WENDIGO
By Susan Zell
Chapter Three
"The Smell of Blood"
***
By the time they reached the treehouse, Roxton was back to his usual self. He sat and talked with everyone as they typically did on most nights, relating their daily adventures and sights of wonder. It brought a sense of normalcy that Roxton relished this day above all others.
Marguerite relaxed again, dismissing her earlier fears as just manifestations of being alone in the jungle. She hated being alone. So this was a time Marguerite actually enjoyed, peaceful and playful. They had had a large meal, all except Roxton, who claimed he had eaten while out on the trail. And now everyone one was full and content. No crises were occurring; no attacks were ongoing. The night was calm. They were safe. The explorers filled the time with simple stories of their day or from their memories.
Ned related some story from one of his penny dreadfuls which everyone found amusing, though the way he playacted some of the more fanciful parts had been hysterical, especially to Marguerite. He really was a horrible actor, far too melodramatic for her tastes.
Challenger spoke of one of his past archeological digs on which he had discovered the horned skull of some prehistoric animal. He had long claimed to the scientific community that the horn had been used solely for defense. Now he would have to eat those words. That particular dinosaur lived on the plateau and he had seen the beast use its horn exclusively for courtship purposes. Never had he seen it use its horn in an attack. He was quite miffed and yet intrigued all the same by the discovery.
Veronica related a Zanga legend, regarding their god, Attuna, which only served to fire up Challenger's curiosity. Marguerite frowned. Any day now they would have to go off searching for proof of this latest fable. The strange odd shaped symbol for Attuna was unique to the Zanga people, with its man-like outline, but showing waves of energy perhaps emanating from him. Malone pointed out that Arthur Summerlee had been very fascinated by the Zanga deity and wouldn't it be a wonderful tribute to the late professor if they could find something credible on it.
Marguerite switched the topic quickly and turned to Roxton. He was about to renege knowing that it was his turn; he wasn't in the mood. He sat there quietly, absently swirling his port in his glass, half mesmerized by its gentle motion. Then he changed his mind, looking over his assembled pride with a renewed fervor.
"Have I told you about the time when I felled my first tiger? It was incredible. None after ever came close. Large and ginger colored he was, the black stripes of his coat wider than my fingers. He was standing on a hill, as tigers are wont to do in the early morning sun, his big face turned toward me almost as if he sensed me lying down wind in the tall grass. I couldn't get a clean shot but then he carelessly turned and I saw my golden opportunity. It was a hundred and seventy yard shot. I know for I measured it carefully afterward.
"A deep grunting roar answered the shot and quickly he swung his whole body back around toward where it had come. I couldn't tell if I had hit him or not. Then suddenly, with a bound, he disappeared into the grass with me. I can honestly admit to the fear that engulfed me then for this beast was a man-eater. Reports of his grisly deeds had been numerous in the villages and among my porters. I had been commissioned to bring his rampage to an end, but now it seemed I was about to have the tables turned upon me."
"So what happened next?" Ned exclaimed.
Marguerite sighed. "Obviously he didn't get eaten."
Roxton smirked at her, then returned his attention to Ned and even Challenger who had paused momentarily in his calculated doodling. "I could hear the great beast breathing somewhere nearby, a deep rasping sound that made the small hairs on the nape of my neck stand upright. I knew that if I moved the tiger would spring upon me, claws slashing, teeth ravishing my tender flesh that I knew it craved. I remained motionless hoping the terrible thing was still down wind and had no more idea I lay so close beside him than of a tiny pebble resting near its paw."
Marguerite shivered at the similarity to her own adventure this night. She was mildly annoyed with Roxton for being so callous in choosing this particular story to relate. Typical of men not to recognize the impropriety of it all.
"Did he see you?" Ned asked of Roxton. The lad's eyes were as wide as saucers.
"No. After several minutes of desperate waiting, I heard it stand and slink off. One of my porters, several feet away, began calling out. He had seen a tiger exit the grass. Knowing I was safe, I regained my feet. Thankfully, I still clutched my .450 in a ready stance for unbeknownst to me, my porter had spied a different tiger, the mate, departing from the other side of the grass. My own tiger was just fifty yards away from me. He charged, growling angrily, rushing through the dry grass at a ferocious pace straight at me. I jerked the weapon up and fired directly into his chest. He fell to the ground and moved no more."
"How many people did he eat?" Challenger inquired matter-of-factly, curious of over the statistics.
