Dead of Winter Page 17

  “Hi,” Tom said, feeling nervous, despite the fact that he was six feet tall and the native woman was no higher than his chest. “I…was wondering if we could talk.”

  She was wearing her usual deerskin dress and moccasin boots. Anika stared up at him a moment with those wildcat eyes, considering his request, then, without a word, she opened the door wider. Tom removed his hat and stepped into the tracker’s private den.

  He was immediately greeted by two huskies, one solid black and the other gray and white. While the other dogs stayed in their pen behind the house, these two must have gotten special privileges. As the friendly dogs sniffed Tom, he scratched each behind the ears.

  “Makade, Ozaawi,” Anika said in a commanding voice. “Leave him be.”

  The dogs curled up on a blanket near the stove fire. Her den smelled of sweet grass and apple cider and something delicious cooking in her tiny kitchen.

  “I was just about to have a bowl of stew,” she said. “You’re welcome to some.”

  “That would be great.”

  While she went to her kitchen, Tom did a quick scan of her den. It was illuminated by several candles. Her furniture was sparse—two rocking chairs, a crude dining table with two chairs, a bookshelf stuffed with weathered hardback books. He read some of the spines. French titles like Candide and Zadig by Voltaire, Le Paysan perverti by Nicolas-Edme Rétif, and le Diable amoureux by Jacques Cazotte. Among the French novels were a few British encyclopedias, a dictionary, a book of Gaelic tales, and novels by Charles Dickens, Jonathan Swift, and a large collection of Jane Austen’s: Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park, and Emma.

  Tom looked at Anika as if seeing her for the first time. “Have you read all these?”

  “Many times. I mostly read during winter.”

  “How did you get books out here?”

  She spooned stew into two bowls. “My husband brought them from Montréal. He taught me to read.”

  Tom shook his head. To believe I’ve slept with this woman, yet know so little about her. Full-blooded Ojibwa, a native tracker, practicing witch, and reader of Jane Austen—Anika Moonblood was an enigma. Tom felt his guard around her softening but he still wasn’t sure if he could fully trust her.

  We come from such different worlds.

  There was still a lot of savage in her. Her bow leaned in a corner beside a workbench with knives and flint arrowheads that she carved to make her own arrows. A few times Tom had seen her out back with her bow, shooting a target. She was an impeccable archer.

  Above the bench was a shelf covered with wood carvings—animal figurines, pipes, and musical instruments. He picked up a flute with an ornate pattern on it that looked like a totem pole. It reminded him of the last argument that he and Chris had the night before they journeyed to Manitou Outpost. Chris had been whittling a flute. Tom had chastised him for spending time with Anika and taking on her Indian ways. His son’s passion for whittling had filled Tom with a fear that the Indians were going to change Chris into a heathen.

  “Stew’s ready,” Anika said.

  Tom placed the flute back on the shelf.

  They ate rabbit stew at her table. Tom found himself not only enjoying the meal, but also her company. Her face softened, and for the first time Tom saw her exotic features as pretty. He remembered seeing her naked in his bedroom. Her smooth, reddish brown skin, small breasts, dark nipples. This stirred up primal urges. She gave him a look that told him she was feeling something, too. She’s Avery Pendleton’s mistress, Tom reminded himself. Thoughts of explaining himself to Pendleton brought Tom to his better judgment.

  After supper, Anika pulled out two glasses and a flask of rum.

  Tom held up his hands. “None for me.”

  “Just one drink.”

  “No, I’ve quit drinking.”

  As she poured a glass of rum for herself, Tom told her about his battle with whiskey and his recent decision to sober up. He felt relieved to get some burdens off his chest.

  She brought a fur pouch to the table and offered it to him.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “A medicine totem bag. Reach in and draw one.”

  He put his hand into the pouch. It was full of flat stones. He pulled out a white stone that was carved with a buffalo.

  Anika cocked her head, narrowing her eyes at Tom.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You drew White Buffalo, the most sacred of all totems. It is your guardian, and you can call on its medicine for strength.”

