Tomas Edel's Arc

Chapter 9 of 17

The fire held through the night. By dawn it burned low, coals glowing orange in the cave mouth. Tomas watched the trees. The wendigo had not fled. It circled just past the smoke, a gray shape between trunks. It would not run from its own den. It waited for the fire to die. And Tomas had nothing that could hurt it if it came through the gap. Regan crouched by the coals. She pulled the silver stake from her forearm and turned it in her hand. "This won't stop it," she said. "You know that." She slid it back into its strap. She did not throw it away. She never would. Tomas needed a weapon, or a reason for the thing to leave. He walked deeper into the cave, past the villagers huddled against cold stone. His boot struck something flat. He knelt. A clipboard lay in the dirt, half buried. A ranger's patrol log. He knew the hand that filled it. The missing hunter had carried this one. The boy Tomas thought the wendigo killed at the chapel. He brought it to the coals. Half the entries were done. The rest trailed off mid-word, the pen dragged sideways across the page. Regan read over his shoulder. "He was here," she said. "Alive. Writing." She pointed at a smear along the margin. Dried blood, days old. "It didn't eat him. It kept him." Tomas understood then. The wendigo collected. Bones in the pit. Belongings in a circle. The hunter was not dead. He was stored somewhere in this cave, deep past the dark. The creature circled the entrance because its collection was inside. It was not trapping them. They were trapping it out. He stood and pointed into the black throat of the cave. Regan followed his arm. "You want to go deeper." It was not a question. Tomas nodded. If the hunter lived, they could find him. And a live man was a reason the wendigo wanted in. A chip they could use. They took a burning branch from the coals. The villagers stayed at the mouth to feed the fire. Tomas and Regan went into the dark. The passage narrowed. Water dripped. Then the light fell on a pile of shoes and coats and packs, arranged in a ring on the stone floor. In the center, curled small, lay the hunter. His chest rose. Barely. Regan knelt and pressed two fingers to his throat. "Alive," she said. "Sick. Burning up." She peeled back his sleeve. The arm was swollen, streaked red from a bite, the skin hot and shining. The wound had gone bad. Tomas lifted the boy. He weighed nothing. Behind them, at the cave mouth, the fire cracked and hissed. And under the hiss came a low sound, close now, a growl rolling through the dark. The wendigo had smelled fresh blood. Not stale trail. Fresh. It was coming through the coals.