Odd Whitefeather

Odd Whitefeather A Story By Nicholas Antinozzi

PUBLISHED BY: Nicholas Antinozzi Copyright (c) 2010 by Nicholas Antinozzi Edited by Coleta Wright Cover Design by Steve Peterson

License Notes Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the other.

Odd Whitefeather Have you ever picked up a newspaper for no particular reason and found yourself going straight to the obituary section? Have you ever gotten some really, really bad news while doing that? That happened to me not all that long ago and I will never forget the experience. I usually avoid the daily paper and all of the bad news printed there; if anything, I’ll give the sports section a quick look. I seldom go further than that, but for some reason that obituary was screaming at me to read it. I know that now to be true. My name is Billy Proudfoot and I was late for work, again. Before hitting the time-clock, I needed to drop my lunch in the refrigerator inside the break-room. People were waiting for me, no doubt checking their watches and complaining about me once again. I knew that, but I still stopped to pick up that damn paper. The sections lay scattered on one of the long tables and I reached down and flipped the pages of the Local section and scanned the obituaries. Why? There were two full pages of them and I found his, printed with a nice photo, near the bottom of the second page. I hadn’t seen Doug Warner in over ten years, but I recognized that photograph the instant I laid my eyes on it. For, it was me who took that particular shot. Doug and I had been best friends from childhood until the day I moved to Minneapolis. My knees buckled as the

terrible news hit me like a city bus. I sat down and read the awful piece that chronicled his life. My vision blurred and the first fat teardrop fell on Doug’s picture. I shook my head, picked up my lunch and returned to my car. The funeral was in Carlton, one hundred and some miles to the north and it began in less than two hours. I was on Interstate 35 heading north at eighty MPH not five minutes after reading the news. Doug was that type of friend, and if you don’t understand that you’re hanging out with the wrong type of people. The tears fell in great waves and I cried like a lost six year-old child. I didn’t care what the people in the other cars thought, but to be honest; I couldn’t have prevented my emotional outburst, even if I had wanted to. The day was tailor-made for a funeral. It was March; it was overcast and it was cold and breezy. I had one hundred bucks in my checking account and not one ounce of plastic. I’d gone bankrupt the year before, but that’s not important. The wheel shook on my Saturn at any speed above eighty, ten MPH above the posted limit and I was moving right along with traffic. Twenty minutes later the shock had diminished; just enough for me to do some reflecting that produced a few choked sobs. Death does that to you; let’s you think the worst is over before sinking its claws into your heart and refreshing the agony. I had moved away from the Fond Du Lac Indian Reservation in 1998, after spending the first thirty-five years of my life there. I am half Ojibwe on my mother’s side, half dirty, rotten Traveling Salesman on my dad’s. I had moved for love, or, at least I had told myself so. Mom had died the previous year, which had caused me to lose the center of my universe. Sasha Linder and I started dating six months after that. We were married and she decided that we pack up and move to Minneapolis. Foolishly, I followed her. Upon arrival, she began to spin a web inside our life together, a web that prevented me from ever going back to the reservation for a visit. She never said as much, but that web was as real as the lock on a bank vault and just as hard to break open. She consumed ten years of my life before becoming addicted to the poker machines at a local casino. At the time of our divorce we were nearly three hundred thousand dollars in debt. She couldn’t stop herself; my guess is that she’s sitting at a slot machine this very minute. That had been two years ago. I’d lost my job, my home, my wife, and most of the self-respect that I’d left the reservation with. I now lived in the basement of a friend’s house, trying to eek out a living at the birdseed factory on minimum wage. For twelve long years I had lived my life by the foolish concept of never looking back. I shook my head, how had I let that happen? Sasha had promised that we’d head back for a visit, sometime. That sometime was now, minus Five-of-a-Kind Sasha, which was what I had taken to calling her. Hitting five-of-a-kinds was all she ever mentioned about her casino experiences. Doug Warner lived off of the reservation with his family in Carlton. Or, that’s where I had left him in 1998. He’d been married and they’d had three kids by the time I’d left. Doug was the type to put down deep roots, always involved in the community at some level. He was the man I aspired to become, but I’d fallen dreadfully short and now he was gone.

I had a few aunts and uncles on the reservation, along with seven cousins that I had left behind in 1998. I wasn’t particularly close to any of them, as I was the bastard child of the family outcast. That didn’t mean that I had no friends, for I had some good ones, some of which I was bound to see shortly. I looked down at my stained, blue work uniform, the same one that I’d wore the day before. I hadn’t even showered that morning and my heart fell to some lower place with the realization. Nothing could be done for that and I continued driving. I arrived at the funeral home with fifteen minutes to spare and I parked my battered Saturn at the back of the empty lot. A shimmering Hearse was parked at the door. The time had come and I found that I couldn’t move. I had expected to arrive to a crowded lot with people milling about as they do at these things, gathering up their courage to go inside and face reality. I couldn’t go and mill about by myself, so I stayed behind the steering wheel and stared at the black and chrome Hearse. Carlton is a small town south of Duluth, boasting a four-way stop and a population that numbered in the hundreds. Doug Warner had been good friends with many of them at the time I’d left and I was beginning to wonder where they all were. There was no one on the street or on the sidewalks and the familiar little shops that lined the main drag looked dark and imposing. Five minutes passed and my legs began to cramp up. I shook my head; took a deep breath and I stepped outside into the cold, gusting wind. I didn’t bother to lock the Saturn. I walked around my car three times, deep in a conversation with myself, when another car eased into the small parking lot of Swenson’s Funeral Home. I immediately recognized Terry Blackbird and my mood brightened considerably. I was beginning to think that I’d have to attend the service alone, which was really bothering me by that time. Where was everyone? Terry and I had been friends for as long as I could remember. He was a big kid that had grown into a huge man. Like me, Terry was a half blood and had been raised by his mother. His hair was long and black, like mine, except he stood a full foot taller and he outweighed me by at least one hundred pounds. I watched him get out of his Buick and grimace. He then turned to face me and he shook his head with a great sorrow. There are moments in your life, like these, that you will never forget no matter how long you live. I walked over to Terry and we embraced, never exchanging a word, both of us racked with sobs of pure, unadulterated grief. When we backed away from each other, Terry shook out a smoke and offered it to me. I accepted, even though I hadn’t smoked in almost twelve years. We smoked in silence for half a cigarette before Terry looked at his watch and swore under his breath. “Where is everyone?” I managed, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “Don’t know,” said Terry. “But, I’ve got five minutes to ten.” I nodded, exhaling deeply as if to make up for lost time. The cigarette, added another touch of surrealism to the moment.

“Billy, you and I need to talk when this is over. A lot has happened since you left town. You should know of it. Do you have some time after the service?” “Sure, I’m just playing this by ear. I didn’t even know that Doug was gone until an hour and a half, ago. That’s why I’m dressed like this and look like shit.” Terry Blackbird nodded his head and took a drag off of his cigarette, the wind whipping his long hair at a ninety degree angle. “I knew you’d be here.” I thought about telling him about my chance encounter with the newspaper, and that’s when I thought of it. What was Doug Warner’s obituary doing in the Minneapolis paper? My hand began to tremble and I smoked greedily. Terry was dressed in new blue jeans, glossy cowboy boots, and a red button-up shirt with a string tie. His yet-unlined face looked puffy, as I suppose mine did. He wiped the tears from his eyes and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Let’s go in,” he said. “We can talk later over a drink.” This was the moment that I had been dreading. I turned around and looked at the empty lot before following Terry Blackbird into Swenson’s Funeral Home. I’d been to Swenson’s more times than I cared to remember, the last time being to attend the service for my mother. I walked inside and somehow the air felt colder as we signed our names to Doug’s guestbook. Seeing our names at the top of the first page was almost too much to bear. The funeral parlor hadn’t changed a bit since my last visit. The faded red carpet with the white swirls still covered the sagging floor, and long purple drapes adorned the walls where the windows should’ve been. The place had the unique smell of death and nostalgia, which is the only way I know how to describe it. Pre-recorded organ music played softly from hidden speakers. I followed big Terry Blackbird into the chapel and up to the casket. I was concentrating on the Ojibwe artwork, painstakingly stitched into the back of Terry’s shirt. I didn’t want to see Doug lying there in his casket, but I found myself suddenly staring at him. I didn’t even know how he died, but I now certainly knew that he was dead. He didn’t look good. I closed my eyes and prayed for strength as I stood next to Terry Blackbird, who was undoubtedly doing the same. There was one bouquet of lilies, and I read Terry’s name on the card. It made me sad. Doug was white and very little hair remained on his head. His face looked bloated and appeared to be smeared with clay. His hands, one of which I had shaken a thousand times, looked stiff and gray and were crossed on his chest, clutching the beads of a rosary. I felt Terry leave my side, allowing a little more light to fall on Doug’s defeated face. I was saying good-bye to Doug in his casket when it happened. Doug’s dead jaw suddenly opened and closed, not once, but twice. I distinctly heard him say, “Help me.”

