Icebreaker

The snow started falling the day before in a fury of wind and ice pellets. There was nothing to do but hunker down in the cabin and put an extra log on the fire. The old man took a tattered book off the shelf, choosing from the cast-off paperbacks he picked up every summer in the church bazaar when he went to town for supplies. He sat down in the rocking chair by the wood stove, reading by the light of a kerosene lamp. It felt appropriate escaping into another world, while he himself was trapped in a steadily deepening pile of snow. He made sure to open the door every now and again to clear the snow from under the overhang, preventing it from blocking him inside.

After two days of fierce wind and falling snow, the one room cabin started to feel closed in. The man was restless. He had put some beans to soak the night before, so he cut off a piece of salt pork in preparation. Then he checked the entrance again, pushing out the door as far as he could.

Looking like the abominable snowman, dressed as he was in coats and tuque, sweaters and heavy mittens, he went outside to check on the house. Clearing the doorway, he attempted to make a larger space. The wind howled through the trees calling to mind the legends he’d heard around the camp fire of what lived in these woods. As a young man working in the logging camps, long days spent cutting down trees and dragging them through the woods, the men, sore and tired would sit around the fire. He remembered a stretch of time when a reclusive woodsman had joined the camp. He’d spent his whole life trapping and living alone in the forest. His stories of evil spirits and unnatural creatures curdled the blood and made it difficult to find sleep among the howls of wolves and creaking trees. He remembered the lumberman who’d disappeared from camp. When the search party had found him, they'd hardly recognized him. He had seen the waxen face and ravaged body. They never did figure out what had happened to him. The old man shook his head as if to shake off any wandering spirits. That was a long time ago, and the lake where he lived was a placid cottage community that bustled in summer and died in winter. He checked the roof to see how much snow had accumulated. The wind was gusting pretty hard and the snow hadn’t settled too deeply. The roof was solid and unlikely to collapse. He hoped the storm would ease up soon.

Stomping his boots on the mat and shaking off the excess snow, he went back to his stove, hanging everything up to dry. He poured off the excess water from the beans, added the molasses and salt pork and set it to cook on the stove. He found another book, this time a murder mystery.

The next morning when he woke, the first thing he did was put another couple of logs on the fire and checked the stock, he was good for another day or two, then he would need to replenish from the pile beside the house. He checked the pot, taking a good whiff of the sweet smell and gave the beans a good stir. It was quiet, the only sound the crackling logs. The storm had stopped. Checking through the crack of sunlight at the top of the window not covered by snow, he felt relief that he could go out again.

Unhooking the clothes he’d left to dry in the night, he dressed. Outside the light was bright but pale in the winter sky. His breath came out in billowing clouds. Strapping on his snowshoes, he grabbed his auger and shovel and headed to the lake to check the ice. He had wanted to set up an ice fishing hole, but then the storm had hit. Well, he figured, the ice should be good and set by now.

Trudging down upon the fresh snow, his snowshoes sinking slightly with each step, crunching through the crust. He walked out upon the lake, in direct sight of the cabin, smoke curling in the sky from the wood stove. A ways out, he knelt and tried to sweep away the snow with his arm to get down to the ice pack. The snow was fairly deep. He’d removed a good three inches with the shovel when he heard a strange sound. Stopping, he looked around trying to identify it. A faint keening which at first seemed to come from everywhere all at once. It stopped and the man thinking it was just the wind went back to preparing the hole. Taking up the auger, he placed the tip in the centre of the hole and started to turn it clockwise. The sound started again, a little louder, behind him this time.

Curious, he left the auger and walked in the direction of the sound. Sunlight glinted on a section of the lake. Carefully, he approached, wary of what might be a soft spot in the ice. As he neared, he could see that there was no snow and the place was reflective like a mirror. In fact, when he arrived at its edge, he looked down and could see his reflection. He stared for a moment, marvelling at the beauty of this unusual occurrence. The rest of the lake was covered in snow. His reflection moved beneath him. Kneeling down, he looked closer.

Two eyes stared back at him from a blue-tinged face. He jumped back aghast. Was it the body of a drowned cottager or hunter? He knelt again trying to get a closer look, to see some identifying marks. Was that a scar on the right cheek? Brown or blond hair? The eyes blinked. He shook his head in disbelief. The eyes blinked again. Jumping up, he ran back for his shovel. He wouldn’t have long. Sliding back over to the spot he had seen the face, he rushed to hammer at the ice. The face lingered. The old man stood up, trying to get more force. His shovel barely made a dent. The other man had been under the ice for who knew how long. The face disappeared.

Standing there in the silence, the old man considered his options. He couldn’t recover the body. He had no radio and there was no easy way out of the bush until the snow melted. Where had the man come from anyway?

