrop first and saying to him, “Where is John?”

Then she saw him, huddled in the little chair, a man who appeared twice as old as when she’d seen him last, pale and shriveled, ground down by the wilderness and the exorbitant cost of desire. She gave an involuntary gasp; her eyes welled with tears.

Chanler tried to rise, failed, tried again. He rocked unsteadily upon his feet. He seemed taller than I remembered.

“Here I am,” he croaked.

She hurried toward him, slowed, stopped. She touched his cheek tenderly. The moment was heartrending and intensely private. I looked away—toward the author of the play, who had endured the unendurable so he might stage this scene—the woman he loved in the arms of another man.

“John?” she asked, as if she could not quite believe it.

“Yes,” he lied. “It’s me.”