The Children of Cahokia
“We were wrong to create you,” the shaman used all his will to keep the tremble from his voice. “Cahokia was defeated; we should have gone quietly into the night...
The late fall wind blew off the waters of the distant the Great River, the Misi-ziibi, and chilled the night air as the nine warriors stood solemnly in a wide circle around the shaman. They watched him with hard, distrusting eyes as a young Chippewa boy handed the shaman a stone bowl filled with a brew of macerated leaves and vines. The dancing light of the campfire illuminated the faces of the warriors, each wearing the hide or feathers of a sacred animal of the nations.
The feathers of crows, eagles, and owls fluttered slightly in the breeze as they hung from the buckskin shirts and pants of three of the warriors. The skulls of crows dangled from the braid of one of the warriors, and a necklace of eagle claws adorned the chest of another.
In contrast, the owl warrior wore a headdress shaped like the giant head of a barn owl, with two glittering dark eyes and a sharp curved beak perched atop his head. In the shadows of the firelight, he resembled one of the great owl gods of legend.
Other warriors in the circle wore the hide of a bear, wolf, or bison with the sacred creatures’ head atop their own and its teeth hanging from necklaces and the fringes of their clothes. Two warriors wore the hide of a deer and an elk, with tall antlers casting long shadows on the ground.
From the east, a warrior wore a buckskin shirt with turtle shells affixed along down the chest and across the shoulders. Under different circumstances, these warriors would likely face each other in battle as the fortunes of their Native American nations ebbed and flowed. Many had already fought in skirmishes between each other’s nations. However, tonight they stood as uneasy allies, eyeing the shaman suspiciously.
The shaman stood and raised the clay bowl in one hand towards the dark heavens of the night sky, firelight glinting off the copper bands he wore around his ankles and wrists. In his other hand, he shook a ceremonial mace; leather straps holding bird skulls and feathers dangled from the smooth, round wooden head. The skulls clicked together, sounding like ghostly crickets as he shook his hand. He wore the ancient beak of a large bird over his nose held on by leather straps tied behind his head.
He stood nearly nine feet tall, a giant among the assembled warriors but diminutive by the standards of his people. The shaman felt the distrust of the warriors, even though they joined for a common purpose. His people, the First Born, the Mound Builders, were their ancient enemies. Even now, nearly two hundred years since the nations allied together and threw down the ancient stronghold of Cahokia, eradicating all but the memory of his people, there was still a fear of his vanquished race.
The shaman wore his buckskin shirt u tied at the chest; the cold air felt good against his skin as he drank the bitter brew. His body swayed to the earth’s heartbeat, causing his long, gray-streaked braid to pendulum across his back. As he felt the potion course through his veins, he nodded to the Chippewa boy, and the youth began to feed bundles of sage into the fire. The flames greedily consumed the dried leaves and filled the night air with the acrid smell of the burning herb.
He closed his dark eyes, shutting out the world around him as he let his inner sight travel to the spirit world. Geometric shapes flashed through his mind, and a floating sensation surrounded his body. Slowly the feeling changed from floating to falling; his heart beat rapidly in his chest as he plummeted through the darkness. His mind reeled at terrifying thought of his body striking the ground and shattering like a fragile seashell clawed at his mind.
Then he was soaring. The darkness cleared, and after momentary disorientation, he realized he was seeing out the eyes of a great bird, an eagle by the talons he saw beneath the body. Trees and ground passed beneath him in the night, his eyes detecting the movement of nocturnal creatures in the brush below. The eagle soared over the agricultural fields and darkened huts of the small villages that supplied the walled city of Cahokia. The bird came to land on the high wooden fortification that protected the Cahokia, its sharp talons digging into the ancient wood. The rows of wooden homes and open plazas were devoid of people, only the occasional stray dog slinked through the shadows.
The shaman looked toward the massive four-terraced platform mound rising over one hundred feet in the city’s center. Hundreds of torches burned atop, and his heart sank with the memories of this night. The eagle retook flight, its strong wings propelling the mighty bird high above the titanic mound.