"At least seven people that we knew of," Roxton answered casually. "I tracked numerous kills to halting-places, where the beast doubtless paused to indulge in the man eater's habit of licking the skin off so as to get at the fresh blood. Their tongues are rough so…"
"Roxton!" Marguerite snapped. "Really, I don't think any of us are interested in the details." She gave a sharp quick glance toward Challenger and Ned who both backed off and reluctantly nodded agreement with the heiress.
Roxton held a shocked expression, almost mortified. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize… I think I'll retire to my room." He stood abruptly and withdrew.
"Now what was that all about?" Veronica wondered. "Roxton never relates gruesome stories."
Challenger shrugged. "Perhaps it's a remnant of the Kanu incident. I have to confess to still craving a bit of bark now and then."
It eased the tension in the room and low laughter filled the air. But it didn't enable them to forget the terrible tale of Roxton's hunt.
***
Hours later, Roxton tossed and turned fitfully in his bed, now wishing he hadn't covered the hole in the roof. He missed the expanse of sky above him. It had comforted him. The glow of the moon in all its luminous glory, bathing him in its brilliant light, had filled him with contentment.
Now the room was dark and stifling. Agitated, he rose and dressed, pulling up his suspenders roughly out of habit over his undershirt. Even with booted feet he crept upstairs, silently passing the deep snoring in Challenger's room and the low mumblings of Malone as he dreamed. The young reporter sometimes talked in his sleep, a remnant perhaps of his days in the War.
Those were dark days that the young man rarely spoke of. Despite his stint as an aerial photographer, Roxton was sure the journalist had been witness to things that still affected him. He had never killed before, even during the War, that much had been obvious when they had first arrived on the plateau. He had not been a warrior, only an observer. His lack at hunting skills had been atrocious and Roxton had spent many long hours nurturing such things in the reporter. Malone's hesitancy had almost led to disaster on numerous occasions. Thankfully that was all slowly changing. Malone's kill of yesterday had shown that. Soon, the lad would be old enough to challenge him for control of the pack. Their fight would be bloody and magnificent. It filled Roxton with a glorious anticipation.
Roxton started, pausing on the stairs, his breath locked in a frightening grip. Where had that thought come from? He shook his head, shoving such pure primitive urges down to the bowels of his soul where he kept them secured. Roxton continued on upstairs, his footsteps a little unsteady for the first few. Then they regained their surety.
What the hell was with him? He was edgy all the time and his thoughts were…well, they weren't his own. He felt like there was someone else living under his skin of late.
No, not someone.
Some thing.
He suppressed a shudder as he stepped out onto the balcony on the upper level. He felt better out in the open, standing in the moonlight. The tightness in his chest eased and his breathing evened back out. He tried to relax and collect his thoughts. Something was happening here, but he couldn't say what. Though there was a familiarity about the things that were happening. It reminded him far too much of the disease that had infected him when they had met Calista.
Was this a relapse? The signs were certainly there.
Bile rose in his throat. He couldn't go through that again. The hunger that had consumed him, the joy of the kills. He had become one with his prey. It had been incredible. His muted human senses, touch, sound, smell, had been cast wide open and nothing remained hidden to him. He understood so much with a clarity that had never been his before. Life was suddenly an open book. He saw everything, heard everything, sensed everything. He saw the full pattern of the stars against the dark veil of the unknown universe. The light of stars hidden to mere mortal vision had filled his eyes. The moon glowed with their light, brighter and larger than anything he had ever known. Nothing had been a mystery to him for one brief extraordinary moment. He saw his place within the fabric of life and it had been glorious.
God, he missed it!
No!
Roxton swayed in the moonlight, his hands gripping the rail in a bone crushing hold, his knuckles dead white. Unknowingly, his right hand rested in the burned mark left by the golem months ago.
The price! Remember the price, he shouted at himself silently. The killing, the blood. It was wrong! It was sick!
He leaned over the rail as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. His breath came in loud harsh gasps, his chest gripped again in a painful vise.
He couldn't go through that again!
So consumed with those thoughts, Roxton didn't see the pale glimmer of white in the darkness as something moved just beyond the tree line. A figure in white stood stock still in the darkness, its gaze locked on the hunched figure above them. Then the figure stepped back unseen into the shadows.
Roxton eased himself off the rail, dragging a rough hand over his damp face. He took a deep breath of the gathering gloom, letting the jungle night wash over him. To his relief, there was nothing on the wind and the sounds around him were the same ones he had heard over and over the last two years.
