Dead of Winter Read online

  Hysmith said, “He has the sickness.”

  Tom looked back at Master Pendleton, who stood at a distance. “What do you want us to do?”

  Pendleton said, “We all know what has to be done.”

  Tom said, “Men, stay out here. If Doc comes outside, don’t let him touch you. Lieutenant, follow me.” He and Hysmith kicked open the front door.

  Blood stains covered the den’s wood floor. In the dining room, a pile of human bones lay in a clotted puddle on the table. In the kitchen, they found what looked to be Myrna Riley’s skull and neck bone, her gray hair fanning out across the floor.

  Rifles aimed, Tom and Hysmith walked shoulder to shoulder down a hallway. A door marked with a red spiral stood partway open. At the sight of the marking, Tom’s stomach turned. Inside Riley’s bedroom, a shadow moved across the wall. The floor creaked. They entered the room, barrels pointed at the ghoulish thing smearing red spirals on the wall with his hands. Doc Riley had changed so completely, the only recognizable feature was his bald forehead and bushy sideburns. His body had withered away to something skeletal with blanched white skin. He was taller, too, now towering over Tom and Hysmith by at least a foot. Doc’s arms bent at impossible angles. Moaning, he opened his mouth, webs of sticky drool clinging to his teeth.

  As Doc Riley lurched, Tom and Hysmith pulled their triggers.

  53

  Pendleton led the garrison to the barn.

  The gunmen set their lanterns on the haystacks. Pendleton watched Inspector Hatcher’s eyes as he got a clear look at the pale-skinned creature crouched inside the chicken coop. Creature was definitely the proper word for it. What had days ago been a little girl now looked nothing like the Métis child Avery had seen sitting on Pierre Lamothe’s lap. Now she had an elongated head. Her eyes were white and devoid of pupils. Thin skin stretched over stick-like bones that made popping sounds as Zoé paced. When the gunmen got closer, the girl’s bloodstained teeth gnawed at the wire mesh.

  “That thing brought the disease in here,” Pendleton said. “It must be put to death.”

  Among the executioners, Inspector Hatcher stared with a stone cold face. “Let’s bloody get on with it.”

  Lt. Hysmith raised his arm. “Aim.” The six gunmen raised their rifles. “Fire!”

  Part Five

  Desperation

  54

  That night, Avery entered Willow’s private boudoir and climbed into bed with her. The fort master felt riled up from the events of the day. He needed a release. Willow was lying on her side, turned away from him. He put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.

  He sighed. “For the last time, it had to be done, Willow.”

  She clung to the Indian doll that had belonged to Zoé.

  “Oh, bugger,” Avery said. “I’ve been doing all I can.”

  “You wanted that child dead from the beginning.” She knew how to twist the daggers that cut at his pride.

  “I’m concerned about the welfare of the colonists. We have a crisis on our hands, and all you can think to do is decorate for a Christmas ball.”

  She sniffled into her pillow. “I’m trying to raise people’s spirits.”

  “Well, you can forget about this year’s ball. I cancelled it.”

  “How could you?” She cried into her pillow.

  Avery stroked her arm. “Willow, be sensible.”

  “Don’t touch me.” She pulled away and ran into her powder room.

  “Ah, to bloody hell with you!” Avery tossed one of her pillows and walked out of the room, slamming the door.

  55

  Anika carried a lantern into the enclosed dog pen behind her cabin. The huskies were restless this evening. She tossed scraps of meat into their bowls in case they were hungry. None of them ate. She put her hands on her hips. “What is it?”

  The eight huskies looked up at her with sad eyes and moaned. She looked out at the stockade that separated the cabins from the forest. “Is there something out there?”

  Did they sense the wiitigos that attacked the Ojibwa village? Or maybe they felt her own emptiness. It had been a tough year, and tonight was weighing heavy on her heart. She drank from her leather flask. The rum burned down easy, warming her stomach.