I nearly leapt back from the casket, my heart hammering inside my chest. I put my hand up to my mouth to stifle a scream and moved to the pew where Terry was seated. “He talked,” I said, pointing to the casket. “He’s not dead, man. He… talked!” Terry was up and he reached the casket in a few short strides, without a second thought he reached inside the casket and put a large hand on Doug’s painted neck. He stood there for fifteen or twenty seconds before turning to me and shaking his head. “He’s dead,” was all Terry said to me. I saw what I saw and heard what I heard; there was no doubt in that. I wanted to run out of there and lay rubber out of the parking lot. I wanted to go home and hide under the covers of my own bed. Terry must’ve read that on my face, because he took me by the shoulders and sat me down on the front pew. I sat there and looked down at my work boots. I was desperately trying to regain my composure, but I couldn’t get my mind off of what I’d witnessed. That was when I realized that Terry and I were absolutely alone in the funeral home, save for Doug Warner. And it was after ten. Terry’s huge hand fell on my leg and it practically caused me to scream. I didn’t move, not for a long moment, but I finally managed to lift my head and quickly wished I hadn’t. Doug Warner was sitting upright in his casket and pointing a dead finger at us, accusingly. I don’t know why, but I ducked down to avoid the aim of that finger. Doug’s mouth was open wide in a silent scream and his eyes were open too, revealing a pair of glass marbles that were hidden under the bronze-colored lids. The next moment both Terry and I were running for the exit. We hit the door and I followed him to his Buick. There were no words exchanged as we hopped into Terry’s car and we bolted out of there as if the place were about to explode. We left town and headed for the reservation. Terry shook out a couple of smokes and we quickly lit them. “Aw, shit,” muttered Terry as he coaxed the Buick up to a steady ninety MPH. “What the hell was that? Tell me, Billy, what in the hell was that?” I didn’t know. I couldn’t even think about it, much less speak about what had just happened. My body shook as if I’d taken a December dip in Lake Superior. We roared down the empty highway and continued to smoke our cigarettes in silence. Terry’s dark skin was as pale as I’d ever seen it, as I supposed my own looked to him. I had no idea where we were headed and found that I didn’t care, just as long as Terry continued driving. I had the feeling that Doug was behind us, following the Buick in the swirling winds of that terrible morning.

I could smell the fear on myself; the pungent odor that lingers in a hospital waiting room, and that scent blended with the fear rising from Terry. Cracking the window didn’t help because it isn’t as much an odor, as it is an entity that only diminishes with time. What the hell are we going to do?” I asked, stubbing my cigarette out in the brimming ashtray. “We’re going to visit Odd Whitefeather, that’s what we’re gonna do,” replied Terry, a touch of a challenge in his voice. “He’ll know what to do.” Somehow, I knew exactly that was where we were heading. “Odd Whitefeather has to be ninety by now,” I replied. “Closer to a hundred.” Odd Whitefeather was an outcast, just as my mother had been, although for very different reasons. He had been an outcast for as long as I could remember, but he hadn’t always been so. At least, that’s what I knew from the talk of his younger years. He had been somewhat of a mystic; a medicine man, without ever achieving official status from the Ojibwe who lived on the reservation. I’d never met him. Terry turned the Buick down Cemetery Road and negotiated the winding curves with the confidence of a racecar driver. I never doubted that he’d get us there in one piece. What bothered me was the fact that I had yet to see another living person since my arrival at Swenson’s, that is, if you don’t include Doug Warner. I don’t know what he was. Just because I hadn’t ever met Odd Whitefeather, didn’t mean that I hadn’t heard of him. Everyone knew where the old man lived and everyone avoided the place. Odd Whitefeather had gained a reputation during his strange existence and that was one of being a bad omen. One didn’t look for a bad omen, not until today, that is. The road meandered around the tall white pines and was relatively free of ice and snow. Odd Whitefeather lived at the very outside edge at the back of the reservation, five miles from his nearest neighbor. I spotted the familiar mailbox in the same place I’d left it, planted in the frozen earth t the beginning of the long gravel driveway. The woods here were thick with undergrowth and dark with gloom. Whatever fear I’d left in Carlton was creeping back and I felt a cold shiver as we made the turn. I suddenly realized that by coming here, we had committed ourselves to understanding what was happening. At that moment, I had no desire to understand anything. I just wanted to get as far away from my old friend, Doug Warner, as I possibly could. Thinking that brought on a deep sense of guilt and shame and those emotions began to battle the fear. I gritted my teeth as the Buick tread in the snow-covered lane, where it looked as if no one had traveled by car. A single path lined the middle of the driveway, and I knew that path had been created by Odd Whitefeather’s moccasins. Snowmobile tracks were in the ditch. The driveway wound its way around a tall stand of pines to where a large clearing revealed a ramshackle house and a dilapidated barn, both

of which had long ago faded to gray. Smoke billowed from a brick chimney before being swept away with the wind. The yard was neat and an axe lay stuck in a stout stump, next to a large pile of split hardwood. The rusting hulk of an old tractor sat next to the barn. There were no cars. Terry parked the Buick and gave me a hard stare. That look would have been enough to send most men running for their lives, but Terry and I were friends and I recognized it. I opened my door and stepped outside into uncertainty. I walked alongside Terry towards the skinny, two-story home that was at least as old as Odd Whitefeather, himself. The place looked as if might collapse at any minute. “Have you ever met him?” I asked. “Nope.You?” “Never,” I replied as Terry took hold of the handle on the old screen door and pulled it open, the spring creaked with rust. He then rapped on the inside door. He needn’t have done so, because a scant second later it was opened wide by the old Ojibwe known as Odd Whitefeather. “Come on in boys,” he said with a mouth that lacked even a single tooth. “I’ve been expecting you.” Somehow, seeing the old man standing there was nearly as frightening as the incident at the funeral home. To call him ancient was somehow not sufficient, for he looked much closer to Doug’s condition than he did to our own. He had lines etched into the lines of his proud face. A pair of bright, brown eyes held our own gaze for a long moment before Terry took the lead and I followed him inside. We had entered the kitchen, through what must’ve been the back door. The room smelled of cooked bacon and buttered toast. Much to my disbelief, I saw that the table was set for three. Three mismatched cups of freshly poured coffee sat steaming on a table piled high with food. “Have a seat,” said Odd Whitefeather. “First we must eat to give us the courage to face what lies ahead. Now, what have I done with my teeth?” Odd Whitefeather found them in a glass by the sink and he slipped them into his mouth. We sat at the table under the glowing light of a bare bulb hanging from a cord in the ceiling. The room was surprisingly sparse, void of the usual bric-a-brac and wall hangings that decorated most kitchens. Not a magnet adorned the fridge, nor a calendar hung on the wall. A pair of rubber muck-boots sat next to the door. Odd Whitefeather said some words asking for strength and we began to eat in total silence, the only sound was the clacking of forks and the crunching of crisp bacon. I didn’t realize how hungry I was, the fear had obviously sped up my metabolism. Terry ate twice as much as I did. When we’d finished we sat back and sipped our coffee. “Go ahead and smoke,” said Odd Whitefeather as he turned and picked up a steel ashtray from the warped countertop. “It does not bother me.”

Terry took out his pack and lighter and offered me my third cigarette of the day. He then offered one to Odd Whitefeather. “I had to give them up, doctor’s orders.” He then removed his teeth and dropped them back into the glass of water. “I only use them to eat,” he said. We lit our cigarettes, sharing the ashtray as we smoked. Finally, Terry spoke the words we’d both been thinking since we’d arrived. “Why are we here?” he asked. The old man without any teeth smiled. “You’re here to prevent the death of your friend. Why else would you have come here?” The remark sent my hands into a violent tremble. Terry looked across the table at me and gave me the look; the one that says what you’re hearing is total bullshit, it lasted just a fraction of a second before Terry returned his gaze to Odd Whitefeather. “You doubt me?” asked Odd Whitefeather, who then sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. He gave Terry a hard look of his own. There was now shame on Terry’s face. “We were at the funeral home, we saw Doug in his casket. He’s already dead.” “You saw what the Windigo wanted you to see,” Odd Whitefeather replied sternly, challenging us with his cold eyes. Every Ojibwe child on the reservation knew of the Windigo. I slumped in my chair. Unlike Terry, I had given up on trying to find a rational explanation for the day’s events, now Odd Whitefeather had explained everything away in one simple, terrible word. Windigo. A Windigo is an evil creature that lives deep in the woods and in the hearts of The People. The Windigo is a shape-shifting animal, a horrible monster, known to swoop down upon his prey and tear him to pieces before eating him. And that was if you were lucky. You might become a Windigo yourself, and be destined to wander alone in the woods for all eternity. There is more, much more than you want to know. The fact that nobody really believed in them anymore meant nothing to me. I was all ears. “The Windigo has your friend and he is giving you the chance to save him. Of course, you will do the honorable thing,” Odd Whitefeather said, uncrossing his arms and pointing at each of us with a crooked finger. “Because he is your friend, you must know that the Windigo followed you here; he will kill us if you back down. We must face him like men.” “Okay,” said Terry. “I think it’s time to hit the road, Billy. Thanks for breakfast, Mr. Whitefeather.” Terry stood up from his chair and started for the door. “Billy?”