Atop the massive mound, the warriors of Cahokia stood in three concentric circles from the outer edge of the plateau. Each held a spear in one hand and a torch aloft in the other, the fires glinting off the copper arm rings of the warriors like stars in the night sky.
Other warriors led dozens of captives, several feet shorter than the towering Cahokians, in a procession that wound up the terraced mound. The shaman knew from the captives’ long dark hair and lithe bodies that these were mostly women seized from the nations by the Cahokians. The steady thumping of the ceremonial drums mingled with the terrified cries of the captives as they were led toward the center of the mound, where the desiccated corpse of a male Cahokian lay.
The man, He Who Raises the Earth, lay atop a bed of thousands of white marine shell disc beads. He was the ancient god of the Cahokians, having come to them from the sea after the great cataclysms and taught them crafts, skills, and magic. Even in death, he remained their most significant source of power.
With the eagle’s keen sight, the shaman scanned the dozens of Cahokia holy men dancing around the bed of shell beads, raising their long copper and bone knives in the ceremonial calling to He Who Raises the Earth. He spotted the young man he sought in the throes of the reverent dance and recognized his younger self.
The shaman pleaded with the eagle to turn away from the plateau to spare him from reliving the terrible deeds of that night, but the eagle held fast. An anguished wail escaped the shaman’s throat that emanated from the eagle’s mouth like a mournful cry as the scene below unfolded.
The terrified screams of the captives as the warriors led them forward. The chanting of the Cahokians as the shamans sacrificed the prisoners to He Who Raises the Earth, coating the skeletal body and seashells with waves of dark red blood. The primal frenzy of the Cahokians as the procession continued until there were no more to sacrifice.
Silence descended upon the plateau as the eagle drifted on the night wind. The high shaman, coated in blood and gore from the night’s work, beckoned four tall warriors to come forward. The men wore long black robes covering all except their heads and hands. The robes trailed the ground as they crossed the plateau and stepped over the bodies of the sacrificed.
The high shaman led them to the four stone tablets and directed the men to lie down. The eagle stared down into the stoic faces of the four men as they lay, their dark eyes looking skyward.
The ceremonial drums continued to beat as the high shaman walked to the first man and raised a sword, crafted from the bone of a bison, over the man’s head. The acute hearing of the eagle could pick out the chants of the high shaman to He Who Raises the Earth among the mingled voices of the ceremony.
The man did not flinch as the high shaman brought the white blade down and sliced the man’s head from his body. With slight adjustments, the high shaman brought the sword down twice more, separating the man’s hands from his body. Two Cahokian women placed the head and hands reverently in a basket. They followed behind the high shaman as he repeated the process on the other three warriors. Each accepting his end without sound or movements.
The shaman saw his younger self step forward with three others, each carrying a basket they set down beside the headless warriors. The high shaman returned to stand beside the first warrior, his hands circling the air over the body as he swayed and chanted.
Reaching into the basket, he withdrew the black-clawed skeletal paws of a bear and placed them against the corpse’s bloody wrists. The high shaman withdrew the skull and jawbone of an elk from the basket and set it atop the decapitated neck. The creature’s antlers branched outwards from the head, and the impenetrable blackness of the eye sockets seemed impervious to the hundreds of burning fires on the plateau.
The eagle circled the plateau as the high shaman adorned each of the warriors’ corpses with the skeletal accouterments. The only sound the incessant beating of the ceremonial drums as the shamans began to dance around the bodies of the slain Cahokians.
Then the high shaman chanted, calling on He Who Raises the Earth to place his hand upon the warriors. The encircled warriors joined their voices to the chant, stomping their feet in rhythm with the drums.
The eagle swooped lower as all the drumming and chanting suddenly stopped. The shaman watched through the eagle’s eyes as the first warrior slowly sat up. The creature’s skeletal claws clenched and unclenched, then it slowly turned its elk skull to watch as its three companions slowly rose.
