Mask of Flies (13 page)

For two days the
Warriors of the Crow feasted on enemy prisoners and the bodies of
their dead tribesmen. And the war chants grew louder each night. The
men craved battle and the chance to avenge their fallen brethren.

Black Night sat with
his senior ranks and reorganized their forces into small groups of
skirmishers. “We irregularly attack the river tribes from different
directions, with the intent on provoking segments into chase. This
will disrupt the enemy’s organization breaking the large force into
more manageable fragments.”

“We fight like
crows.” Nyakwai’ agreed.

The cannibal warriors descended the
hill in the black of the night. They attacked the eastern tribe’s
camp from all angles with preternatural viciousness. Eastern men were
nabbed from their cots, and guards’ heads were split by stone axes
that swung out of the darkness. As planned, the eastern force broke
off in segments, chasing the skirmishers. The small groups were
systematically picked apart by the new found strength of the Crows.
The battle at the foot of Ga’hai Hill lasted into the morning
light, the river drenched in red, but not a body—East River Tribe
or Crow—in sight. The faint sound of wagon wheels could be heard
climbing up the hill.

The cannibals had
forced The East River Tribe’s encampment to move away from the
river bank. They were not the same force that was easily routed and
sent scattered into the hills in retreat from the first battle.

A slender river warrior
brought a bound, emaciated man to his sachem. “Thunderfoot, we
found this man by one of the Crow’s supply points. He wears their
colors and paint.”

“Thank you, brother.
Please leave us.” Thunderfoot waited until his younger sibling left
his tent, and then directed his attention to the prisoner. “We
found you by our enemy’s supply stores. What were you doing there?”

“I-I was just looking
for some food. I have gone so long without.” The prisoner looked
like a skeleton sunken in dark fur.

“Surely your
tribesmen have food on their hill?”

The prisoner wept.
“Y-yes they do, evil food. They eat their dead, ate my son. The
witch on the hill has turned them into monsters.”

“Scruniyatha,”
Thunderfoot called, and his brother reentered the tent. “See that
this man in washed, fed, and issued clothing of the rivermen.” He
looked at the prisoner. “I will give you the chance to avenge your
son.”

The next day,
Thunderfoot sent messengers to all the nearby villages, requesting
reinforcements against the cannibal force. He knew that most of the
Allegheny tribes considered cannibalism taboo and he would get his
men.

In a week the eastern
tribe recuperated their losses with men from the outlying villages:
mostly hunters and farmers. The eastern war chiefs surmised they
outnumbered the cannibals two-to-one. Thunderfoot agreed that the
restructured army would storm the cannibal’s hill midday and
maintain a tight, concentrated attack.

Crossing the river, the
eastern army encountered the familiar, multidirectional attack from
the skirmishers. But they remained disciplined and stayed tight. Rows
of archers fortified the easterner’s ranks, thwarting the enemy’s
mobility with arrow fire. But one out of five of the skirmishers
persisted to attack even after receiving mortal wounds—unnaturally
resilient. The undying Crows had physically changed; their skin much
paler and their bodies more powerfully built.

“Our scouts reported
giants in the hills, double the length of our tallest men.”
Scruniyatha reported to his brother. “The most disturbing aspect
told is how thin these giants appeared, looking like they can barely
stand themselves upright . . . y-you don’t think these could be
Wendigo—.”

Thunderfoot sat
underneath a large oak, away from the battle. “You listen to too
many of the old stories.” Then a rustling noise came from foliage
beyond the camp fire. He saw a figure shifting in the darkness. It
broke out, scrambling on all fours towards him.

The creature’s skin
thinly stretched tight against its pulled frame. Its features
indiscernible underneath caked black and crimson paint. The jutting
fangs leaked threads of tacky salivation as it approached.

Scruniyatha ran in
front of the beast, before it could reach the war sachem. Unarmed,
Thunderfoot cried for his guards as the beast ripped out his little
brother’s windpipe and gorged. The guards rushed the giant with
carved spears, slamming them into any available opening. The giant
struck out with its long limbs, claw and fang. It ripped off a guards
arm from the shoulder, and threw it by Thunderfoot. The hand still
grasped the spear. Thunderfoot pried the fingers off, took the spear,
and jammed it into the giant’s eye. It let out a shrill scream and
retreated into the darkness.