Haunted by the blue face, he packed up his gear and headed back. He’d taken only a few steps when he heard a cracking sound. Heart beating wildly, he looked down. About ten feet away, he saw a splintering in the ice, a cobweb spreading outward. Carefully, he backed away from the crack, then lumbered towards the shore, arriving in time to see the crack spread. He heard the tear, the thunderous rumbling, the crunching sound of great ice sheets breaking, raucous echoes against the rock face across the lake. A rift opened and he could see the cliff of one side rise above the other.

Breathing more easily now that he was on solid land, he noticed that the rupture had not spread evenly, but in one direction only: south. He’d seen breakups in the ice every spring for the last twenty years, but it was winter, he’d never seen it happen so early. Again, he heard the keening on the wind. He felt compelled to see where the crack lead. Taking his shovel, the old man followed the cottagers’ path that extended along the shore. He had walked maybe half a mile before he could see that the crack disappeared where the marsh formed a shallow pond.

Reaching the end of the path, he set out on the frozen pond. The dead bull rushes whispered in the wind. He did not worry about falling in. Spotting where the crack ended, he carefully knelt to one side. Sweeping away the snow on either side of the rupture. Nothing. There was nothing there.

Feeling foolish about walking all this way on a whim. He got up in order to head back to the cabin. He took one last look, the meagre crack unimpressive compared to the chasm at the other end. A shimmer under the ice, the briefest glint.

Kneeling down again, though he could barely make it out, something was definitely moving under the ice. Glad he’d carried his shovel, he hacked at the icy pond, pulling away chunks of ice. Another flash of movement in the hole, frantically cutting, trying to enlarge it without cutting the man. Finally, an opening large enough to pull him out. He reached in, feeling around wildly in the bone-chilling water, nothing at first, then he grabbed what felt like an arm. He latched on, pulling with all his might, and struggling because the weight of him seemed impossibly heavy. Once the head and two arms were above the ice, he slipped out easily, the sudden absence of resistance sending the old man staggering backwards.

The man lay, heaving, taking in great breaths of air. He was so cold, his exhalations made no fog; he didn’t shiver. The old man could only stand and watch as the other, only partially clothed in a long, tattered shirt, his face obscured by long, stringy, brown hair took in his surroundings. When he looked up, smiling, his intense amber yellow eyes and sharpened teeth made the old man take a step back, letting loose the breath he’d been holding, he stammered, “What are you?”

The other stood up, shaking his limbs, jumping up and down on the spot. Finally, face to the sky and arms out to the side, he let loose a shattering wail.

The old man, unsure of what he had released stepped backward, trying to distance himself from the creature. Not wanting to turn his back, he continued like this while the creature wailed. On the lake once again, he turned and loped awkwardly.

He’d made it as far as the path when he heard a rustling behind him. Afraid to look, he picked up his pace, making for his cabin. He heard the rustling again, this time ahead of him.

The creature jumped in front of him, dancing around him, screeching. The old man stood there frozen.

The creature circled closer, stopping suddenly, nose barely an inch away from the old man’s. Horrified by what he saw in the creature’s eyes, he leaned back, but it grabbed both sides of his face with its clawed hands. Forehead to forehead, a stream of images poured into the old man’s head.

A paddle slicing silently through the water. The bow of a canoe. In the distance, a village. A column of smoke rising. Reaching the shore, jumping out and pulling the canoe up on the beach. There is no one. He touches the smouldering coals. Scanning the scene, they have gone, hidden in the forest. An eternity has passed since he left this camp two seasons ago with his company of voyageurs. He has made it back. He’s the only one.

Approaching a longhouse, curved sides, rounded roof. The old shaman blocks his way. The shaman’s eyes are bright and searching. He sees and curses “Wendigo!” Snow, hip-deep, wind ripping through the trees, no more food. The voyageurs die, one by one, until only he remains. The shaman shakes his hands in the air, waving and chanting. He steps forward. Retreating backwards now, towards the lake, trying to escape the chanting. The lake, still cold, ankle-deep, knee-deep, falling in, submerged. Banished. Cold creeps up his limbs as he sinks further into the lake. He does not die. Any time he tries to leave the water, he is met with an invisible wall.

The creature has spent hundreds of years trying to escape, waiting for a chance to break the spell. Balance. The creature let go. The old man looked for a weapon; he had lost the shovel.

The Wendigo took his arm, forcing him down the path. The old man, resists the entire way; though bigger, he is no match. As they near the pond, the creature becomes more excited, snapping its teeth and chattering away to itself.

One last attempt to break free. If he can just push it back into the hole first. A struggle, pushing, stuffing the body into the hole. The body moves frantically beneath the ice, trapped.

The exchange made, the Wendigo walked into the woods in search of a meal.

***

If you want to know more about the Wendigo, a mythological creature from Algonquian-speaking First Nations’ tradition, check out the article at the Canadian Encyclopaedia