As the Cahokians shouted praise and thanks to He Who Raises the Earth, the first warrior stared upward and fixed the bottomless darkness of his eyes upon the eagle. Blackness engulfed the shaman’s vision, and the sensation of falling resumed. His mind screamed, certain he would plummet to the earth.
Then he blinked back against the brightness as the feeling of soaring through the air returned, and daylight filled his vision. He was once again within the body of a bird, and with a sidelong glance, he saw the sleek black wings of a crow had replaced the mighty wings of the eagle.
The crow cawed as it circled high above an island the shaman recognized as the Powhatan island of Cuscarawaoke, which the pale invaders now settled and called Rawranoke, after the white beads made there as ornaments and currency for the Algonquian nation.
The homes of the invaders looked deserted, with their hearth fires extinguished and their fields long untended. The crow turned westward and flew across the expanse of water separating the island from the mainland. Swooping low along the coast, the bird cawed, calling the shaman’s attention to the dozens of abandoned boats that dotted the coastline. Several small wooden boats had washed up on the sandy shores, while others lay smashed against the rocks or drifted aimlessly in the surf.
The crow landed on a footpath that led away from the beach. Through the bird’s dark eyes, the shaman could see scores of footprints, the stiff leather footfalls of the invaders, had passed this way, crushing the soft grass.
The shaman’s vision swam in a dizzying lurch as the crow took flight, and the ground rapidly disappeared below them. The crow flew northwesterly, covering hundreds of miles as it soared across the bright blue sky. Thousands of acres of forested land streamed beneath them as the bird followed the trail made by the travelers.
When they finally caught up to them, the crow circled in a wide arc and flew low over the heads of the men and women traveling in a silent procession. The shaman could see they wore clothes common to the English invaders but looked ragged and worn. As they ambled forward, their eyes stared straight ahead, vacant and unseeing.
The crow craned its neck, and the shaman’s heart sank as a terrible fear rose in his gullet. The last two hundred years had not been kind, washing away all traces of the past and leaving only fields of green grass. However, there could be no mistaking the four-terraced platform mound that rose up before them.
The invaders were being summoned to Cahokia.
The shaman fell to his knees and wretched, coughing up bile in thick, hacking wads. He felt the eyes of the warriors upon him, judging their ancient enemy for his weakness.
“What did your vision show you?” the warrior dressed in the bear skin eyed him.
“It,” the shaman slowly rose to his feet. “It is worse than I had feared.”
“Did you see the Wendigos?” the Bear pressed him further. “Are they truly all here?”
“I believe they are,” the shaman nodded.
“Why would the Wendigos gather here?” the Elk shook his head. “They have plagued our people for generations, but never more than one has been seen at a time.”
“They gather here because it is the place of their creation,” the shaman looked at him with deep remorse.
“Their creation?” the Crow stared at him with hard eyes, and the Turtle spat at the ground before the shaman’s feet.
“Yes, the Wendigos are the children of Cahokia,” the shaman steeled himself for their anger as dark murmurs rippled through the gathered warriors.
“Anasazi,” the Wolf spoke his people’s word for their ancient enemies as he glared at the shaman. “All from Cahokia are our enemies.”
“Why would Cahokia create such monsters?” the Eagle gave the shaman a baleful look.
“It was pride and folly,” the shaman met the gaze of each of the warriors. He deserved their hatred for his role in the dark deeds of that night. “Cahokia was defeated. Its empire had fallen, overpowered by the nations. Cahokia created the Wendigos to punish the nations in the bitterness of defeat. To forever haunt the nations with an echo of Cahokia, a curse upon the victors.”
“Our elders tell the tales of those days,” the Bear looked at the warriors and then turned to the shaman. “They say the nations came to the people of Cahokia with peace in their hearts, but Cahokia made war upon them.”
“This is true,” the shaman nodded. “The nations came to us seeking to live side by side in peace. Our elders saw the potential for trade between our peoples and prosperity. But they grew fearful when they beheld the multitudes that came with you. The First Born live long lives, many times longer than your people. However, our children were few. The elders feared that you would swallow the empire up and pour over the walls of Cahokia.”