Everything was normal. He was normal. Perhaps whatever malady had gripped him these last few hours had passed. Maybe Marguerite was right; he was just tired, worn out. Taking it easy for a few days wouldn't be such a bad thing. He'd stop bristling about it and just embrace the vacation. It would make this entire incident just pass by sooner.
He padded back into the main room and poured himself a stiff shot of whiskey from their depleted stock, downing the liquid without an ounce of guilt. This was one moment that warranted a stiff drink if ever he saw one, depleted stock be damned. His nerves steadied enough for him to try once more to sleep.
He loved the quiet of the treehouse at this time of night. There was silence finally, a stillness in their home that he cherished. He would often wake during the night and make a long circuit of the treehouse, looking for danger and making sure everything and everyone was in their place. A silent sentinel ever diligent. Nothing was going to happen to them under his watch. Never.
He swung past the girls' rooms on his way back. The soft rustle of bed sheets could be heard past the curtain draped across Veronica's room, a soft breath, a whisper on the wind came forth. So silent, so efficient a huntress even in sleep. It was good to know that if anything happened to him, his charges would be left in capable hands. Of course, Veronica would only obtain that spot if something happened to him.
He moved on, following the soft scent of flowers and lavender to the room where they were strongest. The curtain there blew gently in the evening breeze. Through its gauzy material he could see the slender shape of Marguerite Krux, resting blissfully unaware. He could see the trail of her bare skin across the paleness of the sheet it rested upon.
Roxton raised a hand and drew the curtain aside, letting his gaze roam over her with abandon. His breathing deepened and his chest tightened. He lowered his arm toward her face, not even aware of when he had entered the room to stand over her. Suddenly, he was just there.
Her dark hair spread across the lace edge of her pillow in beautiful disarray. His nostrils flared as he drank in the scent of her, the aroma of the hibiscus she had strolled through yesterday still clung to her, as did the heady tang of sweat from her day's labor. It about drove him mad.
He knelt beside her, his face contorted, fighting the abrupt instinct that filled him now. A part of him knew this was wrong. He shouldn't be here. But something was pounding at his brain, crushing the reason that normally rested there. It was overwhelming and stifling, and yet obsessive and liberating all at the same time. It was as if he was watching these events unfold from a far distance and was powerless to stop what he was about to do.
Marguerite's throat lay exposed above the neckline of her nightgown. He watched the subtle throbbing of her pulse there, and the thought of what rich liquid it carried forced him to lick his lips with anticipation. It would taste so good going down his gullet. His powerful hand lowered to her throat intending to grab it and hold it while he….
Roxton fell backward onto the floor with an anguished cry. His fall brought Marguerite awake with a shout, her hand reaching beneath her pillow for her pistol. Roxton scrambled to the door and flung himself out, tearing the curtain down. He heard Marguerite shouting his name. But he didn't stop. For her sake, he dare not. He ran up into the main part of the house.
He was in the elevator and descending before lamps were even lit in the treehouse. He had to get away from them before something happened. The blood lust was back. He couldn't let them find him like this. Oh God, not like this! The shame of it washed over him once more, just like it had two years ago with Calista, just like it had last week with the Kanu.
He fled.
***
The treehouse burst into life at Marguerite's shouting. Veronica was there first, alert and defensive.
"What was it?" she demanded, looking about for the danger.
Marguerite was half out of the bed, pistol in her hand. "It was Roxton."
Veronica immediately relaxed, assuming it was just another of the couple's little spats. She bristled at the fact that Marguerite had found it necessary to brandish a weapon at the British lord. She always carried things just one step too far.
Marguerite knew exactly what Veronica was thinking and scowled at her, shoving past her. She could hear the elevator engage. "It wasn't what you think. There's something wrong. He looked…he was…." She hesitated. Again, for just a moment, she had seen something in his eyes. Their color had been like when Calista had transformed him.
"What?" Veronica followed the woman out of the room and up the stairs. "He was what?"
Challenger and Ned ran up with lit lanterns, both carried pistols. "What's going on?" they demanded.
"Something's wrong with Roxton," Veronica shouted back at them. They all ran up the stairs but they were too late
The elevator was already gone. Marguerite was calling it back up and cursing the fact that it was taking too slow as the water emptied from one container to the next enabling it to lift again to the top.
"What is the matter here?" the professor inquired. "What do you mean something's wrong with Roxton?"
