The Curse of the Wendigo

TWENTY-FIVE

“His Only Hope”

Jacob Riis was a short man on the cusp of middle age, and a study in geometry. Everything about his physique, from his small feet to his large head, suggested the rectangle, offset only by his round spectacles, through which he now glared at me.

“I am seeking a Dr. Abram von Helrung,” he growled in a thick Scandinavian accent.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Riis. He’s expecting you. Right this way, sir.”

“Ah, Riis! Good, good, now you are here. Thank you!” Von Helrung pumped his guest’s hand vigorously and quickly introduced the Dane to the rest of the hunting party. They knew Riis, of course, if only by reputation. For ten years Riis had been unrelenting in his demands for social reform, his calls heard but largely ignored until 1890, with the publication of his book, How the Other Half Lives, a scathing indictment in words and pictures of the evils of tenement life. The book exposed the open dirty secret of New York’s slums in the midst of Gilded Age excess and rocked the city to its self-satisfied core. Like those whose wretched lives he’d immortalized in his work, Riis was an immigrant, a journalist by trade, who maintained an office for the New-York Tribune directly across the street from police headquarters on Mulberry Street, where I had just recently enjoyed—and still suffered from—Chief Inspector Byrnes’s particular brand of hospitality.

Riis was immediately drawn to the clippings hanging on the wall.

“Blackwood!” he muttered, reading the byline. “Algernon Henry Blackwood. And now my editors are asking me to cover it. Do you know what I tell them? ‘Ask Blackwood! Blackwood knows everything!’ That’s what I tell them.”

Von Helrung smiled easily, placed a convivial hand upon his guest’s arm, and turned to the others. “I have given Mr. Riis full confidence in our little trouble. He knows all that you know and can be trusted completely.”

Riis grunted. “Well, I can’t say I put much stock in this monstrumology business. Seems to me like an excuse for grown men to act like boys hunting frogs in the forest, but this latest business concerns me very much.” He nodded at the map. “Von Helrung’s theory makes good sense, regardless of what may be behind it, man or monster. I will do all that I can, but I am unclear as to what that might be. What do you wish me to do?”

“We need a man who knows the territory,” explained von Helrung. “Better than anyone else, better even than the thing we hunt. You have been there. For years you have wandered every side street and alleyway; we have not. You’ve been in their homes, their churches and synagogues, their speakeasies and penny beer dives and opium dens. They will not speak to us—or to the police—but they will speak to you. They trust you. And it is that very trust that will save them from the beast.”

Riis stared at him for a moment. Then he looked at the other monstrumologists, who were nodding gravely. For a moment I actually thought he might burst out laughing. But he did not. He turned back to von Helrung and said, “When do we start?”

“We must wait for tomorrow. Though my heart breaks for those who will surely perish this night, it would be foolhardy to hunt it now. We must attack in the daylight hours, for the night belongs to the beast.”

I returned upstairs after the hunting party—or cabal, depending upon one’s perspective—had left for the night. I crept past the doctor’s room, lest I wake him and be forced to answer questions I’d rather not until absolutely necessary. The hour was late and I was more tired than I ever remembered being, even during that interminable march in the wilderness. My prayer for a peaceful night with only a downy pillow and feather mattress for companionship was to be denied, however. He called to me the moment I passed his door.

“Did you call, sir?” I asked, hovering, quite purposefully, with one foot remaining in the hall.

“I thought I heard voices downstairs.”

I cocked my head, pretending to listen. “I don’t hear anything, sir.”

“Not now, Will Henry. Earlier. Why do you insist on treating me this way? I’m not entirely imbecilic, you know.”

“No, sir. I was confused, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, stop it. Come in here and close that door. . . . Now tell me what von Helrung’s been up to while I’ve been trapped in this room—the walls of which, by the way, close in by the minute.”

I told him everything. He listened without comment or question, until I concluded with von Helrung’s closing remarks: We pray for the dead, but our duty is to the living. We are no match for it—no mortal man is—but with courage and fortitude, life may conquer death, and all this loss, this unbearable sorrow, will not have been in vain. We cannot bring peace to John. He is past all peace; he is beyond all redemption. Remember that when the test comes! It knows nothing but the hunger. But we know more. Nothing but the hunger drives it. But more than that drives us. We are more than what is reflected in the Yellow Eye. Remember that always! In the hours to come we may fall into temptation. We may come ourselves to envy the dead, for they are past all suffering, while our suffering, like Judas’s in the pit, goes on and on. And if it should take you, if it should call your name upon the high wind, do not despair. Do not give in to fear as John did. His fate reflects the wages of fear! Have pity upon it as you rip out its heart. It is nothing less than the wreckage of God’s temple, forlorn and abandoned, the final, fleeting echo of Adam’s sin.