Thunderfoot wept over
his younger brother. “Bring me the prisoner, the Crow abandoner.”

The war sachem
addressed his army at dawn. “The Crows have turned to cannibalism
in desperation. They have transformed into Wendigo; the flesh hungry
giants from legend. One took my brother, Scruniyatha. We attack the
hill at nightfall.”

When the sky darkened,
a thousand eastern tribesmen painted their bodies with black river
mud; they ascended behind the Crow prisoner and Thunderfoot. The
prisoner spotted the first Wendigo. He yelled to get its attention,
and the Wendigo chased him into the trees. The former Crow
disappeared breathless into a thatch, and a net dropped from the
trees onto his attacker. Two mudmen pulled the ends shut while the
others took the giant’s elongated head with their tomahawks.

The Eastern River Tribe
successfully employed the same tactic, bait, trap, and kill, for the
remaining monstrous sentinels. The main force of camouflaged rivermen
climbed the forsaken hill undetected.

At the hill’s
precipice they found a large clearing, scattered with hovels and fire
pits. Charred remains lined the grounds, and one had a pile of
bloodied war shirts—the turquoise of the rivermen—lying next to
it. This sight enraged the men in mud as they emerged through the
narrow path, and they began to pull the cannibals from their huts,
swarming them, then lopping their heads off. In the center of the
encampment, three Wendigo stood guard in front of a hut of more
permanent construct. Thunderfoot gathered his men and went to it.

Closer, the war chief
saw red eye paint surrounding a hollow orifice on one of the beasts,
indentifying his brother’s killer. “Leave this one for me alone,”
he said to his men. “Work together to kill these others.” He
unlatched the two handed axe from his back. The blade consisted of
heavy stone sharpened into a beak. Crystals glimmered in its
structure. Its oak handle raised above the rear of the blade, forming
a heavy knob, a formidable bludgeon.

Thunderfoot rushed and
the beast charged. A moment before collision, Thunderfoot side
stepped, creating distance, and swung with the club side. Just as he
felt the blow connect, black exploded in his head and felt the snow
on his face. He heard one of his men yell at another to stay out of
the fight. He felt the axe in his hand and pushed down with the butt
to get to his feet. Warm blood poured into his eyes, but a few paces
ahead, he saw his brother’s murderer holding its horrible stretched
face; it oozed a foul orange sludge onto the snow.

Seven of his ten men
encircled; two lay dead, while another knelt holding his neck. The
men had impaled the two other Wendigo’s heads on spears.
Thunderfoot raised his axe, and the men roared in response. He ran to
the beast, and swung the beak into the beast’s upraised arm. It
broke bone below the elbow, and the elongated arm swung on a latch of
tendon and skin. The Wendigo struggled in attempt to escape; it
lumbered in bipedal position holding its dangling arm. Orange leaked.
Then the oak knot broke its knee, and Thunderfoot slammed his foot
into the Wendigo’s chest. Foul air expelled and the beast fell on
its back. He slammed the beak into the other arm, the other leg,
completely incapacitating the giant.

“Save him for
tonight.” Thunderfoot wiped blood out of his eyes and walked to the
front of the hut. Inside, he found gore, bone and blood on a stone
slab. He pulled a severed head out a pot of water; an onyx choker
wrapped around its neck. The Crow leader had served as a final meal
for his own army before battle. Command usurped by whoever inhabited
the hut.

Men entered behind
their leader and were greeted with the contents of a boiling pot. The
sachem turned and saw the hag explode out a pile of furs. Rivermen
seized the witch and brought her to her knees in front of their
leader.

“Woman, I know you,”
Thunderfoot said.

“Ah yes, you were
just a boy then. When I was exiled, forced to live out in the hills.”

“You stole one of the
hunter’s young daughters, slaughtered her for the favor of some
nameless spirit. I remember you well, Lost Moon.”

“My spirit’s favor
has kept me alive in these hills all this time. You have seen the
power I bring. You had to enlist men from the surrounding villages to
get this far. And we have scarce resources. Imagine what I could do
for your army. With me, you’d be unstoppable,” The woods witch,
Lost Moon said.