Marguerite spun on him, angry and confrontational. "He's ill. I told you that, but you wouldn't listen to me." Her face softened a moment with fear. "His eyes, they looked like the time when Calista infected him."
The annoyance in Challenger's demeanor faded. He stared hard at the heiress. "Are you sure?" The memories of those few days were not his proudest.
"Yes. I thought I saw it yesterday when he found me in the woods. But I dismissed it as my imagination. But now, just now, in my room, he was …"
"He was in your room?" Ned asked in confusion. "What was he doing in your room?"
"He was going to eat me! What do you think!" she snapped in aggravation. The words rushed out before she could stop them.
Veronica made an observation that chilled them all. "He didn't take a rifle."
"He's unarmed?" Marguerite whispered. "In the jungle? At night?"
Challenger ran to the balcony, hoping to see Roxton. He shouted out the man's name but no one answered back. He heard nothing. The jungle was quiet and still. If the hunter was running, he was doing so very silently. It only added to Marguerite's claims. The man had been highly dangerous while infected with Calista's mad disease.
He turned back to the others. "Believe me, if Roxton is having a relapse, he's very well armed and capable out there." Roxton had once taken down a raptor under the disease's influence. He was quite capable even without a gun. "We need to find him though, and quickly."
"How are we going to do that?" Ned exclaimed. "It's pitch dark out there."
"We have to try!" Marguerite insisted. She wasn't about to let Roxton succumb to this disease again. It had almost broken him—her. It had been the first time she had faced the fact that she might lose him to this miserable plateau. Thoughts of that dark night watching over the barely breathing man in the damp jungle still gave her shivers.
The elevator finally rumbled up to their level, empty. Marguerite jumped in. Challenger stopped her from descending. "Wait. I think we should at least get dressed first." He indicated Marguerite's nightgown. "And we'll also need a few things."
She was about to tell him to shove off, but then she let his reason seep in. He was right. Roxton didn't have much time. And even if she found him, or he found her, what was she going to do to help him? She nodded. "Hurry," she told him sharply. Everyone quickly changed.
Veronica and Ned went down while Marguerite waited impatiently for Challenger. The huntress wanted to find Roxton's trail in the darkness so that when the others joined them, they would lose no more time. What she found instead disturbed her. Someone, a single figure, had been watching Roxton's room. The footprints were the same as the people she had seen yesterday, but these were days old. She exchanged a worried glance with Ned. Someone had been watching them for quite some time.
Within a few moments, the explorers were ready, armed with tranquilizers, blowguns and torches. Challenger and Malone carried well-stocked packs. They quietly departed into the dark jungle while Veronica related what she had discovered. It only heightened their urgency as they hurried dangerously through the shadows.
***
Roxton ran through the jungle, intent on putting as much distance between himself and the others before the madness struck again. The farther he was away, the safer they would all be, especially Marguerite. Every incident seemed to be triggered by her or in her presence. He couldn't bear it if he hurt her. He would lose whatever was left of his soul. He knew that.
So he ran.
He ignored the branches as they slashed at him, ignored the sharp stones that bit into his hands when he stumbled. Nothing mattered but escape. He ran till he thought his heart would burst, sprawling headlong to the ground when his endurance gave out. He lay there gasping in the dirt, his breath coming in ragged sobs, fists clenching the grass around him angrily, his rage at his weakness consuming him. He should have been able to control this. He shouldn't allow himself to turn into a monster again, regardless of the reward it would bring him. It was wrong. Too many people would be hurt, killed by his hands.
He didn't know how long he lay there battling his demon thoughts and primal urges, but when the fog in his head cleared, he relaxed, bone weary and sore. With limbs that trembled with exhaustion, he rose to his feet and tried to get his bearings. He was heading toward the northern part of the plateau. That was fine with him. It was cooler and less occupied by natives. The more secluded the better, at least for now. Maybe the relapse would soon pass, and once he had control of his faculties again he could return to the others. Maybe Challenger could find a way to cure him permanently.
He stumbled on through the jungle, moving slower now toward his destination. It would be a hard fight to survive at first as unprepared as he was, but he would manage. He had no weapons save his knife, but he could feel the rage scratching just below the surface of his skin. He could let it loose if he had to…just to feed, to survive…
He stopped himself abruptly. No! He couldn't do that. If he gave in even for an instant, he could lose himself in the blood lust. He might never make it back from that black void of savagery. No, it was better to hold himself back from temptation, regardless of how sweet the prospect or how severe the danger. It would be difficult. The cravings reminded him of opium addicts he had seen suffering in his travels through Asia. Some of his associates had dabbled in such things and had become hopelessly addicted. When the addiction wasn't fed, they had turned into pathetic creatures, full of rage and sickness and misery.