“Let him go,” the old man said, waving a wrinkled hand at Terry in disgust. “I’ll be waiting in the car, man. Knock yourself out, but I’m out of here in fifteen minutes, with or without you.” “Terry,” I said. “Are you kidding me? You were there this morning, you saw Doug sit up in that casket. Where is everyone, man? Why did you choose to drive here and better yet, how the hell did he know we were coming?” “I don’t care. You’ve got fifteen minutes.” “Terry, come on, man…” I heard the door bang open and it nearly made me jump. Terry had returned to the car and I was suddenly angry with him for being such a pig-headed fool. He was afraid and he was trying to run from his fear. Odd Whitefeather thought so, too. “He has no stomach for what needs to be done. Don’t worry, that will soon change.” I was about to ask him what he meant when Terry nearly crashed back inside the house, slamming the door shut and pressing his back to it, as if to ward off a sudden attack. “My car, man… Damn thing’s been ripped apart. What the hell is going on?” I looked at Terry and saw that he was on the verge of losing it. His eyes were wide and the color of his face was very pale. For a long moment he didn’t move. “Come on back to the table,” I said. “We’ve got to do what this man says. Do you get that, Terry?” Terry nodded and swallowed hard. He then ran his hands through his hair and returned to the table. I wasn’t even surprised by what he had said about the car, and I had no desire to see it. I had the feeling that time was running out and that we’d wasted enough of it. I wanted to know what we were up against. Terry lit up a cigarette, but didn’t offer me one. That was okay. “The tobacco is good. Keep smoking,” said Odd Whitefeather in a friendlier tone. “We need it to share as an offering to the Great Spirit.” “Shouldn’t you be smoking, too?” asked Terry. “I get mine like the Great Spirit,” replied the old man. “Second hand. The important thing is that we have it here with us. I hope you have plenty.” “I’ve got four… five cigarettes left. How’s that?” “That is not good.”

Terry looked at me as if it was my turn to speak. I decided it was time to change the subject. “How are we supposed to fight a Windigo?” I asked. “There are many ways, but I can only remember one. Sorry, I am getting old. You must truly believe in my medicine or you will be doomed. You both need to understand that. You need to crawl inside my head and allow me to use your legs and arms. We will become one.” I could see the worry on Terry’s face and I knew that he could read it on mine. Even if it were possible to do such a thing, did we really trust him to use our bodies against the Windigo? “Fear is a good thing,” said Odd Whitefeather. “Fear will make us careful.” He then got up from his chair and walked over to a closet, opening the creaking door. He reached inside; quite nimbly for a man of his age, and pulled out two rumpled, winter coats. “You will need these today, with any luck we’ll be done by dark.” I was closer to Odd Whitefeather and I chose first, taking a warm-looking parka that had faded into a dusky brown. Terry hesitated. “Young Blackbird,” said Odd Whitefeather. “Don’t do this for your friend; don’t do this for me, take this jacket because your soul cries out for it. We wouldn’t be standing here now if it wasn’t for you.” I read a great shame as it passed over Terry’s face; he took the jacket from Odd Whitefeather without meeting his eye. There was more to the story and I wondered when someone would bother to tell it to me. The long black, wool cloak looked to be much older than Odd Whitefeather and I could smell that age as Terry swept by with it. The coat was pungent with storage and probably hadn’t been worn in half a century. “You will need to go outside, behind the barn, near the woods. There is a barrel there, take some of the oak and start a fire in that barrel. Do not let it go out; do you understand me?” I nodded. “What do we do then?” “You wait.” “That doesn’t sound like much of a plan,” said Terry. “Don’t go into the woods.” “How will we know what to do?” I asked. “You’ve got to give us something.” Odd Whitefeather nodded, corralling us towards the door. “You both turned your backs on your friend when he was about to need you the most. You both went away for different reasons and chose to shut out this part of your life. Doug Warner chose to stay and make this a better place to live. This is your chance to atone for that decision. That is why the Windigo calls you; why he calls to us all. We will face him and if we die, we will die with honor.”

“Aren’t you going to need a coat?” asked Terry. “I am staying right where I am. Maybe later I will walk out and join you. I won’t know until the time comes. Remember, you must believe in my medicine or you will die a terrible death. The Windigo can read what is inside a man’s heart.” I tried to say something, anything to stall going back outside. Odd Whitefeather continued to guide us to the door and soon Terry and I found ourselves standing outside, alone. The wind was howling now and the sound of it screaming through the trees turned my blood to ice. The temperature had somehow dropped by thirty degrees. I had no idea how we were supposed to build a fire out there, barrel or not. That’s when I noticed what remained of Terry’s Buick. My mouth hung open and I took a deep breath. The car, what remained of it, lay strewn in the driveway. A large chunk of the roof lay on its side, looking like a half eaten slice of bread. The other parts hadn’t fared much better; the mangled chunks lay scattered around the yard like a child’s toys. How we were supposed to fight something capable of such destruction was beyond my comprehension. I began to pray for strength as Terry and I picked up some chunks of wood. Terry grabbed the axe and walked over to join me. “I’ve spent some time on the inside, man. I swear, I was gonna tell you that.” I looked at him and again saw the shame. Who was I to judge? I nodded and began walking to where Odd Whitefeather had instructed us to go. Terry followed. “I got a gambling problem, a big one,” he said, staying just behind me and leaning close so his words weren’t lost in the wind. “I stole some money and got ten years for it. I just got home, yesterday.” I wanted to stop and confront Terry, to give him a piece of my mind about the evils of compulsive gambling, but I continued on. If he hadn’t learned his lesson by now, he never would. “Who did you steal the money from?” I asked, already expecting what he’d say. “Doug. I stole it from Doug and the Little League fund. I’m not proud of it.” I continued walking, watching for signs of the Windigo; knowing I was foolish to do so. The Windigo would only allow itself to be seen when it was too late. Running from it was the worst thing a man could do. A running man’s feet would catch fire as the Windigo chased him into the woods. There was no stopping. I remembered all of this as I walked, thinking that on some level I had always secretly believed in the creature. I believed now, there was no doubting that. “Aren’t you going to say anything? I just bared my soul to you. Are you ashamed of me? You can tell me. I won’t hold it against you.” I stopped and faced Terry. There were tears on his cheeks and he tried to wipe them away with his shoulders. “What’s done is done,” I said to him. “I am no better than you; I walked away

without ever looking back. At least you didn’t have a choice in the matter. No, man, we both turned our backs on Doug, on our homes. We’ve got to face this thing like men. We’ve got to trust Odd Whitefeather, do you understand me? Can you do that?” “I hope so.” I hoped so, too. We walked past the barn, the wind shrieking above us in the rotting beams. I could see it sway under the pressure, nearly billowing in that hammering wind. The sky was dark and angry and my bare hands were freezing in the cold. We crossed the field, about two hundred paces from the barn was the burning barrel. We dropped our supply of oak and Terry began to shave away at a chunk for some kindling. I stuck my hands deep into the pockets of the parka and tried to warm them. I found something inside one of the pockets and I removed it. I came out with an old section of newspaper, folded into a thick square. The pages were yellowed and threatened to crumble in the wind. “Look what I found,” I said to Terry. “Odd Whitefeather’s toilet paper,” said Terry. “That’ll make this a lot easier.” I preferred to think of it as what he would use to start a fire, but I realized that Terry was probably right. I held the folded pages up to my eyes and searched for a date. I found that the paper dated back to October of 1977. I almost hated to burn it. I will spare you the details of the next hour, but imagine two proud Natives failing to build a fire with split oak, newspaper and a butane lighter. Finally, on the last page of yellow newsprint, the little fire sparked to life. We were cold and frustrated, but at least it had given us something to do. After we were satisfied with our efforts, we both held our hands over the little blaze and looked at each other. “What do you remember of the Windigo?” asked Terry. “Just what I learned as a kid,” I replied, holding my hands closer to the sputtering flames. “I remember that it can be thirty feet tall when it takes the shape of a man, and that we’re never supposed to run from it. I remember that it can only be defeated with the help of a powerful medicine man. Do you think Odd Whitefeather has what it takes?” Terry shrugged his shoulders without looking up. “He’d better, or we’re dead men.” I took that as a yes. I also took some comfort in the fact that the old man had been expecting us. Terry shook out a smoke and lit it up. He smoked in silence, the wind flying through his hair and the smoke sailing away in the blink of an eye. When he’d finished half, he handed it to me and I accepted it, gratefully. I finished the cigarette and gave thanks for the smoke, hoping it would help. It didn’t. A second after I pitched it into the fire there came an explosive crashing through the woods. The sound of snapping tree limbs, and perhaps trunks, filled the air and rode on the breeze. My heart sank and I looked at Terry for support. He had his large head bowed and his eyes were closed,

