Hearing the Wendigo

All the Native Americans from the Appalachians all the way North to the Hudson Bay. share the common myth of the invisible smiter who walks on the winter wind. British writer Algernon Blackwood heard the myths from Native American guides in Canada and wrote a story about it. He called the creature The Wendigo. It is campfire lore everywhere. Here is my version of the myth. My great-grandmother was probably a Pennsylvania Mingo, so this is also a family story.

There is a place

where the winds meet howling

cold nights in frozen forest

snapping the tree trunks

in haste for their reunion.

Gone is the summer they brooded in,

gone their autumn awakening.

Now at last they slide off glaciers,

sail the spreading ice floes,

hitch a ride with winter.

Great bears retreat and slumber,

owls flee

and whippoorwills shudder.

Whole herds of caribou

stampede on the tundra

in the madness of hunger,

the terror of thunder-winds.

The snow-piled Huron packs tight

the animal skins around his doorway,

hopes his small fire and its thin smoke

escape the notice of Boreal eyes.

He will not look out at the night sky,

for fear of what might look back.

Only brave Orion, hunter among

his fellow stars, watches

as icy vectors collide in air.

Trees break like tent poles,

earth sunders to craters

beneath the giant foot stamps.

Birds rise to whirlwind updraft

and come down bones and feathers.

I have not seen the Wendigo —

I scarcely dare to name it! —

the wind’s collective consciousness,

id proud and hammer-hard.

To see is to be plucked

into the very eye of madness.

Yet I have felt its upward urge

like hands beneath my shoulders,

lifting and beckoning.

It says, You dream of flying?

Then fly with me!

I answer No,

not with your hungry eye above me,

not with those teeth
like roaring chain saws,

not with those pile-driving footsteps —

Like the wise Huron sachem,

the long-gone Erie, the Mingo,

the Seneca, the Onondaga,

like all Hodenosaunee-born,

I too avert my eyes

against the thing that summons me.

Screaming, the airborne smiter

rips off the tops of conifers,

crushes a row of power-line towers,

peppers the hillside with saurian tracks,

then leaps straight up at the Dog Star

as though its anger could crack the cosmos

as though the sky bowl were not infinite,

and wind alone could touch the stars

and eat them.