Wendigo at the Fire
A Red River Métis Fable
Long ago, a Métis woman traveled alone and made camp at the end of her long day near a grove at the side of the trail. She was soft-hearted and generous, but strong of hand and steady of mind. Wrapped in a woven sash she carried a stash of pemmican, some tools to start a fire, and her grandfather’s knife, which she always carried with her in memory of the fine old man who taught her to always be ready for the unexpected.
As snow began to lightly fall and the light slipped away, she lit a fire against the coming cold and let its warmth seep into her bones. She sat and listened to the wind rustling through the leaves while she sipped some sage tea until, soon afterwards, from the edge of the bush, a quiet voice called to her.
“Miss,” it said, “you wouldn’t turn away a soul in need, would you?”
She looked over her shoulder and spotted a tall, shadow-eyed man standing at the edge of the firelight, with a face like it had been carved too smooth. His smile was soft but his coat was too thin for the cold.
“I got lost off the trail,” he said with a fine voice. “I don’t mean to scare you, but I saw your fire and hoped for a little warmth.”
The woman tilted her head and examined the man. He shivered and pulled his collar up closed around his neck. In her generosity the woman said, “Come close and sit, if you mean no harm.”
He stepped into the circle of light, but she noticed that his breath didn’t cloud the air, nor did the snow melt from his boots.
She handed him some tea and watched as he took a sip, his eyes flickering and his face now turned away from her as he spoke.
“You travel alone?” he asked, his voice like syrup over snow.
She smiled, but now without her usual warmth. “You ask more questions for a man who's merely cold.”
He leaned forward now towards her, his teeth a little too long and his voice a little too low.
“You’re so kind,” he murmured. “They always are, the ones I take!”
She didn’t flinch. Her knife was already in her hand, hidden beneath the blanket across her knees. “And you're not the first smooth talker I’ve met on this trail,” she said. “My grandfather taught me to listen to more than words.”
The man, no longer a man, snarled, his face twisting like smoke. He was the Wendigo from the stories she had heard as a child, the kind that wears charm like a cloak, hunting softness like prey, and she had now become his prey.
But she stood, blade gleaming in the firelight. “You picked the wrong fire. Now go, or you will never leave this place!”
The Wendigo shrieked and vanished into the dark, swallowed up by the woods.
She sat again, added birch bark to the flames, and whispered, “Kindness feeds the soul, but not everyone who speaks sweetly means you well. I trust my fire, what I’ve built and what I know, but I see clearly and I listen closely. I am not helpless. I am watchful… and I am ready.”