his lips were moving in silence. I quickly understood and I followed his lead, even as the crashing grew ever closer. As the sound approached, it began to slow at a gradual pace. The diminishing speed sounded as if the creature was stalking us, planning its attack. I opened my eyes and was startled to be staring into the face of Odd Whitefeather. “Are you ready, boys?” he asked. “This is what you came to see.” And I found that I wasn’t ready. I just wanted to go back home to my room and close the door. I wanted my old life back, as wretched as it had been. Odd Whitefeather was wearing a snowmobile jacket and matching bibs, the outfit made him appear much younger. “Do you call this a fire?” he asked. “Add some more wood as if your life depends upon it, because it does. One of you is going to have to go back and get another armload. I’d help, but I’m an old man.” Terry picked up the axe and began to split the few remaining chunks of wood we’d brought. He then began to feed the fire, carefully placing the pieces into the small flames. The wool coat fit him poorly, the sleeves ending just past his elbows and that terrible smell somehow survived in the gale-force winds. I wondered how he could stand it. I looked up to the house, which seemed a mile away and I realized that I’d been elected to gather wood. The wind was howling through the trees, but whatever had been crashing inside those woods had apparently stopped. I suspected it was watching us. I looked back to Odd Whitefeather and he nodded to me. “Go now,” he said. “You will be safe, I think.” I could see there was no getting out of this and I set off towards the house. The field was icepacked from the March sun trying to melt the snow. I jogged across the barren field, feeling the wind lash at my back as I neared the barn. I suddenly wished I had a pair of gloves and a hat, along with a good hunting rifle. I steered clear of the barn, staying fifty feet away from the old outbuilding as it groaned in the heavy wind. I thought it would collapse at any moment and I kept one eye on it as I passed. I continued jogging until I reached the woodpile and found that I was out of breath from fear and the exertion. I paused for a second and tried to steady my racing heart. A chunk of Buick tumbled by, which didn’t help. Suddenly, the back door opened to Odd Whitefeather’s house. “Why did you leave him alone?” the old man asked. The snowmobile suit was gone and I was struck dumb by the sight of him. There was no way he could have passed me. I suddenly realized what had happened and I began to panic. “The Windigo,” I managed to say. “It’s out there with Terry…”

Odd Whitefeather scowled at me with blood in his eyes. The look was enough to send me scampering back to the field. I was running at full speed by the time I passed the barn and I didn’t give it a second thought. From one hundred yards I could see the Windigo, disguised as Odd Whitefeather, beckoning Terry to join him inside the woods. I should’ve known better than to leave him. The signs had been there and I had ignored the obvious. I screamed for Terry to stop where he was and I continued running, knowing I’d never make it in time. Terry was taking long strides to join the old man. Huge gusts of wind tried to repel my advance, nearly bowling me over as I ran. Terry was walking towards the dark woods, slowly following after the creature that he thought to be Odd Whitefeather. I felt like I was running through cement and I screamed, knowing the sound had been carried away like a twig in a raging river. Just when it appeared that all was lost, a bald eagle fell from the sky and descended upon the form of Odd Whitefeather. He held up his arms to defend himself against the attack as the great bird tore at him with its mighty talons. The Windigo bellowed a deafening roar of anger and swatted at the eagle. Terry froze in his footsteps and I continued to run towards him. The eagle circled around for another attack. “Terry!” I screamed. “Get back to the fire!” Terry finally heard me as I stopped at the barrel. He looked at me with obvious confusion before the terrible truth dawned upon him. Arms chugging at his sides, big Terry ran back to join me at the fire. The Windigo roared again as the eagle swooped in for another attack. It gave me a quick look of intense hatred before retreating into the woods. The eagle, satisfied, flew to the top of the barn. There it watched us, clinging to the roof with its sharp claws. “What the hell, man?” asked Terry, who was nearly doubled over in fear. “What the hell was that?” “That was the Windigo,” I said breathlessly, slapping my friend on his broad back. Terry nodded and we both stood wordlessly as we caught our breath and tried to make sense of our situation. I looked back to the eagle and gave it a silent thank you. There was no doubt that it had saved Terry’s life. I was glad to see that it continued to watch over us. “How are we supposed to beat something like that?” Terry asked. “How do we fight a monster?” I found that I had no answer for that. The fire blazed in the barrel, but there was no more fuel to add. I looked at the nearby woods which was full of dead-fall. I knew better than to risk going after any. The run had caused me to work up a sweat and I suddenly found myself cold and wet. I shivered as I stood over the fire and I held my hands very close to the flames. Snowflakes began to swirl on the wind as the light

slowly drained from the brooding sky. I wondered about that; how long had we been here? Surely, it couldn’t have been more than a few hours, but the darkening sky was telling me different. Terry must’ve noticed this, too. “This can’t be good,” he said. I shook my head as the snowstorm intensified. From deep in the woods there came a sound of terrible laughter. I wanted to run, but where would I run to? “Tell me about what happened.” I said to Terry, wanting to change the subject. “Did you ever apologize to Doug for stealing the money?” Terry stiffened at the question. He looked at me for a long moment before speaking. “Of course I did. I apologized every day for ten long years. I wrote him letters, begging for forgiveness. He came to visit me on the inside and he did forgive me. What about you, Billy? Can you forgive me?” I paused for a second, trying to choose the right words. Terry must’ve taken it the wrong way. “What do you know about a gambling addiction? Huh? Have you ever woke up and found yourself sitting at a slot machine with a pocket-full of ATM receipts and not a nickel to your name? Have you ever lost your family because of an addiction? I was married, Billy, and we were expecting a child. Sophie left me and I never heard from her again. Still, I couldn’t stop myself. I was working for the highway department and pulling down some good money, but I pissed it all away on those damned machines. Go ahead and judge me if that makes you feel better, Mr. High and Mighty.” I pointed a finger at Terry and tried to remain calm as I spoke. “I know all about gambling addictions,” I said. “I went through a living hell because my wife was bitten by the gambling bug. We lost everything and then some. I divorced her because of it. No, Terry, I know exactly what you’re talking about. I just want to know one thing…” “Yeah, well what’s that?” “I want to know if you’re clean.” Terry gave me a hard look, but then he smiled broadly. “Clean? Are you kidding me? You are looking at the new and improved Terry Blackbird. At the halfway house they let me go to Gamblers Anonymous five days a week and I plan on speaking at the area schools. I’m trying to put my life back together, man. I’m getting there, one day at a time.” “That’s good,” I said. “I’m very happy to hear that.” And I meant it. I could see in Terry’s face the pride he felt about his new way of life. He was bucking the system because the casino was a huge moneymaker for the Band. The casinos were both the best thing that had happened on the reservations and the worst.