“And we did,” the Elk let the pride in his words show on his face, and the other warriors nodded in agreement.
“But only after Cahokia attacked the nations,” the Turtle looked at the shaman. “You reaped what you sowed. And still, you unleashed the Wendigos on us. To kill our people and steal our children in the night.”
The Bear raised his hand to call for silence, and all eyes turned toward him. “Our elders have sent us to end the terror of the Wendigos, and the shaman has led us to the gathering of these vile children of Cahokia, as he promised the nations.”
“The blood of our ancestors calls out for vengeance, and they shall receive it, my brothers,” the Bear met the eyes of each of the warriors with a steady gaze. “But first, the Wendigos will die upon our spears and arrows, so I wish to hear what the shaman saw in his vision.”
The shaman nodded to the Bear and then addressed the assembled warriors. “The Wendigos gather atop the Great Mound of Cahokia. However, they are not alone; they have called nearly a hundred of the pale invaders from Rawranoke to them.”
“The Wendigos are allied with the English?” the Turtle looked shocked and alarmed.
“We will gather more warriors,” the Wolf nodded. “We will shed the blood of the invaders alongside the Wendigos.”
“No,” the shaman’s rebuke came out sharply. “The invaders must not be harmed.”
“They are both our enemies,” the Bison narrowed his eyes. “Why fight one enemy and leave another to fight another day?”
“The Great Mound at Cahokia is a place of power and sacrifice,” the shaman threw the last bundle of sage onto the fire, causing it to flare and send burning embers floating into the night sky. “It is the resting place of He Who Raises the Earth, who your people call Krowatowan, and he demands blood in return for his power and favor. I believe the Wendigos called the invaders there to sacrifice them.”
“Let them shed the blood of the English,” the Turtle spat on the ground. “I will not cry for their dead.”
“No, their blood on the Great Mound of Cahokia is what the Wendigos seek,” the Bear stared into the flames.
“So we must protect the pale ones and kill the Wendigos?” the Deer shook his head.
“That is correct,” the shaman nodded. “Whatever their dark purpose, the Wendigos need the blood of the invaders to invoke the power of He Who Raises the Earth. We cannot let that happen.”
The Turtle swore and kicked at the dirt as uncertain murmurs spread among the warriors.
“How can we stop them?” the Bison looked to the shaman. “How do we kill the Wendigos?”
“Your weapons alone will not harm the Wendigos. They know this, which will give us the element of surprise,” the shaman pointed to the dying fire. “We will coat our weapons in the ash of the sage leaves. The sage will make our weapons deadly to the Wendigo.”
“I am brave. I can fight with the Wendigos,” the Chippewa boy gripped a deer bone knife and looked up at the tall shaman.
“Yes, you are fearless,” the shaman smiled at the boy. “But you are also very fast; if we fail, we need you to warn the nations.”
The boy opened his mouth to protest, but the shaman placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. His shoulders slumped in resignation, and the boy looked down at his feet. He did not look up again until the shaman and warriors headed into the darkness.
The shaman gripped his spear tightly as he ran alongside the warriors, his long strides compensating for the speed of the younger men. The faint light of the crescent moon did little to light their way, but it also hid them more easily from the eyes of the enemy.
The villages surrounding Cahokia had long ago turned to dust, leaving only a vast flat expanse leading up to the four terraces of the Great Mound. The men could see fires burning atop the Great Mound, causing the high plateau to glow orange against the night sky.
The moon was at its nightly peak as they reached the base of the Great Mound. The Elk silently pointed at the well-trodden grass on the winding path up to the plateau, indicating that many feet had passed this way recently.
The Bear led their ascent up the path of the Great Mound; he clutched two ash-covered war hatchets in his hands. Behind him striding side by side, were the Bison, Wolf, and Elk, each carrying long iron-tipped spears. The Eagle, Crow, and Owl followed four paces behind them; arrows nocked in half-drawn bows. The Turtle and Deer strode alongside the shaman in the last rank, armed with their ash-coated spears.