Wearily the monstrumologist said, “Well, there you have it. He is nothing but marvelously consistent in his madness. ‘The wreckage of God’s temple!’ I’m not surprised about Gravois—he’s always been a little bootlicker. Von Helrung could tell him that the sun rose in the west and that little men lived like monkeys in the hairs of his nose, and Gravois would believe him, or say that he did. Dobrogeanu is no surprise either. He and von Helrung cut their monstrumological teeth together; they are quite close. Torrance is somewhat of a surprise. He always struck me as levelheaded, a fine scientist when he wasn’t chasing skirts, but he did study under von Helrung for a time. It could be he’s giving his old master the benefit of the doubt. But the presence of Pelt is a bit of a shock. It was Pelt, after all, who alerted me to von Helrung’s ridiculous proposal in the first place.”

He sighed. “We shall see, won’t we, Will Henry? God bless Henry Blackwood anyway! You must remind me to thank him when all this is finished. I still owe him the tale of our journey through the wilderness.”

“Are you going to join them in the hunt?” I asked.

“What choice do I have? I am his only hope now. If the police find him, I’m not so sure they’ll be interested in holding him over for trial. If von Helrung—Well, he’s made it clear what he intends to do, hasn’t he? The irony of the situation is not lost upon you, I hope.”

No, I assured him. It was not.

I walked slowly to my room, wondering what sort of man was this monstrumologist, who saw his mission as one to save a friend—not to bring to justice a brutal killer who had slaughtered (“desecrated” had been his word for it) the woman he loved. Ah, the human heart is darker than the darkest pit, with more winding paths and confusing turns than a Monstrumarium! The more I learned about him, the less I knew. The more I knew, the less I understood.

I started when I opened my bedroom door, for sitting on the bed was Lilly Bates, wearing a pink dressing gown, an open book lying on the bed next to her.

“I’m sorry.” I started to back out of the room.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“I am in the wrong room. . . .”

“Don’t be silly. This is your room. You should sleep with me tonight.” She patted the spot next to her. “Unless you’re afraid,” she teased.

“I’m not afraid,” I said with as much firmness as I could muster. “I’m just used to sleeping alone.”

“So am I, but you are my guest. At least you are my uncle’s guest, which makes you my guest, once removed. I promise I do not snore and I do not bite, and I only drool a little bit.” She smiled gaily at me and patted the covers again. “Don’t you want to be close to the doctor’s room, in case he needs you?”

That argument I had difficulty refuting, and for a moment I considered returning to him and asking if I could share his bed. But then I would have had to explain why, and the cost of that answer would have been very high. He might have never shut up and let me sleep. With a sigh I dragged myself over to the bed and sat upon the very edge.

“You’re not on,” she pointed out.

“I am on.”

“You’re barely on.”

“Barely on is still on.”

“How are you going to sleep like that? And you haven’t even put on your nightshirt.”

“I’m going to sleep in my clothes. In case of an emergency.”

“What kind of an emergency?”

“The kind of emergency where you can’t be wearing a nightshirt.”

“You could curl up on the rug there and sleep at my feet like a faithful dog.”

“But I’m not a dog.”

“But you’re very faithful like a dog.”

Inwardly I groaned. What god had I offended to deserve this?

“I think you will make a fine husband one day, William Henry,” she decided. “For a woman who likes husbands fearful but faithful. You’re not the kind at all I am going to marry. My husband will be brave and very strong and tall, and he will be musically inclined. He will write poetry, and he will be smarter than my uncle or even your doctor. He will be smarter than Mr. Thomas Alva Edison.”

“Too bad he already has a wife.”

“You may make jokes, but don’t you ever think about what sort of person you will marry?”

“I’m twelve.”

“And I am thirteen—nearly fourteen. What has age to do with it? Juliet found her Romeo when she was my age.”

“And look what happened to her.”

“Well, you are his little apprentice, aren’t you? What, you don’t believe in love?”

“I don’t know enough about it to believe or disbelieve.”

She scooted across the bed and brought her face very close to mine. I dared not turn my head to face her.

“What would you do right now, this very moment, if I kissed you?”

I answered with a shake of my head.

“I believe you would fall over in a dead faint. You’ve never kissed a girl, have you?”

“No.”

“Should we test my hypothesis?”

“I would rather we didn’t.”

“Why not?” I could feel her warm breath on my cheek. “Aren’t you studying to be a scientist?”

“I think I’d rather have a Mongolian Death Worm liquefy my flesh.”

I should not have said that. I think she had forgotten up to that point. Before I could protest she pulled down the bandage to expose my wound. I remained frozen to the spot as her breath traveled down to the sore.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a scab that big,” she whispered. She ran the tip of her finger over the spot. “Does that hurt?”

“No. Yes.”

“Which is it?”

I didn’t answer. I was shivering. I felt very warm, but I shivered.

The mattress squeaked softly. Her weight compressed the springs, tipping me in her direction. Her moist lips pressed against my violated flesh.

“There. Now you’ve been kissed.”

