The Curse of the Wendigo by Rick Yancey Page A

into oblivion. Everyone you love you are doomed to see die before you. They will go, and you will go on. Like the sibyl cursed, you will go on.”
    Sergeant Hawk was waiting for us in the lobby the next morning. We shared a hearty breakfast—our last proper meal for many days to come—and then stepped outside under a sky blanketed with clouds, into a brisk artic wind, reminders that the brutal Canadian winter was fast approaching. Our gear lay piled beside a hitching post: two bulging rucksacks, each festooned with tools and implements—shovels, hatchets, pots and pans, and the like; a smaller bag containing our provisions; and a pair of Winchester rifles.
    “Traveling light, Doctor,” our guide said brightly. “Make the best time that way.”
    The rifles reminded Warthrop he had left his revolver in our room, and he ordered me to fetch it for him.
    He dropped it into the pocket of his duster and said, “Shall we snap to, then, Hawk? I’ll take the rucksack and a rifle. Will Henry can port the rations.”
    Startled, Jonathan Hawk said to him, “Your boy is coming with us?”
    “He is not my ‘boy,’ and, yes, he is.”
    The young policeman frowned. “It’s none of my business, of course—”
    “Of course it is not.”
    “He could wait for us here.”
    “Will Henry is my assistant, Sergeant Hawk; his services are indispensable to me.”
    “What kind of services might those be?” He was having some difficulty picturing it.
    “Of the indispensable variety.”
    “He’ll slow us down.”
    “No more than standing on a sidewalk holding a pointless debate, Sergeant. I guarantee you that he is more useful than he looks.”
    Hawk considered my “looks” dubiously for a moment.
    “I’ll take your word for that, Doctor, but he strikes me as a little on the delicate side. You’re not in New England anymore; this is the backcountry we’re talking about.”
    Sergeant Hawk turned to me. “There are no monsters in the bush, Mr. Will Henry, but there are other things just as eager to eat you. Are you sure you want to come?”
    “My place is with the doctor,” I said, trying to sound resolute.
    He gave up after that. With a shrug of his broad shoulders and a lopsided grin, he slung his rifle over his back andbade us follow. He was a tall man, and his stride was long; he was used to hiking long distances over difficult terrain; and in the days to come the doctor and I would be taxed to our limits, both physically and psychologically, for he was right. We were not in New England anymore.

SIX
     
    “A Different Species Altogether”
     
    We made camp that first night on the northern shore of a vast lake, after a hike of nearly twenty miles along a fairly well-trod path. Canoes had been left on each side of the lake, a courtesy for local hunters and the native peoples who used the trail as a trade route to Rat Portage. The lake crossing took the better part of two hours, so vast was the water’s expanse and so deliberate was our passage, for with the three of us and all our gear on board, the little canoe rode alarmingly low in the water. While Warthrop helped Hawk pitch the tent—he had packed only one, not expecting a party of three—I was dispatched into the surrounding woods to gather kindling for our fire. In the twilight shadows I thought I heard the rustle of some large creature slinking, and I cannot say if that was truly the case, only that the fruitfulness ofmy imagination seemed to grow exponentially as the daylight faded.
    Night had not fully come on, however, before Sergeant Hawk had a merry fire going and a pan of fresh venison sausages frying, and he was happily chattering on like an excited schoolboy on the eve of the summer holiday.
    “Now you must tell me something about this monstrumology business, Doctor,” he said. “I’ve seen some pretty strange things in the bush, but they can’t be nothing to what you’ve seen in your travels! Why, if half the things my mother said are true . .