The cool night air blew the scent of burning fires down to them as they ascended the first two plateaus. As they quickly moved up the path, the steady beat of a drum reached their ears, growing ever louder as they climbed higher.
Memories of ascending the heights of the Great Mound in the days of Cahokia’s greatness flooded back to the shaman and filled him with nostalgia, mingled with the feeling of growing dread as they neared the plateau.
As the warriors passed the third terrace and neared cresting the plateau, the Bear signaled for them to stop. Lowering himself to the ground, he quietly slid forward to peer over the lip of the table. The warrior’s dark bearskin masked him against the darkness as he crawled forward.
Bum-bum-bum
The shaman knew the Wendigos were using the drum to awaken the beating heart of Krowatowan. He had witnessed many ceremonies when the high shaman had done the same.
“Aim for the drummer first,” the shaman whispered to the warriors, and the three bowmen gave him quick nods of acknowledgment.
When the Bear returned, he signaled for the warriors to gather around him as he drew shapes in the dark earth with the tip of his war hatchet. In the dim moonlight, the shaman could see the Bear made four lines, two side by side, separated from the second set by a hand span.
“English,” the Bear pointed to the four lines. Then he made a round mark at the head of each pair of lines. “Wendigo”
The Bear made another two round marks behind the first set of circles. “Wendigo,” he pointed to the first. “Wendigo drummer,” the Bear indicated the second.
The shaman studied the markings and tapped the symbols for the Wendigos standing before the English. “They will slice through the invaders like stalks of corn. We must not let that happen; their blood will summon the power of He Who Raises the Earth.”
The Turtle muttered something, but the Bear silenced him with a stern look.
“We are ready,” the Bison looked to the Bear, who nodded in return.
The shaman and the nine warriors resumed their formation, crouching low and gripping their weapons with determined fingers. The Bear looked back at them, then raised his war hatchets and charged onto the plateau.
As the small band crested the lip of the table, the shaman blinked from the sudden brightness of the fires burning on the plateau. Several large campfires, stacked high with dried wood, spat forth flames reaching high into the night sky. The English invaders stood transfixed in four straight lines, their heads thrown back as if staring blankly at the starry night, revealing their bare throats to the Wendigos.
As the Bear described, two tall Wendigos stood at the forefront of the English. Black eyes sockets peered out of the bone-white elk skulls atop tall dark-robed bodies. The Wendigos bore long, sharp deer bone knives in each skeletal hand.
Another Wendigo beat ceaselessly on a large drum, his claw-like hands rising and falling in a tireless rhythm. Standing beside the drummer, a fourth Wendigo turned his elk skull head toward the newcomers.
“More offerings for He Who Raises the Earth,” the creature’s voice was a deep throaty hiss that chilled the shaman’s blood, and he raised two axes carved from the gleaming white hip bones of a bison.
The Wendigo dipped its antlered head in a nod to its two companions, and the creatures stepped forward and sliced their knives across the first rank of English throats. The shaman saw the three pale men and a dark-haired woman pitch forward, the gurgling of their opened throats the only sound they made as they hit the ground, spilling their lifeblood into the earth. The next sets of English stood unmoving as the Wendigos advanced on them.
The Bear charged at the leader, followed closely by the Bison, Wolf, and Elk. The Turtle and the Deer let fly their spears at the Wendigos wading into the helpless English, but the creatures easily batted aside the long shafts.
The bowmen let loose their arrows and quickly nocked another as the Turtle and Deer drew their knives and charged at the Wendigos. Two arrows sailed harmlessly into the darkness, but the third caught the Wendigo drummer in the shoulder. The creature fell backward with a cry of shock and pain, a terrifying noise of a pitch so shrill the shaman winced painfully at the sound.
The Wendigos had cut halfway through the ranks of the English before the Turtle and Deer could halt their advance. The creatures warily dodged the warriors’ ash-coated blades as their long limbs lashed out to keep their attackers from getting too close.
The Bear leaped at the Wendigo leader, screaming a ferocious battle cry as he sailed through the air and swung his war hatchets at the creature’s head. The Wendigo moved incredibly fast for a creature its size, sidestepping the Bear’s flying charge and swinging one of its bison bone axes at the warrior.