A sound rumbled from the direction of the barn and both Terry and I were startled by it. A single headlight shone through the gathering gloom and it slowly made its way in our direction. I immediately recognized this as a snowmobile and I turned to face Terry. “Odd Whitefeather?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. Who else could it have been? I returned my gaze to the approaching sled and watched it approach the fire. The sleek machine stopped just a few feet away and the helmeted driver killed the engine. The snowmobile was towing a small sleigh which was loaded high with split oak. The driver removed his helmet and sure enough, it was Odd Whitefeather. His long white hair spilled out from inside the helmet and he smiled. “I thought you might like some more wood,” he said. “Yeah,” said Terry. “Thanks.” He then walked to the sleigh and chose a couple of chunks to add to our dwindling fire. “The snow,” said Odd Whitefeather, glancing up to the sky. “It is not a good sign. The Windigo is going to try to freeze us out.” I nodded. With the snow had come bitterly cold temperatures, which seemed to be dropping by the minute. “What can we do?” I asked. “Keep the fire going and pray to the Great Spirit for strength,” replied Odd Whitefeather. He was wearing the same snowmobile clothing as the Windigo had earlier and I stepped back as he got off of his machine. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This time it’s really me. The Windigo is much too smart to try the same ruse twice.” “Just checking,” I said. Odd Whitefeather began to say something when a loud crashing sound came from behind us. There was just enough light left in the sky for me to see the big barn fall in on itself. I held my hand to my mouth and stifled a scream. What I saw next to the barn was the giant form of an Indian Brave, dressed in buckskins, wild hair flying in the wind. The thing was nearly thirty feet tall and a great golden star was glowing on its forehead. “Windigo,” whispered Odd Whitefeather. “Oh shit,” said Terry. “Oh shit is right,” replied Odd Whitefeather. “This is not good.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the beast. I watched as it swatted at the ruined pile of timbers and sent them flying in the direction of the house. I began to back away towards the woods. “Stay by the fire!” ordered Odd Whitefeather. “You’ll be dead if you don’t!”

The Windigo continued to destroy the barn and I hoped that our friend, the Eagle, had flown away before he began his assault. I could taste the fear in my mouth and I shivered because of it. The Windigo stopped and turned to face us, holding his great hands on his hips in triumph. It then looked towards the house. “Don’t,” pleaded Odd Whitefeather. As if he’d heard the old man, the Windigo let out an explosive whoop and charged the little house. He pried up on the roof and tossed it up into the air like a garbage can lid. It sailed on the breeze before crashing onto the driveway. He then began to kick at the walls, knocking them over as if they were made of snow. Soon, there was nothing left but a pile of rubble. “The son-of-a-bitch,” muttered Odd Whitefeather. “Now he’s really pissed me off.” Somehow, I found some comfort in those words. I knew Odd Whitefeather was our only hope and I thought it was better that he now had a stake in this. Vengeance is a powerful motivator, and I hoped Odd Whitefeather could harvest it, old as he was. I returned my gaze to the ruined homestead and found that the Windigo had vanished. I stuck my hands deep into the flames and prayed like I’d never prayed before. We stood there by the fire in the driving snow and nobody said a word. Mostly, I was just scared out of my wits, but a part of me was very angry at the Windigo and I longed to kill it. I tried to hang onto that. I gazed out into the twilight and surveyed the carnage. There was a lone building standing on Odd Whitefeather’s homestead, the outhouse. I wondered which one of us would have to use it first. After a long while, Terry said. “I’m gettin’ out of here, this is crazy.” Odd Whitefeather nodded. “Go, fly away, Blackbird. Maybe you’d like to take my machine?” Terry seemed to consider this for a moment. He looked at the new Polaris and then back to Odd Whitefeather. It was as if I wasn’t even there. “I could ride for help,” he said, buttoning the top button on the musty coat the old man had given him. He sat on the seat of the Polaris snowmobile. “I’ll bring back the cops; they’ll know what to do.” “Sure,” said Odd Whitefeather, handing Terry the helmet. “That’s a good idea; go bring some policemen out here. Bring the army, Blackbird, they’ll know what to do. Wait, I forgot to tell you something, they’re not here. You and me and Billy, we’re the only ones here. Don’t you understand; we’re in the netherworld. We’re here to kill the Windigo and rescue your friend.” Something inside of me snapped and I was suddenly climbing on the machine, behind Terry. “Let’s get the hell outta here, man,” I said. “I can’t do this.”

Odd Whitefeather looked at me with eyes that blazed in the firelight. “You,” he shouted at Terry, pointing a gloved finger in his face. “I can understand why a man like you would run. You have no honor. You have no pride. You’re a snake, that’s what you are. Go ahead and leave, I will fight this thing alone.” The cords were standing out in his neck and he turned his finger to me. “But you!” he shrieked at me. “Your brother has been taken by the Windigo, and you choose to run? You make me sick. Go, follow the Blackbird. See if I care.” “You’ve got it all wrong,” I said to Odd Whitefeather. “Doug Warner is just a friend, he isn’t even Ojibwe.” “Who said he was?” asked Odd Whitefeather. I shook my head. “Will you tell him, Terry?” I asked, slapping my hand against his shoulder. “That’s just crazy talk.” Much to my horror, Terry remained quiet. Then, slowly, Terry got up off of the snowmobile and stood next to the old man. I sat there on the back of the sled for a long time as the pair watched me with a keen interest. After a moment, Terry dropped his gaze to his feet. I knew then the terrible truth. Frank Warner was my father, not some traveling salesman, and Doug and I were brothers. How long had Terry known? How had Odd Whitefeather known? Who else knew? “I’m sorry, Billy, Terry said. “Your mom made me promise.” I somehow got to my feet. The revelation hit me hard and my head was swimming in it. I staggered away from the fire, but Odd Whitefeather was immediately at my side, clutching my arm with a strong hand. “This way,” Odd Whitefeather said. “Back to the fire, we have much to discuss.” Odd Whitefeather’s weathered face looked orange in the firelight. He gave me a moment to compose myself before telling me the whole truth. I was thankful for that moment because Frank Warner had disappeared while hunting whitetail deer, nearly fifteen years ago. Despite a massive search, his body had never been recovered. I needed to process that. I would never get the opportunity to confront him. “I’m sorry, Billy Proudfoot, but its true,” began the old man. “Frank Warner was your father.” “Your folks made a mistake,” said Terry. “They didn’t want you to suffer for it.” “They made me,” I shot back at him. “Does that make me a mistake?” “There I go again,” said Terry, slapping his meaty forehead. “Every time I open my mouth, something stupid falls out. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean it that way.” “Right, sure you didn’t.”

“Billy…” Terry said, holding his arms out to me. I promised.” I felt like a complete idiot and I could feel the blood running to my face with shame. Frank Warner had seemed like a good man, but what had I really known about him? There really wasn’t much. Doug had always made the effort when it came to our friendship. Doug, where was he now? Did he know the truth about us? I wanted to ask and suddenly found that I didn’t want to know. “What do we have to do to save Doug?” I asked. “Let’s kick some ass.” “Right on,” said Terry, raising his big fists. Odd Whitefeather smiled then, a toothless merry grin that I shall never forget. “Welcome back,” he said. “I agree, let’s kick some ass.” We stood there and made small talk as Terry continued to feed the hungry flames. I felt as if a seed had been planted inside my heart, which was the knowledge that Doug Warner was my half-blood brother. That seed quickly took root and blossomed into something beyond rational explanation. I had a brother and he needed me. “What do we need?” asked Terry, his dark hair tangled in ribbons around his head. His eyes were clear and bright; I’d seen the look before, he looked ready for a good scrap. “We could use a White Buffalo,” quipped Odd Whitefeather. “Can’t help you there,” said Terry. “Didn’t think you could.” The snow was drifting around the Polaris and I surveyed our dwindling supply of wood. We would need to act fast or one of us was going to have to go back and find what was left of the woodpile. I didn’t want to think about that. The time to act was now. “How do we fight this thing?” I asked. “What are we supposed to do?” “That’s the trouble with a Windigo, we must wait for him to make his move. I was told long ago that a Windigo needs fear to survive. He feeds on it now. It can’t be killed with weapons, only powerful medicine can destroy a Windigo.” “So, shouldn’t you be making some?” asked Terry. “We’re like sitting ducks out here.” “Who said I’m not. You’re still alive, aren’t you?” We stood there at the barrel and looked at each other. Terry looked ready to say something when an explosive roar echoed through the woods. The source of the sound was very close, perhaps fifty feet away, maybe even closer than that. The roaring made my knees weak. “Bear,” said Odd Whitefeather.