  Tom looked at his watch. It was getting late, but for some reason he didn’t want to leave. He felt a bond developing with this native woman, perhaps even a friendship.

  78

  At the masquerade party, Father Xavier walked in step to the baroque music. He spotted Avery Pendleton walking arm in arm with Lady Celeste. Another woman joined them, taking Avery’s other arm. He kissed her neck and then the two women kissed. They stepped between a red velvet curtain and disappeared into the next chamber.

  Curious, Father Xavier followed. He parted the curtain. Beyond was a dark lounge with plush furniture and dozens of moving shadows. The sparse candles provided barely enough light to see what was happening. People were moaning. A woman’s curvy shape moved into the candlelight. Father Xavier gasped at the sight of her bare breasts.

  He felt fingers dancing up his back. “Are you going into the Forbidden Chamber, Father?”

  He turned to see the sisters wearing twin masks. “No, I was just leaving.”

  The sisters moaned in disappointment then stepped between the velvet curtains.

  Feeling flustered, Father Xavier exited the ballroom. He walked along the hallway outside the ballroom. Small groups were scattered about, smoking cigarettes and laughing. Who were these people? He had heard that the wealthy elite were rumored to throw orgies, but he never imagined he’d witness one. No wonder Andre was so shaken. Perhaps he could sense they were surrounded by sinners. Father Xavier wondered about Avery Pendleton, their escort to Ontario. He was certainly a scoundrel. The man seemed to relish in sinning. I must keep Andre as far away from that letch as possible.

  The priest went to a window overlooking the snowy streets. A horse buggy traversed down Rue St. Paul. Across the street stood the Royal Theater. In the far distance stretched the harbor, the boats all docked for the night.

  Tomorrow he and Andre would begin their river journey to Ontario, first by steamboat, then by canoe. How long the journey would take was uncertain. Father Xavier had never been to a wilderness fort and was curious about the rustic life that his former mentor had. He was also eager to investigate the strange disease that had wiped out Manitou Outpost. Andre had spoken of a detective who was investigating the attacks, Inspector Hatcher. He was last seen grieving the loss of his son. Father Xavier felt compassion, for he had also lost people dear to him.

  A childhood memory surfaced from the dark vault of his mind. He saw an image of himself as a young boy dressed in a Catholic school sweater, knickers, and a tweed cap. He came home from school one day to the sound of screaming from the far end of the family mansion. Young Xavier hurried up the winding marble staircase, passing statues and paintings of French royalty. At the top of the stairs, he ran down the wide corridor, past his father’s library, an exotic room filled with books and stuffed hunting trophies. The screaming escalated from a room at the end of the hall, where a door was slamming open and closed.

  Father Xavier snapped out of his reverie, his gaze returning to the flowing river. Now why did that memory come up all of the sudden?

  Behind him a group of men chuckled and one of them said, “Ego agnosco ostium, Father.”

  The priest whirled around. The men in top hats had their backs to him and were laughing. He tapped one on the shoulder. “Excuse me, but did one of you just say something in Latin?”

  “No.” The man laughed with his friends, as if the priest were some kind of street beggar.

  “My apologies.” F
ather Xavier looked down the hallway. Several masqueraders were crowded outside the ballroom’s front door. From somewhere in the crowd, a man cackled, giving Father Xavier goose bumps. Despite the festive evening, he suddenly felt like something was off. Maybe the caviar wasn’t agreeing with him.

  The man’s deep voice spoke again, like a whisper in his inner ear. “Ego agnosco ostium damno tui animus, Xavier, ellebarim, ellebarim, ellebarim.”

  Feeling the hairs on his neck bristle, the priest moved toward the gathering of socialites. Through the crowd of masked men and women, he spotted one man who stood at the far wall, facing him. He wore a black cape and top hat. His face was hidden behind a white tribal mask with red outlining the eyes and mouth. He lifted a gloved hand and twirled his finger in a circle. The whispering voice returned to the priest’s ear.

  “Ego agnosco ostium damno tui animus, ellebarim, ellebarim, ellebarim.”