One of the Bear’s hatchets sheered off the upper half of the Wendigo’s right antler, but his moment of victory turned into a strangled cry of pain as the creature’s axe cleaved his right leg from his body just above the knee. He landed hard against the ground, moaning as blood poured from his severed stump.
The Deer, too, had fallen, stabbed through the eye by the Wendigo he fought. The bowman had turned their attention to his killer, and three arrows now protruded from the Wendigo’s torso as he resumed his assault upon the helpless English.
The shaman crouched, holding his spear, looking for an avenue of attack. The cacophony and chaos of battle terrified him as it always had, and he watched in horror as the English fell like scythed wheat beneath the Wendigo blades. He could feel the rumbling of power pulsing through the plateau as He Who Raises the Earth became satiated with the blood of the fallen and sacrificed.
The Turtle had scored several strikes against his opponent, who hissed and gnashed his teeth at the warrior. The creature lashed out with a killing blow that glanced off one of the turtle shells affixed to the warrior’s shirt and struck him alongside the head. The warrior crumpled to the ground, momentarily dazed, as the Wendigo slashed through the throats of the next two English men.
With the Bear out of the fight, the Bison, Wolf, and Elk advanced on the Wendigo leader, forcing him backward with thrusts of their ash-covered spears. The creature seemed incapable of finding an avenue to launch an offensive in the face of three skilled opponents until a spear sailed from the darkness behind him and buried itself deep in the Wolf’s chest. The warrior fell back, dead before he struck the ground, as the wounded Wendigo drummer emerged from the blackness holding a second spear.
Taking advantage of his attackers’ sudden loss, the Wendigo leader lept forward and thrust his axe’s blade into the Elk’s throat. The warrior’s head snapped backward, sending his antlered headdress tumbling to the ground. As the Wendigo freed his blade, blood geysered from the horrific wound as the Elk slumped to his knees.
The Bison thrust his spear forward and sank the tip deep into the Wendigo’s hip. The creature roared in pain, bringing his axe down on the warrior’s head, hewing his skull in half.
The drummer let loose his second spear, and the shaman watched as it sailed across the killing ground to impale the Eagle just as the warrior prepared to nock another arrow. The Eagle collapsed with a grunt and then lay still. Beside him, the Owl, his ash-covered arrows expended, drew his deer bone knife, and charged at the drummer. The creature roared a challenge in response, the feral sound of his call echoing above the din of battle as he barreled forward to meet the Owl.
The shaman watched as the two figures closed the distance between them. The Owl, the white and brown feathers adorning his shirt and pants fluttering in the night, reared his arm to strike with his knife as the Wendigo lowered his elk skull like a charging bull. As the two figures met, a bone-crunching crack resounded as the Wendigo drove the white bone of his skull up into the Owl’s jaw. The Owl’s head snapped backward, and his knife slipped from his lifeless fingers as he staggered back and then crumpled to the blood-soaked ground.
The urge to charge forward with his spear and defend the fallen warrior was squelched within the shaman by an overwhelming fear that rooted him in place. He could barely muster the courage to move more than a step forward, and he caught the disapproving glance from the Crow as the warrior continued to launch arrows in a futile attempt to stop the Wendigo from slaughtering the helpless English. The creature had a half dozen arrows protruding from its chest and shoulders but continued on its relentless path of carnage.
The shaman watched helplessly as the Wendigo drummer bent over and grasped the Owl in its skeletal claws. The warrior offered no resistance as the Wendigo lifted his limp body above its head. The creature’s empty black eye sockets looked directly at the shaman mockingly, the blackness so complete not even the fires reflected there. The aged Cahokian detected an insatiable malevolence within the depths of those dark holes as the Wendigo slammed the Owl upon its upraised knee. The Owl’s body bent at an impossible angle and shattered like a dry twig.