I quickly discovered that, among other things, Lillian Trumbul Bates was a terrible liar. Though she did not bite and did drool only a little bit, she was a terrific snorer. By one a.m. I was actually considering placing a pillow over her face to muffle the sound.

I was thankful, though, for my clothing. The room became very cold during the night; I lost feeling in the tip of my nose. I think Lilly got cold too, for she rolled over in her sleep and pressed herself against me. The moment was both disconcerting and comforting.

We are more than what is reflected in the Yellow Eye, von Helrung had said.

With Lilly curled against me, I stared at the golden splay of light coming from a streetlamp on the avenue below. I rose toward it. I came into it. There was nothing but the golden light.

Then I heard the wind high above. There was the light and there was the wind. There was nothing else. I could hear the wind, but I could not feel it. I floated, incorporeal in the golden light.

There was a voice there in the wind. It was beautiful. It called my name. The voice was in the wind and the wind was in the voice and they were one. The wind and the voice were one.

In the empty room my mother sits, combing out her hair. I am there with her and she is alone. Her face is turned away from me. Her bare arms are golden in the light. It is not her voice that calls me. It is the wind’s voice.

The wind has a current like a river rushing to the sea.

It pulls me to her. I do not fight against the current of the wind. I want to be with her in the empty room of golden light.

There, my mother turns to look at me. She has no eyes. Her face has been stripped of its skin. Her empty sockets are black holes where the golden light is sucked down and cannot escape. There is no escape.

The high wind howls. There is no difference between the wind and my name, and my name has no beginning and no ending.

I fall into the lightless pit of my mother’s eyes.

Out of the nothingness a hand reached out, grabbed my collar, and yanked me backward, away from the open window. I fought against my rescuer, but he had wrapped his long arms around me, and now I could hear his voice, not the wind’s voice, calling my name.

“Will Henry! Will Henry . . .”

The doctor grunted softly as I strained to free myself, kicking impotently against the smooth floorboards, trying to answer the wind that sighed its cold breath upon our faces. I heard Lilly asking again and again in a high-pitched, hysterical voice, “What is it? What is it?” And then I saw Dr. von Helrung kneeling beside me, holding a lamp close to my face. He was saying to the doctor, “Nein, nein, not his name, Pellinore. Do not say his name!” He slapped me lightly across the cheek.

“Look at me!” he shouted. “Listen to me! To me! It is passed—gone!”

He was right; it was gone. And I started to cry, for I felt so empty without it. I was overwhelmed with shame; I was mortified. I was supposed to answer. The wind wanted me, and I wanted the wind.

“Please, Pellinore, please,” von Helrung urged the doctor. Warthrop’s grip loosened, and the old man pulled me into his arms. He wrapped one around my shoulders and with his large hand pressed my ear to his chest; I could hear the beating of his heart. Like the wind upon which my name rode, an irresistible current runs deep in the hidden chambers of our hearts, “till human voices wake us, and we drown.”

“A dream,” the monstrumologist said. “A hallucination borne of khorkhoi venom and severe physical and psychological trauma.”

“It is my fault,” groaned von Helrung. “I should have barred the window.”

“In all likelihood he would have survived the fall.”

“He would not have fallen, mein Freund. Oh, if that were the only thing to fear! It has come for him. For him! This cannot be. We cannot allow it, Pellinore. He must be sent away immediately—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped the doctor.

“On the first train to Boston.”

“Will Henry is not going anywhere.”

“He is in grave danger, should he remain.”

“And worse if he leaves, von Helrung. I am all the boy has, and I am not leaving.”

“Please don’t send me away, sir,” I whispered. My throat hurt terribly, as if I had been screaming at the top of my lungs.

“I understand, Pellinore, but you must understand it will not stop. It cannot stop. It will call until it finds him—or he finds it, for it compels him now. As it compelled the others—Larose, Hawk, Skala, and Bartholomew—and Muriel, Pellinore. Think of Muriel! Would you have him suffer the same fate? In your stubbornness, will you stand idly by and let it take Will, too?”

“I am at the end of my patience with this lunacy. Nothing has ‘called’ Will Henry. Will Henry had a nightmare, completely understandable and even predictable, given what has transpired over the past twenty-four hours.”

Von Helrung threw up his hands in a gesture of dismay.

“Eyes that do not see! Ears that do not hear! Ack! I thought I had trained you better than that, Pellinore Warthrop! Set it aside, then. Set it all aside! John is not dead—he is not Outiko. He is psychotic, driven to murder by the demons found in the desolation, a monster still, but a monster of human proportions. If it is not the hunger that drives him, what does? Why does he take Muriel, and why now does he try to take Will Henry? What do they share, Pellinore? What is the one thing they have in common? Please, for the love of God, at least admit that. Call it what you will. Call it lunacy. Call it madness. But within the madness there is method. You know this to be true.”

“I won’t make the same mistake twice, Meister Abram. Will Henry will be safe with me.”