God, he hoped that was not the path set before him.
It made his sweat run cold on his skin.
He occupied his thoughts with ideas for weapons to arm himself over the coming months. He had no choice but to consider spears, swords, and crossbows. The latter were harder to come by or manufacturer, but not impossible. The spear was the quickest to get a hold of though not the most useful against raptors, but that couldn't be helped at the moment. One step at a time was the key to survival.
Again, he was so caught up in his ruminations that he failed to see the gleam of white as he passed by. He didn't notice that it turned and started following after him.
***
Marguerite ignored the trilling and grunting noises of the insects and creatures around her, hidden from sight by the darkness of the jungle's thick canopy. She hated it. What wandered out there just out of sight terrified her at times. Even the moonlight was not allowed to pass through the dense foliage and branches. But still somehow Veronica was able to track Roxton's movements.
"He's not bothering to hide his trail," the blonde commented, keeping her torch high above her as she read the ground below.
To Marguerite it only looked like mud and leaves. She really wasn't very good at tracking, regardless whether it was day or night.
"What does that mean?" Ned wanted to know. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"He's running. He should know the dangers of doing that." Veronica plainly didn't like such carelessness especially from a man who should know better. Worry lines streaked her brow.
Challenger came up beside her. "He's not thinking rationally right now. Which is why we have to find him quickly."
Veronica shook her head. "He's stumbling too. He's fallen three times the last mile."
"Maybe the
sickness hasn't gotten a good hold yet," Challenger offered hopefully.
"If he would just let us help him."
"He won't. He doesn't trust himself," spoke Marguerite softly. "He's afraid of what will happen if he does." Her hands brushed over the many scratches that still dotted her skin.
"We're his friends, damn it," argued Ned.
"He's a proud man, Ned," the professor answered. Memories of the last time this occurred appeared again in his mind. Roxton had been damn scary. The man had been all power and cunning, armed with a madness that made it impossible to distinguish friend from meal.
After he had been cured, the man had said nothing for hours. The trip home in the balloon was long and silent. The professor had urged the hunter to speak of what happened, not just out of his sheer scientific curiosity, though Challenger admitted that was a part of it, but also he understand that it would be beneficial to Roxton himself. It did no good to hold such darkness inside.
But it was the hunter's pride and embarrassment that withheld such talk. He was ashamed at what he had tried to do to his compatriots and friends. He had almost killed both of them in his madness, and despite the fact that he wasn't himself, he considered himself weaker for giving in so easily to the temptation.
Marguerite had convinced Challenger to finally let the man alone and give him some time to recover. The mysterious heiress seemed to understand much about the hunter's tenuous emotional state. She had been either extremely intuitive or she had been making a lucky guess. Either way, Challenger had let the matter drop. Roxton had never spoken of the matter again. At least not to him. Or Veronica or Ned for that matter either. The only excerpt in Ned's journal on the incident was what Challenger himself had been able to relate. Nothing more.
Challenger shook his head. His heart went out to the hunter wherever he was right now. His mental state was most likely just as fragile as his physical state. Hold on, Roxton, he said silently. We're coming. Whether you like it or not.
***
Roxton heard voices and he jerked upright. They were somewhere just to his left. He had stopped to rest for just a bit. To his horror, he had fallen asleep. Cursing himself that he should know better, he rose to his feet. Groggy and disoriented, he tried to gather his wits and determine if the voices were friend or foe.
His head seemed heavy and full of fog; he could barely keep his vision straight. A dryness gripped his throat and his belly clawed at him with hunger. He couldn't remember when he had eaten last.
Staggering to his feet, he swayed and used the nearby trees to steady him. The air seemed filled with aromas and they were sickly sweet and nauseatingly earthy. Where the hell had he fallen asleep? Some sort of flowerbed? It struck a memory within him somewhere that he couldn't quite tie down, but it made his gut clench. Then another scent struck him and his hunger immediately grew.
Blood. It was the smell of blood.
It filled his nostrils and flooded his brain. The madness washed over him. He held on by his fingernails but he knew his control was slipping.
The last thing he remembered was the horror that he was about to hunt a human being.
***