A triumphant cry drew the shaman’s gaze away from the grizzly scene as the Crow pumped a fist into the air. The warrior’s arrow sat shaft deep within its intended target’s empty eye socket. The feathered shaft had finally stopped the Wendigo’s bloody swath through the English as the creature’s rigid body fell backward like a toppled tree. Only six English men remained standing, swaying in the winds like stalks of corn, oblivious to the sacrifice of their fellow colonists.
Across the battlefield, the other Wendigo closed on the last two pairs of English invaders, three men and a woman with strands of blonde hair that hung like broken spiderwebs from beneath her dirty, white linen cap. The Wendigo’s knife dripped with blood as it prepared to land a killing blow across the woman’s throat.
The Wendigo ground its teeth together and gave a guttural growl as it stumbled, its right leg buckling as the Turtle drove his knife hilt deep into its knee. With a cry of rage and pain, the creature stabbed its gory knife into the top of Turtle’s head with such force that it snapped the deer bone blade off in the warrior’s skull. The Turtle sprawled lifeless, like a starfish on a sandy beach, as blood poured down his dark hair.
The creature raised its skeletal hands and limped toward the English, intent on finishing the task with its long, black claws. A movement caught its eye, and it turned its head a moment before the Crow’s last arrow sank deep into its eye socket and cracked through the back of its skull. The Wendigo’s injured knee buckled as it spun from the killing blow, and the towering form fell dead across the body of the Turtle.
The Crow smiled as he watched the second Wendigo fall by his hand, confident his ancestors guided his hand this terrible night. The shaman’s shouted warning snapped him out of his reverie, and he turned to see the Wendigo drummer almost upon him. Dropping his bow, he reached for the knife in his belt.
His fingers closed around the familiar wooden handle just as the Wendigo plunged its deer bone knife deep into his chest. The Crow felt his hands slacken and the air whoosh from his mortally wounded chest. The Wendigo blew foul-smelling air into his face as it breathed, and the Crow had the impression the creature was gloating. The Crow’s eyes ran to the arrow that had slid deep into the Wendigo’s shoulder, and he recognized his feathered shaft.
The Crow had slain two Wendigos and wounded a third; his ancestors would welcome him into the afterlife with pride on their faces. A wide smile crossed the Crow’s face, and he gave a hacking laugh that dotted the Wendigo’s white elk skull with flecks of red blood. This act of defiance enraged the beast, who twisted the knife buried in the warrior’s chest; however, the Crow had already passed safely into his ancestors’ arms.
With white-knuckled fear, the shaman gripped the spear and held it before him, trying to keep the Wendigos at bay. A hoarse laughter emanated from deep within the Wendigo’s skull as it backed away and slapped a hand across its shoulder, snapping the shaft of the Crow’s arrow.
The shaman watched with sinking dread as the remaining two Wendigos glided toward the remaining English. They dispatched them effortlessly, the drummer with slashes of his knife and the leader with brutal hacks of his bison bone axe. The blonde woman was the last to fall as the axe separated her head from her body in a geyser of red blood.
A feeling of despair overcame the shaman as he surveyed the carnage. The nine brave warriors lay dead and broken among the bodies of the sacrificed invaders. Two of the Wendigos lay slain, but in his heart, the shaman knew he had failed to prevent the offering necessary for the Wendigos to call upon the power of Krowatowan. For whatever dark purpose the Wendigos had gathered here this night, the shaman’s efforts to stop them proved futile.
Blood dripped in thick rivulets from the Wendigos’ weapons as they came to stand in front of him. Dark eye sockets stared at him, and the cold grip of fear clenched about his heart. In desperation, the shaman lunged with his spear, its ash-covered point still unblemished from battle. A mark of his cowardice this night. The lunge was weak, but he felt the blade sink deep into the thigh of the Wendigo drummer.
The Wendigo snorted in pain and batted the spear from the shaman’s hands as it sank to a knee. The weapon barely made a sound as it fell to the soft earth. The leader looked silently from the shaman to the kneeling Wendigo, its gleaming skull with its fathomless black eye sockets turned to the shaman as it raised its bison bone axe.