  Anika sat down against the wall inside the pen. The dogs gathered around her, licking her hands and cheeks. She giggled, surprised to hear herself laugh. She petted their bushy fur, and the dogs settled, lying around her. Only one dog remained sitting on its haunches. Makade, the lead male. His pointed ears were perked. He stared at Anika with bright blue eyes, his head slightly cocked. As always, she sensed her late husband’s spirit watching her through Makade’s eyes. The black dog, a mix of husky and wolf, had been her husband’s favorite.

  She promised herself she wouldn’t think of Ben tonight, but how could she not? This time two winters ago she and her husband had been taking their dogs for a walk outside the fort like they did each afternoon. Makade, who was the most adventurous, set off into the forest. Ben went searching for him alone. Anika had no idea that day would be his last. I should have searched with him. She knew these woods better than he had, how to avoid their dangers.

  She took another swig of rum.

  At once, all eight dogs lifted their heads and turned toward the pen’s gate. Footsteps crunched over the snow. The huskies stood, barking.

  “Who’s out there?” she asked.

  No one approached. Finally, the dogs settled.

  Anika said goodnight to each of them and returned to her ramshackle of a cabin. As she climbed her porch steps, a heavy feeling burdened her chest. It would be another night of sleeping in an empty bed. While most of the trappers ogled her and patted her rear end, they would never choose her as a mate. At age thirty, Anika was well past ripe. Most white men wanted a squaw who was between twelve and fourteen. A fresh bloom to deflower. Anika was left to wither on her own. She feared dying a lonely widow.

  She opened her door and paused at the threshold. The air inside reeked of foul tobacco. A figure sat in a rocking chair in the corner. An orange glow from a pipe lit up Avery Pendleton’s face. He raised a tumbler of liquor. “Where have you been?”

  She tensed her shoulders and closed the door.

  He stood, his dark frame rising above her. “Answer me.”

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I checked on the dogs.” Anika’s throat tightened until she could barely breathe. She circled Pendleton in a wide arc and stepped to the nook of her kitchen. She guzzled the last of her rum and set the flask on the table. She kept her eyes on the wall. “Shouldn’t you be with your wife?”

  “I’ll be with whoever I damn well please.”

  “Then I’m sure there’s a servant girl who would welcome your charms.”

  “You have a sharp tongue for a heathen woman.”

  She flinched at the sound of a match striking wood. The room illuminated with the flickering of an oil lamp. Pendleton’s crooked shadow moved along the wall toward Anika’s. She retreated inward, seeking the strength to stand up to him. “My grandmother taught me to say what is my womanly right to say.”

  “Your grandmother was banished for being a witch,” Pendleton said. “Perhaps you should be reminded that living here is a privilege. The other native women must be married to live inside the fort.” He was behind her now, breathing close to her neck. “There’s a reason I take special care of you.” His hand touched her shoulder, gripped a knot of her long hair. “I am your master.” He bent her over the table. Anika clenched her eyes shut, hearing the familiar chink of his buckle and the drop of his trousers. “And you have a womanly duty.”

  56

  An hour later, feeling less tense, Avery Pendleton sat in his study smoking his pipe, trying to ignore Willow’s sobbing coming from down the hall. He should have known better than to bring a refined city woman out to the wilderness.

  He poured himself a tumbler of brandy and pulled his favorite violin off the shelf. The instrument, painted bright red, gleamed in
the glow of his kerosene lamp. The violin had been hand-crafted by his grandfather, Sir William Pendleton, who owned an instrument shop in London when Avery was a boy. His chest swelled as he remembered the summers spent assisting his grandfather, sweeping out the wood shavings and bringing in supplies. The shop always smelled of fresh spruce and maple. The walls down in the cellar were covered with shells of violins, violas, cellos, and fiddles waiting to be caressed by the master’s hands. Avery had spent hours watching Sir William deftly shaping the wood with his knives, chisels, and gouges. He’d paint and varnish the instruments and string them with steady fingers. His styles modeled Amati, Guarneri, and Stradivari, the famed violin makers from Cremona, Italy. In the evenings, Sir William taught Avery how to play everything from Mozart on a violin to an Irish jig on a fiddle. “Every instrument has its own soul,” his grandfather had said. “When you pluck the strings and drag your bow across like this” –he closed his eyes and dragged the bow up and down across the middle strings with a melody that vibrated in Avery’s chest– “you channel that soul for everyone to hear. You become one with the music.”

