Wendigo

As nights grow long on Lac la Biche, the lake it freezes, the snow it falls and the wind she always blows. Wolves howl through long cold dark, and prowl neath Aurora's flicker, yet fearsome more than winter and wolves there comes a man, no longer man, they call the Wendigo. The waning moon rose over a frigid land and I feared I’d met my end. The handful of hares which fell to my snares filled stomach but wasted flesh. As strength and wit grew dim, by hunger driven mad, I longed for sweet bone marrow. Late that night as the fire grew low a shuffling tread drew nigh the air was dank with beastly rank and split by ghostly cry. I rolled right to miss the blow and grabbed my axe to counter. Time stood still, I felt a chill as iron vanquished bone. All that morn, I gathered bush to make the funeral pyre at stroke of noon, I struck the flint to cleanse the beast by fire. Orange flames leapt high and black smoke higher till only ash remained but there amidst the cinders lay a roasted marrow bone. In the silver moon of the Boreal night beware one who walks alone. Stay in your cabin with fire ablaze and venture out not till dawn. 10/27/2016