Terry moved closer to my side of the barrel where he could face the woods, not that it would’ve helped. By that time we were surrounded by total blackness and only the flickering firelight hinted at the woods, beyond. Over the sound of the wind in the trees came a deep-throated growl. It was much closer now. I had no doubt that the old man was right, it certainly sounded like a bear. Terry began to back away from the fire. “Don’t move,” said Odd Whitefeather. “Stay close to the fire.” “Why?” asked Terry. “So he can get a good look at what’s for dinner?” “Hush!” There was a crashing sound followed by a satisfied snort. I watched in terror as the dark form of the bear ambled towards the fire and stopped just five feet away. It stood on its hind legs and seemed to sniff the air. I couldn’t be sure, but I was pretty sure it was a black bear, not the ten thousand pound grizzly that I’d been expecting. Still, for a black bear, this bear was very large, perhaps three hundred pounds. I watched it as it watched us. Then it returned to its feet, walking on four legs and ambling up to Odd Whitefeather. “Like the Eagle, Bear is our friend. He has come to help us,” said Odd Whitefeather, scratching the beast behind the ears. “What we need now are a few more friends.” “Can I pet him?” asked Terry. “I don’t think so,” replied the old man. “He’s just woken up from his winter’s sleep and he’s very hungry.” “Gotcha.” Odd Whitefeather closed his eyes and began to speak in the old tongue. The bear was lying on its side and warming its large belly by the barrel. Seeing that gave me hope. I could read the same thoughts in Terry’s eyes. We stood our ground, listening to the old man’s chants as the wind howled through the trees. I never heard the cougars. They slunk up from out of the woods, a pair of them, and they too sniffed the air with a distinct interest. Terry hadn’t noticed them and I gave him a nudge, nodding my head in their direction. They were long and lean, their muscles rippling in the firelight. They stalked around the barrel a few times before positioning themselves behind Terry and I. Odd Whitefeather never opened his eyes, but I was certain that he knew they were there. Still, Odd Whitefeather continued to speak the old words, asking for help from our brothers in the forest. Five minutes after the cougars silently joined our ranks; five large wolves padded their way out of the blackness. They stopped at the edge of the dancing firelight and sat on their haunches. I looked to Terry and he nodded his head in approval. A moment later came a terrific thrashing from the woods, and we were treated to the sight of a huge bull moose. Somehow, the sight of the moose startled me more than any of the other creatures. This bull hadn’t shed its antlers, and they were the strangest set that I’d ever seen. One side of the antlers grew straight

out at a ninety degree angle, like a great wing protruding from its skull; the other, drooped down before spiking upwards and fanning out. The moose took all of us in, scenting the air as the others had done, before settling in next to the bear. I cupped my hands over the fire and tried to warm myself. The temperature had continued to tumble and the wind lashed at my parka. What snow that fell was driven into my ears and down my neck and I found myself compulsively brushing it away. The laughter began low in the trees, low enough so that I wasn’t immediately sure of what I was hearing. The sound began to build in intensity, growing into a shrieking fit of roaring laughter that seemed to rattle my bones. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end and I shivered with fear. The thunderous laughter echoed on the wind and died in the pit of my stomach. Terry’s eyes were large and his head darted from side to side. Even the animals from the forest took notice; lifting their heads and perking up their ears. Odd Whitefeather never opened his eyes and continued with his ritual. The sight of the old man standing there, dressed in his snowmobile outfit; long white hair flapping in the wind, was nearly comical. Still, I never thought it was funny. As the terrible laughter from the Windigo faded away, I wondered if I would ever laugh again. Then, from out of the murk emerged the form of a man. He stood just outside our firelight and seemed to be taking us all in. Could this be the Windigo? I thought to myself. I didn’t think so, for the appearance of the form had somehow given me a great comfort, as if our army was now complete. Odd Whitefeather stopped his chanting and opened his eyes. “Grandfather,” he said. “My heart is filled with joy. Thank you for joining us.” The man emerged from the shadows and walked directly to Odd Whitefeather. He was tall, very old, and wore buckskins under a great buffalo robe. His long white hair was held in place by an ornate band, decorated with two eagle feathers. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of a history book, but there was no look of a ghost about him. He stared Odd Whitefeather up and down, grimaced, and began to take the rest of us in. Finally, after a long appraising look, the old man spoke. “The Windigo will trade the white man for one of these two,” he said, gesturing to Terry and myself, without turning his head in our direction. “Have they made their decision?” “I haven’t told them yet,” answered Odd Whitefeather. “I see you haven’t changed,” replied the old man in the buffalo robe. He then turned away and gazed out into the blackness. “What has happened to my home? Don’t you know how to use a hammer?” “Windigo,” said Odd Whitefeather.

The Old One looked at Odd Whitefeather for a long while before nodding his head. “Well, don’t just stand there looking silly in those foolish robes. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” Odd Whitefeather squinted his eyes at his elder, and was obviously a little miffed by the comments made by him. “Billy Proudfoot, Terry Blackbird, this is my grandfather, Crooked Walker. He has climbed down from the Great Tree of Life to join us in our battle with the Windigo. He has come very far.” “Proudfoot?” asked Crooked Walker, gesturing at me. “I knew your grandfather, he was a great warrior. It is an honor to meet you, young Proudfoot.” I bowed my head and uttered a quick thank you, embarrassed by the attention. If the Old One had recognized the Blackbird name, he never let on about it. I could read the disappointment on Terry’s face. He was very proud of his family heritage, what he knew of it, anyhow. Like me, he only had his mother’s word from where he had descended from. Something started to click inside my head, but before I could piece it all together, Crooked Walker spelled out the terrible truth. “Have you told them that the Windigo is their father?” he asked Odd Whitefeather. “I was getting to that,” muttered Odd Whitefeather. “Well, you’d better get to it right now, because the Windigo is poised to strike at any moment. This was important information, I am saddened that you didn’t share it with them,” he then turned his head to us and spoke, stealing his grandson’s thunder. “The man who was once your father is now the Windigo. His heart cries out for one of his sons to join him. The Great Spirit has forbidden him to keep the son he has chosen, for he is a good man and an asset to his people. The two of you, well… are not. One of you must take his place.” I looked at Terry as another wave of truth washed over me. Frank Warner was also his father, and the two of us were brothers. I stared at him with complete shock because he seemed to already know this terrible truth. “You knew?” I asked him. “I thought you were my friend…” “He is better than friend,” said Crooked Walker. “He is your brother.” Terry hung his head and studied his feet. I stood there and just stared into the flames. There were so many things that I wanted to say, but I knew better than to open my mouth. I needed to weigh things out in my head, if that were possible. Odd Whitefeather’s grandfather, Crooked Walker, was asking him where the cows were and Terry remained where he was, head lowered in shame. I knew Terry; he would remain that way until I had forgiven him. How was this possible and why had I been the only one who didn’t seem to know? My two best friends in the world; my brothers, and neither one had the decency to bother telling me the truth. Or, maybe they hadn’t had the guts to tell me? Probably a little bit of both, I thought. Without

warning, my thoughts turned to my dear old dad, great guy; how many other siblings were still out there? It sounded like Dad was a busy man. “Don’t let your mind go there,” said Odd Whitefeather, sharply. I turned and looked at him. I didn’t like that he could see inside my head. “Why shouldn’t I?” I asked, wondering why it mattered to him. “Blackbird, tell your brother the truth and start from the beginning,” said Odd Whitefeather. “Do it now.” “This ought to be good,” I said with gritted teeth. While Crooked Walker played with the wolves, I faced Terry and challenged him with my eyes. Terry began the story, twice, but each time he tried his voice hitched in his throat. On the third attempt he was able to tell the story. “Haven’t you ever wondered why we had so much in common? Our birthdays are a week apart. We were both raised without fathers. Look at me, man. I’m your brother and you never once suspected it? You got the looks, the brains, the girls. All I got was bigger. Still, sometimes I see you in the mirror looking back at me. I always sorta hoped that you’d figure things out on your own. After a while, I was ashamed that you hadn’t seen what was right before your eyes.” I began to interrupt, but I was hushed by Odd Whitefeather. “The winter before we were born, our parents, and I do mean the three of them, went on a little snowmobile trip. Dad had an old sleigh he’d pull behind his snowmobile and he took our mothers out for a ride. The three of them had been friends since grade school. They got the thing buried in some deep snow and had to walk back to town, which was about ten miles away. It was getting colder and they decided to take a short cut back to town. A couple of miles into the walk, the three of them fell up to their necks in a poorly frozen pond. Across the pond was a hunting shack. They made it that far,” he let that sink in for a while and studied my face. “Are you kidding me?” I asked. “And you believe all that?” “I looked it up in the newspaper; it was all there and pretty big news at the time. They went into the shack and found that there was no woodstove. No heat of any kind. They were freezing to death. They did find one sleeping bag.” “Okay, Terry, I get the point.” “They knew they had to get out of their wet clothing.” “Okay. I understand,” I said, just wanting him to stop. I should’ve known better. “They spent the night like that, thinking that they were going to freeze to death. It was the first time for all three of them and they thought it would be the last.”