  The red violin Avery now held was a Stradivari. He cherished it most, because it was the first instrument Sir William had allowed him to stain. The color red symbolized the power Avery had felt as he was changing from a boy into a man. He placed his chin on the violin’s chinrest and gripped the neck. He gently set his fingertips on the fingerboard. He plucked a few strings to make sure they were in tune. Satisfied, he closed his eyes and played a serenade by Mozart called Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. He escaped into the music, allowing his mind to relax and float with the vibration of the melody. His fingers massaged the strings like a lover. He played for over an hour, smiling the entire time, and when he finally stopped, he wiped his damp eyes with a handkerchief. If only Sir William were still alive to hear his pupil play. After his grandfather’s death, when Avery turned twelve, he began to play like a master violinist, as if Sir William’s ghost were channeling through him. Avery had wanted to play in an orchestra, but his father abhorred the idea and steered Avery into becoming a fur trader with Hudson’s Bay Company.

  He set the violin back on the shelf and sipped his brandy. He noticed that Willow’s room had gone silent. Whenever she got upset, he could always soothe her with his music.

  Avery’s mind now at ease, he concentrated on the problems at hand. The colony had narrowly missed being wiped out like Manitou Outpost by some strange form of rabies. Inspector Hatcher had described a dog there as having the same condition as the goats. The Ojibwa believed that people and animals could be haunted by evil spirits. Last night one of the trappers went on a rampage and slaughtered over a dozen people. Kunetay Timberwolf was now missing, as were Pierre Lamothe and several trappers. Pendleton thought of Zoé and Doc Riley. The infected had become savage animals reduced to predator instincts. Their bodies looked as if they had been eating themselves from within. After the doctor was bitten, it had taken him two days to turn.

  After the executions, Pendleton had assembled every man, woman, and child inside the chapel. Thirty colonists altogether. With the help of Brother Andre, who had once worked in a hospital, they checked everyone for signs of white scabs, exposed blue veins, or symptoms of pneumonia or dementia. Fortunately no one had been around the doctor in the past couple days except Avery, Willow, Farlan McDuff, and Tom Hatcher. Everyone was clear. The disease was contained and destroyed with the bodies they burned outside the fort.

  But with a hungry pack of cannibals stalking the woods, Pendleton feared his problems were far from over. “I have to get more help.” He opened a drawer to his desk, pulled out Father Jacques’ diary, and read the enclosed letter.

  I pray this diary reaches Father Xavier Goddard at the Notre-Dame Basilica in Montréal. It is of dire importance. The Jesuits are the only ones who can stop the madness that has befallen our village.

  The journal was written in Aramaic. Pendleton leaned back in his chair. What had the priest written in the coded portion?

  57

  Brother Andre awoke to someone knocking at his door. It was still dark outside. He checked his pocketwatch. 2:00 a.m. He rubbed his eyes.

  More pounding knocks. “Andre, wake up.” Pendleton’s voice.

  Andre climbed out of his single bed and opened the door.

  The company owner entered. “Pack your things. You’re leaving tomorrow morning for Montréal.”

  Andre smiled. “Bless you, sir.”

  “I will be going with you. I need to take care of some business there. You will hand-deliver this diary to Father Xavier. Find out if the Jesuits know how to stop this bloody disease.”

  58

  Next morning, Anika felt a fiery pain between her thighs as she and her dog Makade exited the fort’s gate. The sentry up in the watchtower whistled down to her. “Ey, pretty bird, you be careful out there in them woods. The beasts might smell your lovely red meat and eatcha.” He laughed hoarsely and spat tobacco.

  Anika flicked her hand at him and kept walking. She had no fear of Kunetay Timberwolf. She wanted to put an arrow through each of his eyes. Carrying her bow with an arrow nocked, she and her favorite husky crossed the bridge over Beaver Creek and followed the meandering trail through the forest. Makade woofed. Noises were coming from ahead—axes cutting wood, people shouting, horses whinnying. Beyond the trees she could see the twenty birch bark huts that made up the Ojibwa village. She entered, shocked to see every tribe member was out and packing up their horses and sleds. Women and children were being guided into canoes that were loaded down with bundles of supplies.