Blood dripped from the sharpened bone blade, and the shaman shrank back from the deadly blow. The Wendigo swung the axe down in a wide arc, the force of the swing generating enough wind to blow the shaman’s hair back from his face as it sliced through the air. The axe cleaved into the neck of the kneeling Wendigo, and the creature’s elk skull tumbled from its shoulders to land at the shaman’s feet.
The shaman stared down at the antlered skull in shock and disbelief. Before him, the Wendigo dropped the axe and reached both arms upward to the night sky. The sleeves of the robe slid back to reveal the pocked and blackened skin of arms that once belonged to the Cahokia warrior but now ended in skeletal bear claws.
“He Who Raises the Earth,” the antlered skull hissed, invoking the slumbering god. “Accept our sacrifice and grant us our revenge!”
The plateau hummed with power, and the ground tremored with the ancient god’s wrath. The bodies of the three fallen Wendigos began to shake violently and then exploded into thousands of tiny black specks.
The shaman thought they were pieces of dark ash until he heard the humming buzz as the specks began to swirl.
In disgust, the shaman realized the three Wendigo corpses had transformed into swirling columns of flies. The flies rose like three dark pillars and merged into a teaming mass above the plateau. The buzz of the insects drowned out all other sounds of the night as the shaman watched the black cloud writhe above them.
“I don’t understand,” the shaman looked into the dark eyes sockets of the Wendigo and shook his head.
“There is a story among the Kumeyaay people,” the Wendigo’s voice was a hiss that sounded like it rose from a deep well. “In a time of famine, their god came to them and asked them to choose between living forever, living for a short time more and then dying, or dying forever.”
“The people could not decide; they debated amongst themselves. Then a fly came among them and whispered in their ear to choose to die forever. And so they did. Thus, the fly became a messenger of death with the power to sway men’s minds.”
The shaman looked into the white bone of the Wendigo’s face with inscrutable confusion.
“He Who Raises the Earth,” the Wendigo hissed. “Has granted us that power. Pick up the spear.”
The shaman hesitated, unsure of the creature’s intention.
“Pick up the spear!”
Feeling his guts liquify with fear, the shaman quickly retrieved the spear and held its ash-covered tip toward the Wendigo. The feel of the strong wood of the spear shaft in his hand gave the shaman a shred of courage.
“We were wrong to create you,” the shaman used all his will to keep the tremble from his voice. “Cahokia was defeated; we should have gone quietly into the night or learned to leave peacefully with the nations.”
“The nations usurped the lands of He Who Raises the Earth,” the Wendigo stepped forward until the tip of the spear pressed deep into its dark robe. “They have earned his wrath.”
The shaman watched transfixed as the Wendigo stepped forward, impaling itself on the spear. He struggled to keep the spear from slipping from his grip as the Wendigo continued moving toward him, grunting as the spear burst forth from its back.
With a clawed hand, the Wendigo grasped the shaman’s deerskin shirt. The shaman struggled to pull back from the Wendigo, but the creature held him firmly. It extended one long clawed finger on its free hand and pressed it against the shaman’s chest.
“You have betrayed our god,” the Wendigo thrust the clawed finger into the shaman’s chest, twisting and turning it as the shaman screamed. “Know this before you die. His flies will whisper in the ear of the invaders for generations to come. They will tell them to hate the nations and hunt them until they have no rest. They will tell them to kill the nations wherever they find them and to defile the lands so that the nations will know no joy from what they stole from Cahokia.”
The Wendigo exploded in a whoosh of air, becoming a cascading torrent of buzzing flies. The shaman collapsed, gasping, his hands clawing at the gaping hole in his chest. Above him, the new flies joined with the swarm above the plateau.
As the shaman felt his heart fail, he watched the swarm disperse in all directions, carrying their vile message to every corner of the land. A single tear slipped from the shaman’s eye and ran down the side of his face at what the hatred and bitterness of Cahokia had wrought. He felt shame and horror at the curse Cahokia had brought to the land and the ruination of all its people.
Another good one. I like the ending the best. Makes one think.