“Enough, man, you don’t have to drill it into my head like that. I get it.” “Do you?” asked Odd Whitefeather. “That’s just too much information,” I said. “He doesn’t need to paint a picture for me, that’s my mom were talking about.” Odd Whitefeather nodded. Terry continued. “Right, sorry, man. Anyhow, the next day they were found by searchers who swore never to tell anyone about the way they were discovered. The three of them were embarrassed about the whole thing and didn’t speak for months. That was when Dad met Doug’s mom, Shelly. They fell in love and were married in two months. Dad never knew. Our moms decided to keep it from him and they rode it out alone, here on the reservation. Dad didn’t find out until they got back from their honeymoon.” “Why didn’t he ever tell me?” I asked, ashamed by the tears that were streaming down my face. “Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?” “Proudfoot,” said Crooked Walker, who had stepped up to the barrel and was now standing behind Terry. “You will take this as a man!” Now I was totally humiliated. I wiped the tears from my face and felt the anger welling up inside of me. Spirit, or not, I was going to give this man a piece of my mind. “I am taking this like a man,” I blurted out. “What do you expect me to say? That’s great, man. Hey, let’s party? Are you kidding me? I get the whole scandal thing. I understand why they tried to keep it a secret. I just don’t understand why they didn’t tell me. I had a stake in this too, ya know? How could any of you possibly know how I feel?” “I was born during the Civil War,” snapped Crooked Walker. “Here, right here on the frozen ground we stand on. I have witnessed many terrible things. I have seen pain and suffering unlike anything you can imagine. I have heard the stories about the old ways and about how many things we lost, as they were told to me by my father and grandfather. Do you want to talk about feelings? Let me tell you about theirs. Let me tell you about death and disease, about watching your people starve to death.” “Don’t go changing the subject,” I said, wishing I hadn’t. Somehow, I had crossed the line and I immediately knew it. “Don’t you ever interrupt an elder, young man,” scolded Odd Whitefeather. “This is about dignity and about you trying to show some. This is about courage and being able to face the truth. You will need both if you ever hope to defeat the Windigo,” added Crooked Walker before walking away to the moose. He stood there looking at me with his dark eyes, patting the long brown snout with his hand. The moose seemed to enjoy this.

“But, the Windigo is my father? Our father,” I said to Terry. “How can we be expected to kill him?” “He isn’t your father, anymore.” said Odd Whitefeather. “And if a little bit of him is left inside the Windigo, he would scream to you to end his misery. To become a Windigo is a terrible thing, which is why they are so angry. A Windigo wanders the woods alone, always hungry, always cold, his journey, never-ending. This Windigo will surely kill you if you don’t kill it first. Or, perhaps it will change you into a Windigo. How would you like those apples? You need to be strong.” I shook my head. “I am sorry, Crooked Walker,” I said, wiping the last tears from my eyes. I was wrong and I never should have interrupted you.” “I forgive you,” he replied. “All right, I guess its time for me to start acting like a man,” I said. “Terry, brother, come over here so I can give you a hug.” Terry did so and we quickly embraced. I saw Crooked Walker scrunch up his nose and shake his head, as if we were breaking some kind of rule. I found that I didn’t care. He came back up to the fire to join us, looking pleased that the discussion had ended. “Grandson, what happened to your teeth?” I chuckled, despite myself. Terry held a hand up to his mouth to stifle one of his own. “What can I say?” Odd Whitefeather said. “If I knew I was going to live this long, I would’ve taken better care of my teeth. My new ones are in a glass, over there,” he said, pointing towards his ruined house. “Maybe someone could help me find them, later? They cost me eight hundred bucks. That dirty bastard.” Crooked Walker looked to me and Terry and shook his head. “You should have been wearing them; you look like an old woman.” “Thanks, Grandfather.” “And what did you bring us to eat? I think some food would taste pretty good. It has been a long time.” Odd Whitefeather winced and slowly reached into the pocket of his fancy jacket. What he came away with was a small bag of Tootsie Rolls. “What the hell are those?” “They are good. Here, you need to take the paper off of them.”

Crooked Walker snatched the bag from his grandson and gave him a stare that would melt steel. Now it was Odd Whitefeather’s turn to hang his head. The old man dug out a Tootsie Roll and handed the bag out to each of us. “Take one,” he ordered. “You too,” he said to Odd Whitefeather, who reluctantly took one from the bag. We unwrapped the candies together and Crooked Walker held up a finger and began to speak in the old tongue. He continued for nearly five minutes. Finally, he popped the candy into his mouth and gestured for us to do the same. “Not bad,” he said, as he chewed with what looked to be a perfect set of white teeth. He waited for Terry and I to finish before we turned our attention to Odd Whitefeather, who was still working his mouth in a grotesque fashion. Brown dribble ran down his chin, but he didn’t seem to care. Crooked Walker gave us that look again and he crossed his arms. “Tobacco, tell me, who has brought the tobacco? We need to smoke.” “Last one,” Terry said, handing the cigarette to the old man before crumpling the pack and tossing it into the flames. Crooked Walker held the cigarette as if it had fallen out of a dog’s butt. “I had to give them up,” slurped Odd Whitefeather. “Doctor’s orders.” “Do you actually expect me to ask the Great Spirit to accept this as a tobacco offering? I will be struck down where I stand.” “Maybe not,” said Odd Whitefeather. “Well, Grandson, maybe you could try it?” “No can do. You know that the ceremony has to be done by the elder. You’ve got no choice in the matter.” Crooked Walker scowled and the wind seemed to double in its intensity. He reached inside his robe and pulled out a long pipe made of a deer antler. He smashed the cigarette into the end of the pipe, put it into his mouth and stuck his head into the flames. By all rights his head should have caught fire; his eyebrows should’ve singed, his hair should’ve melted. He emerged unscathed, puffing away on the smoking pipe. He then passed it to Odd Whitefeather. We passed the pipe as Crooked Walker began to speak the old words, except now he was speaking very fast. I couldn’t have understood what he was saying, even if I knew all of the words. He continued on like this until I drew on the pipe, only to find out that the tobacco had been cooked to ash. “You are still here,” said Odd Whitefeather. “Good work.”

“Thank you.” The wind began to die away and I caught the faintest glimpse of an orange glow in the sky. The cougars rose to their feet and stretched; the wolves began to howl. Sunshine burst through the darkness and it nearly knocked me over. Terry grinned as the temperature seemed to rise seventy degrees in the blink of an eye. He then quickly shed his coat and tossed it as far away from the fire as he could. I did the same. “Now you can get out of that silly costume,” said Crooked Walker, who was removing the buffalo robe. “Hey, at least it’s warm,” replied Odd Whitefeather. “I like to go fast on my machine.” Terry and I exchanged a smile. I didn’t understand everything, but I understood enough for the moment. I studied his face for a moment and nearly lost my breath. I too, could see a little of myself in his sharp features. I was suddenly very proud of that. “What’s next?” I asked. “What are we supposed to do?” “The two of you must decide which one of you will die,” said Crooked Walker. “I thought you knew that.” “Take your time,” said Odd Whitefeather, who was still working on his Tootsie Roll. “It is good to see my grandfather.” “They don’t have time!” Terry and I looked at each other and I spoke first. “I’ll go,” I said. “I have nothing in this world and I should be the one to rescue Doug. I abandoned him when he needed me. I will go now.” “Wait a minute,” said Terry, actually grabbing me by the arm. “I’ll be the one to go. I stole from my brother; I need to repay him for breaking his trust.” “No, I won’t allow it,” I said. “You’ve got no choice, little brother. I’ll kick your ass if you try to stop me.” “You want to go a few rounds?” Terry gave me a cold stare. “Right now?” “Anytime you’re ready,” I said, pulling free of his grip and turning to face him. “Stop,” ordered Crooked Walker. “That is good. You both passed the test. We will fight this Windigo.” “What are you talking about?” I asked.

“There is a test of bravery,” explained Odd Whitefeather. “You need a pure heart to be able to defeat a Windigo. A pure heart and some good friends,” he said, motioning to the animals. “What would have happened if Terry would have let me go?” “You would be dead, or you may have become a Windigo, yourself. It is not for me to say.” “Nice test,” I said. “Make sure to give a quiz before the next one.” “You betcha,” replied Odd Whitefeather. “Now, it is time for you and Blackbird to go. The animals will lead you on your search.” Terry nodded, wandering away from the fire that had kept us warm during those many cold hours. “How do we find him?” I asked. “That shouldn’t be very hard,” called Terry from beyond the fire. “Come here and take a look at these.” I didn’t need to move, for what he was pointing at was as plain as the nose on my face. Huge footprints were imprinted on the snow and they ringed the barrel. They looked as if they had been made by a pair of moccasins. I then nodded to the two old men. “What about you guys?” I asked. “Aren’t you going to come along with us?” Crooked Walker shook his head. “No, we’ve got some praying to do,” he said. “Besides, I want my grandson to show me around my home. It has been a long time and I have missed it. I want to hear how he’s going to rebuild this place.” Odd Whitefeather scratched his chin and surveyed the wreckage. “Who knows?” he said. “I could live to be one hundred and thirty, it has been done.” Crooked Walker waved his hand in disgust. “Go now,” he said to Terry and I. “You won’t need to follow the trail; the animals will guide you there and will help you try to defeat the Windigo. Remember, it is very clever and it is a shape-shifter. You will need to be strong if you expect to return with your brother.” And that was how we left them. I turned to give them one last look as we entered the woods and was shocked to see that they were already standing next to the ruined house. I shook my head in wonder, for it hadn’t taken us five seconds to reach the woods. I waved anyway. With Bear leading the way, followed by the cougars, Terry and I followed the moose into the woods. The wolves trotted to each side of our party, like drill sergeants on a march. I was surprised at how full I felt after eating the little piece of candy. Terry and I talked a little, not about anything special and certainly not about my recent revelation.