  The Jesuit pulled out a cross. Is that you, Gustave? A week after the exorcism, Father Xavier had learned that Gustave Meraux had killed the warden and escaped from the asylum. The demon had tricked him, playing dead. The Cannery Cannibal was once again on the loose.

  The man in the tribal mask descended the staircase. Father Xavier followed, but several people crisscrossed in front of him. He leaned over the railing, peering down into the lobby. The man in top hat and cape knocked a bellhop aside and hurried out the front door.

  Father Xavier dashed down the stairs and outside. A horse carriage sped by as he looked in both directions of the dark street. The mysterious man had vanished.

  Did I just imagine that was Gustave? The priest stood there, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. That settles it. No more indulging for the rest of the journey. As Father Xavier turned to head back into the hotel, a strange marking caught his eye. On a window covered in frost, the mysterious man had scratched a word—ellebarim.

  79

  Tom and Anika sat in rocking chairs, looking out the window at the cemetery. A thought occurred to him that Anika’s husband was buried out there. “If I may ask, how long ago did your husband pass?”

  She kept her gaze on a stick of wood she was whittling. Bark and woodchips flew to the floor. After a long silence, Tom said, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s been two winters,” she said. “Only he’s not buried here. He’s out there.” She pointed over her shoulder with the knife, indicating the forest. Tom waited for more, but there was no story that followed. He didn’t pry. He couldn’t imagine what her life had been like till now, growing up in the Ontario wilderness, marrying a man who worked for Fort Pendleton as a clerk. Now she was a widow living alone in a remote fort village where the men were either barbarian trappers or high society rakes like Avery Pendleton. Tom wondered if Anika’s affair with the fort master was her choice. Again, he didn’t pry. He watched her whittle, the deftness of her small hands as the antler-handled knife shaved flakes off the wood.

  “Who taught you to whittle?”

  “My uncle Swiftbear.” Anika’s face seemed to light up. “He said that whittling is a way to get the bad spirits out. They go into the wood, shape-shift, and become manitous. Protective spirits.”

  “I saw the ones you did on the shelf. You must have a lot of protective spirits.”

  “Not near enough.” The blade dug in, carving notches and smooth curves to form wings. With each feather she etched, the animal seemed to take on life. Tom became mesmerized by her craft and could see why Chris had taken an interest in it. The end of the stick quickly shaped into an owl head. She held it up to him.

  “That’s a mighty fine piece,” Tom said.

  “Here.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a second knife and a stick. “Try your hand at it.”

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “What else are you going to spend your time doing?” She smiled.

  “Okay, I’ll give it a go.” He accepted the knife and stick and started slicing off the bark.

  “Wait.” She grabbed his wrist. “First ask yourself what you would like to give away so that it no longer burdens you. Then ask the wood what spirit it would like to become.”

  Tom thought a moment and immediately felt a heavy pain in his chest. “My grief for my son.”

  Anika’s eyes glazed over. “Then give it to the wood. The spirits will do the rest.”

  He started whittling with long, angry strokes. It felt good. Damn good. Like lightning was shooting out of his hands. A very crude spirit began to take form in the wood. And it looked like nothing from the animal kingdom.

  80

  Later that night, Andre tossed and turned in his bed. Women were haunting his dreams again. This time they rose from the floor around his bed like ghosts, one after the other, caressing him with phantom fingers. He woke in a knot of damp sheets. His skin was clammy. He climbed out of bed and washed his face with cold water from the bowl. Wide awake now, he put on his robe, and reached for his journal on the nightstand. He wrote at a ferocious pace.

  Forgive me, oh Lord, for I am a horrible sinner, not fit to be a priest. I can’t control the evil between my legs. No matter how much I flagellate myself, nothing seems to stop my desires. At tonight’s party, my loins burned for those high society ladies. I had lustful thoughts and animal urges. Am I no better than the red-skinned heathens? Is there nothing that can tame the beast within me? I beg for mercy and strength to remain chaste, oh Lord.