  Anika spotted Pendleton and Hysmith speaking with the chief and several warriors. They appeared to be in a heated debate. Anika ducked behind a hut. She stopped a young scout and spoke her native language. “Why is everyone packing?”

  “We’re leaving today,” he said. “Migrating to Otter Island.”

  No! Anika thought as she left the boy and hurried through the bustling crowd. Her heart pounded against her breastbone as she made her way to a hut covered in buffalo hides. Her uncle Swiftbear was out front, strapping his huskies into a dogsled. He looked older today, with more silver hair interwoven with the black. The dogs yipped at the sight of Makade, one of their cousins.

  “Swiftbear?”

  The stout man turned around. “What are you doing here, Little Pup?”

  She hugged him. “I heard the village is migrating.”

  “We must.” He nodded toward the trees. “The wiitigos are hunting in our territory again. I wanted to hunt Kunetay down and kill him for what he done.” He sighed. “But Chief says we must go.”

  Anika knew about the beasts of the Ojibwa legends. The natives believed the wiitigos were immortal creatures that blew in with the blizzards and took animal forms. Anika had learned about evil spirits through her uncle’s campfire tales. When she was a little girl, she swore she heard a wiitigo once, snapping branches in the forest, making guttural huffing noises. Every few winters Ojibwa trappers were found half-eaten in the woods. When this happened, the tribe would pack up and migrate down river.

  Swiftbear said, “The Mediwiwin are gathering at Otter Island.”

  The Mediwiwin were a circle of medicine men and women from the various tribes. Swiftbear and Grandmother Spotted Owl were both members.

  Anika gripped her uncle’s forearm. “Take me with you.”

  “I wish I could, Little Pup, but you belong to the white traders. Chief will make you return, then take away my rum. I need my rum.”

  Anika teared up. She knew Chief Mokomaan would never let her go. When her husband Ben died, she became Master Pendleton’s property. She had wanted to return to her tribe, but Avery gave the chief a fancy fur coat and tophat in exchange for Anika. At first, she was told she would be working as the fort’s field guide and translator. It wasn’t long before Anika learned that Master Pendleton had other uses for her. Now, even if she did manage to sneak herself and her dogs out with her uncle, at som
e point on her journey, one of the tribe members would tell the chief. Anika would be left behind or returned to the fort, where brutal punishment would await. Avery Pendleton would kill one of her dogs, just like he did to Minagwi the day Anika spat in Avery’s face and refused him sex. She had to stay behind. Leaving would only bring suffering to everyone she loved.

  She hugged her uncle. “I’m going to miss you, Swiftbear.”

  “Keep safe, Little Pup. We return in spring.”

  She nodded, wiping her eyes. She hugged each of the dogs, who barked and licked her face. Then she entered a wigwam. “Grandmother?”

  The interior was dark except for the glowing embers of a central fire pit. Coon tails and strings of bones and feathers dangled from the ceiling. As her eyes adjusted, Anika saw the form of an old woman sitting in the black shadows. On the ground in front of her were several bowls containing sage, dried flowers, roots, twigs, crow feathers, and threads of human hair.

  She waved Anika in and spoke Ojibwa. “Over here, child. Sit.”

  Anika sat cross-legged on the white buffalo skin like she had as a young girl, hanging onto every word her grandmother said. Grandmother Spotted Owl was a small woman, under five feet. She was frail and wore her long silvery-white hair in braids. Her face was taut around sharp bones with only a few small wrinkles. She claimed the herbs kept her looking younger than her sixty years.

  Anika sat speechless, trying hard not to let her tears fall. The thought of separating from her grandmother tore at her heart.

  “Ah, child, don’t cry,” Grandmother said in a soothing voice. “I won’t be far away. Keep your eyes to the trees and your ear to the wind.”

  Anika remembered the hawk at Manitou Outpost. “You were watching over me the other day.”

  Grandmother nodded with a twinkle in her eye. “You are beginning to see. Nature offers its own magic.”

  “Grandmother, I’m afraid to stay here.”