“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 and bade 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 of my 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 . . .”
“Not knowing what she told you, I cannot speak to your mother’s truthfulness,” replied the doctor.
“What about vampires—have you ever hunted one of those?”
“I have not. It would be extraordinarily difficult to do.”
“Why? Because they’re hard to catch?”
“They are impossible to catch.”
“Not if you find one in his coffin, I hear.”
“Sergeant, I do not hunt them because, like the Wendigo, they do not exist.”
“What about the werewolf? Ever hunt one of them?”
“Never.”
“Don’t exist either?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What about—”
“I hope you aren’t about to say ‘zombie.’”
The man’s mouth closed. He stared into the fire for a few moments, stirring the flickering embers with the end of a stick. He seemed somewhat crestfallen.
“Well, if you don’t hunt any of them, what kind of things do you hunt?”
“In the main, I do not. I have devoted myself to the study of them. Capturing or killing them is something I try to avoid.”
“Doesn’t sound as fun.”
“I suppose that depends upon your definition of ‘fun.’”
“Well, if monstrumology ain’t about those things, why’d your friend Chanler come up here looking for the Wendigo?”
“I can’t be entirely sure. I would say, though, it was not to prove their nonexistence, since failing to find one would demonstrate only that one was not found. My suspicion is that he hoped to find one, or at least irrefutable evidence of one. You see, there is a movement afoot to expand the scope of our inquiries to include these very creatures of which you spoke—vampires, werewolves, and the like—a movement to which I am very much opposed.”
“And why’s that?”
Warthrop tried very hard to remain calm. “Because, my good Sergeant Hawk, as I’ve said, they do not exist.”
“But you also said not finding one don’t prove they don’t exist.”
“I may say with near absolute certainty that they do not, and I need venture no further than my own thought to prove it. Let’s take the Wendigo as an example. What are its characteristics?”
“Characteristics?”
“Yes. What makes it different from, say, a wolf or a bear? How would you define it?”
Hawk closed his eyes, as if to better picture the subject in his mind’s eye.
“Well, they’re big. Over fifteen feet tall, they say, and thin, so thin that when they turn sideways, they disappear.”
The doctor was smiling. “Yes. Go on.”
“He’s a shape-changer. Sometimes he’s just like a wolf or bear, and he’s always hungry and he don’t eat anything but people, and the more he eats, the hungrier he gets and the thinner he gets, so he has to keep hunting; he can’t stop. He travels through the forest jumping from treetop to treetop, or some say he spreads out his long arms and glides on the wind. He always comes after you at night, and once he finds you, you’re a goner; there’s nothing you can do. He’ll track you for days, calling your name, and something in his voice makes you want to go.