The woods were thick here and even with the moose clearing much of the brush, the going was difficult in places. My bare arms were bleeding by the time we’d traveled ten minutes. Again, I wished I wasn’t wearing my stupid work uniform. I longed for a pair of good moccasins and an outfit made of buckskin, like the ones worn by Crooked Walker. I wanted to wear a head-dress decorated with the feather of an eagle. The walk might have lasted for an hour, or even longer, but I could sense that we were getting close by watching the animals. They had slowed and were carefully plodding ahead; even the moose was twisting its great neck to avoid contact with the branches. My heart began to race as I continued to follow Terry. A few moments later we emerged into a large clearing. A couple hundred yards across it, I saw what had to be Doug Warner. He was sitting down, looking up into the face of our father. We spread out and waited. We stood there for nearly a minute before Doug pointed his finger at us. Dad turned his head. He nearly leapt into the air at the sight of us. All of a sudden he was running, except he was moving much too fast for an ordinary man. He ran with the speed of a cougar and seconds later, he was standing before us. The animals bristled and moved closer. For a long while nobody spoke a word. “Hello, boys,” said the ghostly face of Frank Warner. “So glad you could make it. I really didn’t expect to see either of you cowards.” Terry shook his fist at him. “You have no place to call either one of us a coward. You left us to fend for ourselves; this is how you were punished.” “I could tear out your throat for saying that,” said Frank Warner, whom I would never think of as my father again. “I’d like to see you try,” answered Terry. “You son-of-a-bitch.” I didn’t think this was the right path to take, so I quickly tried to change course. “What have you done to Doug?” I asked. “You had no right to take him.” “Excuse me?” asked Mr. Warner. “And who do you think you are, telling me my business? I’ll do what I damn well please, and I’d be pleased to rip your arms from their sockets and beat you to death with them. How would you like that?” “Not very much,” I answered, truthfully. “First, you must send Doug back to join his family. That has been ordered by the Great Spirit, you cannot disobey. Send him away and we’ll fight you.”

Frank Warner’s eyes grew dark at the mention of the Great Spirit. He then nodded and bared his yellow teeth to us. “You’ve got a deal, Doug was only the bait. Don’t you boys go anywhere, I’ll be right back.” “We’ll be waiting,” said Terry. Warner gave us a hard look. He was dressed in the clothes he’d obviously been wearing on his ill-fated hunting trip. He was tall and thin and the faded clothing hung poorly on him. He looked very much like a man that had been dead for a very long time. What really scared me was the hunger in his dark eyes. He paused and then he returned to Doug’s side, skittering away like an Olympic runner on fast forward. “This is it,” Terry said. “Are you ready?” “As ready as I’ll ever be.” “Good, when he comes back, I’ll go high, you go low. Maybe our friends will do the rest.” “Sounds like a plan,” I said, feeling my stomach roll over. The sun was directly overhead and the temperature felt as if it had risen to nearly eighty degrees. I surveyed our troops and nodded in approval. The bear stood to Terry’s side and was reared up on his hind legs. He hung there like that and watched Mr. Warner with his black eyes. The cougars were in front of us, like pawns in a game of chess, their light-brown coats shimmering in the sunlight. The wolves continued to pace in front of us, every now and then one of them would let out a little yelp of excitement. Moose stood next to me and his massive antler shaded the sun from my eyes. I was terrified, but I was determined. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. I gritted my teeth and dug in my heels. I watched as Doug sprinted away from the Windigo, turning his head every few seconds to be sure it wasn’t some sort of joke. He continued to run until I could no longer see him in the thick woods. Warner turned and even from this great distance, I could see that he was smiling. I stared him down, but when I blinked I found myself looking at him in his true form. He’d suddenly changed back into the Windigo and I swallowed hard, realizing that we had no chance against it. To even think we had any hope was absolutely insane. The Windigo stood some twenty-five feet tall, how much he weighed was anyone’s guess. We were like dolls to something this size. The Windigo laughed then, the sound was loud enough to shake my eyes in their sockets and it echoed inside the clearing. “Oh shit,” said Terry. “Yeah,” I said, my tongue feeling as dry as leather.

The animals tensed and stood their ground and I got my first good look at an actual Windigo. He was dressed in old buckskins. His black hair was frazzled and hung down to the middle of his powerful back. His arms were bare and horrible to behold. They looked as if they could squash you like a pestering insect. That terrible face is one that I’ll never forget. The hair framed the face of a crazed monster; the one you imagine on the boogey-man. A large golden star was emblazoned on its forehead. His beak-nose pointed down to a mouth without lips; where long fangs protruded from a slit in its ghastly face. The eyes seemed to look inside of me. And then it came at us. What happened next was one of the fiercest battles ever known to man; this one, at least. The Windigo charged in and was met by the head of the stampeding, bull moose. The antlers planted firmly into the knee of the monster. The Windigo was suddenly flying through the air. The other animals were on it before it hit the ground. The Windigo let out a deafening scream and flung one of the cats a good thirty feet away. The cougar was immediately on its feet and it ran back for more. I had been frozen with fear, but when Terry dove into the fray, I wasn’t a second behind him. I punched and kicked and bit, I elbowed, kneed, clawed, pulled hair, and gouged at an eyeball. I was flung, rolled, swatted, and smacked. We all were. I watched the Windigo launch one of the snapping wolves eighty feet into the air. Nothing could’ve survived that fall, but that wolf just got up and shook its head before scurrying back into the fray. The moose continued to knock the Windigo down, but each time it managed to rise to its big feet. This went on for a long, long time. Each fall took a little bit more out of the Windigo. Finally, I could begin to feel his strength fading. I think we all could, so we redoubled our efforts. Things went downhill fast for the Windigo. We won. You’re going to have to imagine what the Windigo looked like once the animals had finished with him; after all, the man was a relative of mine. Suffice it to say, we made one hundred percent sure that he was absolutely dead. It wasn’t pretty, but it was done and that was all that counted. As I was brushing myself off I watched the animals take their leave of us, one at a time. The wolves departed first; looking no worse for wear and ready to go a few more rounds. I stood tall and waved them a warm good-bye. Bear waddled past, pausing for just a second and giving us a wink before wandering away. The cougars were next; they slunk up next to Terry and myself and rubbed their sides up against our legs, like enormous house-cats. They circled between us for a moment and then they were gone. When the moose approached he stopped and stood between us, giving us both a good lookingover. “We did a great thing today,” he said. The moose then crashed off into the woods, leaving us speechless. Terry and I stood there with our hands on our hips. The Windigo was dead and we’d freed our brother. Life was suddenly looking up. Odd Whitefeather was where we’d left him and he smiled his toothless grin at the sight of us. We asked him where his grandfather was and he explained that he had to go back. He did request we be told that he knew we had defeated the Windigo and that he was very proud of us both. We

told Odd Whitefeather about the battle, every bit of it, because the old man loved to hear about the gory details. I felt he’d earned the right to hear them. Doug had emerged and was sitting down next to what had once been a barn. I looked at him for a long moment. “Don’t worry about him,” said Odd Whitefeather. “He is not one of us, so very soon he will have forgotten all about this. Maybe he has, already. You can never tell him of what happened here. You can never talk about this to anyone but me. Do you understand that?” I nodded. “Sure, man,” said Terry. “Will you stop it with that man stuff?” asked the old man. “Show some respect.” “Sorry,” said Terry. “What do we do now?” I asked, scratching my chin. “What the hell do you mean?” asked Odd Whitefeather. “Look at my house, look at my barn. We’re going to rebuild this place. I’ve got insurance and they damn well better cover this mess.” “What are we going to tell them?” asked Terry. “I don’t know,” replied Odd Whitefeather. “We’ll think of something.”

If you enjoyed this short story, yet long for more adventures involving Odd Whitefeather consider the exciting novel…Brindle’s Oddysey by Nicholas Antinozzi at Smashwords.com