“We will speak on the matter come
dawn, at the bottom of the hill.” Thunderfoot waved his hand and
the men carried her from the hut.

At dawn, hundreds of
rivermen surrounded Thunderfoot at the bottom of the hill. His guard
brought the witch to where he stood in the middle.

“Have you thought on
the power?” She sounded prideful.

Thunderfoot didn’t
say a word. He simply raised his hand and the circle cleared a path
for three hooded figures dragging the maimed giant. He spoke to the
witch once the beast lay at his feet. “This is your power?
Cannibals transformed into mindless monsters through blood magic.”
He turned the beast over on its belly and sliced it open with his
dagger. He pulled out its entrails slowly. When they snaked on the
ground, he cut and threw them at her feet. “My men, eaten. My
brother, eaten by your power. Reduced inside these foul guts.”

The giant wailed,
beside itself in pain. Feral growls could be heard from the circle of
men.

“My power will feed
you—”

“No. Just the dogs.”
Thunderfoot whistled. Grey and brown furs darted towards the
disemboweled giant. They piled around the gore of the incision,
snapped at its twisted flesh. “Lost Moon, today you will be the
East River Tribe’s sacrifice to the unnamed spirit. We ask it to
stay buried deep in the foul pit it sleeps, never to return.”

Rivermen pulled the
woman’s furs from her; wrinkled, naked flesh exposed to the frozen
air. They bound her and affixed a long rope across her midsection.
Thunderfoot slung the loose end over a branch of a tall basswood that
overlooked the embankment. Men in mud hoisted her up, almost to the
top. Climbers followed, and bound her to the trunk to ensure she
wouldn’t escape or fall to a more hospitable death.

For three days and nights, the witch
of the hill remained bound to the tree. Many thought that with her
fragile body she would be dead in a matter of minutes from the cold.
But she muttered curses and incantations that seemingly kept death at
bay. Thunderfoot received pressure to cut her down and execute her.
His men feared the implications of her curses. But she broke before
he could. Her skin turned purple-blue and her malign prayers ceased.
And the battle was done.

Today, the hill is
said to be cursed, and even the bravest men in the village will not
come within close proximity. They say Lost Moon’s spirit haunts the
surrounding hillside. At night hunters see spherical lights traveling
along the river. The name of the hill, Ga’hai, means “witch
light” in the old Seneca tongue, and there are many different
theories to its origins. But there is no denying something bleeds
through.

For generations; there
have been sightings of a giant man wandering the Ga’hai embankment.
Very few have gotten close to him, but there have been claims that he
is over 8 feet tall, has a set of large fangs like a wolf, and speaks
with a broken voice. The odd thing about this man is his attire. He
wears a large stovepipe hat and looks like a Quaker. Because of his
garish choice in headwear, some of the local men named him “High
Hat”.

The locals speculate
that High Hat is a thousand year old Wendigo that survived the great
battle; some think that the blood magic of Lost Moon lives on, and
seeped into a Quaker inhabitant. There’s a settlement fairly close
to the ominous hill. Others think that the frightening wanderer may
have traveled from the fracture between worlds, at the base of Ga’hai
Hill.

Regardless of
conjecture, High Hat is feared by the young and old. The children of
the village are told if they misbehave they will be eaten by
him—apparently he has a taste for only naughty children. Some of
the outlying residents tie raw meat to trees; They fear if High Hat
goes hungry, he will wander up to their farmhouses searching for
sustenance.

* * *

“Angeni, what is
it? You have been staring out into the hills the entire ride home.”
Aart had said when we approached town.

“Just tired is all.”

Aart looked at me
troubled but left me alone to my thoughts.

There is so much Seneca
lore tied to the location of our new home. I can’t help but to
think that there may be some validity embedded between some of the
sensationalized elements of the legend. I cannot deny the feeling
something enormous and unstable emanating from the hill.

The construction stands
roughly four miles from the Ga’hai embankment. It wouldn’t
surprise me if my ancestors once tied raw meat to the surrounding oak
trees to ward off the wandering High Hat.