  Andre’s constant tingling had been the main reason he left the party early. The whole night every woman excited him to no end. So many bare shoulders and low-cut dresses exposing cleavage. A visual feast of feminine flesh. The air was filled with such intoxicating perfume, Andre felt as if he had stumbled into the Garden of Eden, and Eve was there in many forms offering forbidden fruits. Against Father Xavier’s warnings, Andre had returned to his room and relieved himself in sin. Afterward, he flogged his thighs, crying out in shame, “I am not fit to be a priest!”

  Now, sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard, he drew on the lessons of his mentor for strength. Andre wrote more calmly in his journal:

  Father Xavier said that once the Devil knows your weaknesses, he uses them to lure you to the valley of darkness. It is those who venture too far away from God that open themselves for possession. Daily meditation and prayers are the pathways of the righteous. To remain on the side of the Light, it is an exorcist’s spiritual duty to meditate twice daily and constantly pray for forgiveness and strength.

  Andre put his journal back on the nightstand. Remembering the meditation Father Xavier taught him, Andre sat cross-legged on his bed and closed his eyes. Just silence the voices. He envisioned himself on a grassy bank beside a lake. The waters were choppy, the wind blowing. He imagined the bright sun calming the wind until the lake went placid. Concentrate on the stillness. Allow yourself to sink deeper and deeper into the water.

  There was a soft tap at the door. Andre opened his eyes and listened.

  There it was again. The faintest tapping. He pressed his ear to the door. “Father Xavier, is that you?”

  A French woman’s voice whispered, “Andre… it’s me, mon amour.”

  “And me,” giggled a second woman.

  He peered through the keyhole, but the hallway was pitch dark. He inhaled the scent of floral perfume.

  Fingernails clicked on the door. “Let us in, amour. We want to see you.”

  “Oui, oui.”

  Andre closed his eyes. Please, don’t.

  Through the door, he heard giggles. Together they said, “You know you want to.”

  His nether regions stirred with an insatiable desire. His hand, as if having a will of its own, put the key back into the hole and unlocked it. He turned the knob, opened the door an inch, and then backed quickly toward his bed.

  The door opened slowly. In the hallway stood two young women in fur coats. Twins. Andre remembered the two belles who wore identical gold masks at the party and fought over him for a dance. Now he gaz
ed into the faces of two goddesses with smooth skin and cat-like amber eyes.

  “Dear Lord, help me.” He stepped back.

  The two women stepped across the threshold. The door closed behind them.

  “Mon homme…” The twins smiled as they sauntered toward Andre.

  “We never got that dance.”

  81

  Evil hides behind many faces.

  The phrase came to Father Xavier in his sleep. The words echoed through his head in a raspy, whispering voice, waking him in a clammy sweat. Lying in the darkness of his room, he thought maybe he'd heard the voice again, echoing from the hallway.

  Ego agnosco ostium damno tui animus, ellebarim, ellebarim, ellebarim…

  It was the same mantra Gustave had chanted during his exorcism.

  Father Xavier climbed out of bed. Carrying a candle in one hand and crucifix in the other, he padded barefoot across the room and listened at the door. The man’s voice whispered, Damno tui animus ellebarimmmmmmmmm…

  Father Xavier opened the door, but no one was there. He stepped out into the dark hallway. One end was lit by moonlight that shone through a window. The opposite end tapered off into a void that seemed as deep and as dark as the tunnels beneath Laroque Asylum. He sensed a presence hiding there in that chasm, watching him with a malevolence so cold it sprouted gooseflesh up the priest’s arms. He thought he saw the outline of a white and red mask press against the moonlight. If the shape had been there at all, it had retreated quickly, merging back with the darkness.

  The wood creaked. A cold breeze blew through the hall, snuffing out his candle. Father Xavier stepped back into his room. If Gustave’s demon had made its way into the hotel, then a dark hallway was not the proper battleground. He locked the door and doused it with holy water. He then grabbed a piece of chalk and drew a fresh line at the base of the threshold. He whispered a prayer and gesticulated. He sat on his bed and took a much-needed deep breath.