& brand the ground with storm and song — v
The Windigo paces at the far end of the cavern with a quick stride, his posture that of anger. Dipper notices he has a replacement antler on his wicker helmet, though this one is held in place by duct tape.
He's on the phone.
"That's what I'm saying, I'm busy!" he says tightly, waving his free arm in agitation. "Maybe I already have a job, did you ever think of that?! …Not really, but you didn't know! I could have had a job! Why do you just assume—… Okay, yeah, let's talk about Brian. Oooooo, Brian, we love Brian so much; Brian didn't drop out of college, Brian is buying a house next year, Brian bought a hybrid with so much gas mileage— I can FLY, Mom! Can Brian fly?! No, all Brian can do is be a stupid English teacher and owe me thirty bucks!"
The source of the rumbling becomes apparent. The Windigo has his miniature staff in the hand with which he is angrily gesticulating, and periodically a rush of wind blows down through the open dome and shakes the cavern with a loud thrumming.
Everyone has fanned out and is hiding behind various stalagmites. Dipper peeks around the edge of one, wondering if Great-Uncle Ford is going to make a move. If not, it seems like the Windigo will probably notice them sooner or later.
Then again, he's really into his phone conversation.
"Grandma gave me that money! And I will have you know, that chinchilla farming is totally legitimate, and maybe I could have been great at it if you had just believed in me! Is that too much to ask?!" The Windigo pauses with his spare staff pressed to his forehead, listening intently. "…I don't care about community college. College was holding me back. I can fly now, Mom! I'm the WINDIGO. I control the wind. …No, I'm not… not like a super-villain, exactly, more like an antihero. Like a force of nature, you know? There's this documentary… Well maybe I don't care about Brian's life, okay?! Maybe I don't care— I'M THE WINDIGO. I bet he never mentions that, does he! I sent him a letter; I gave him a chance to get in on the ground floor, build some real magical equity, and all he wants to talk about are his stupid kids! Anybody can have kids. I could have ten kids right now! I'm just a little busy maximizing my magical potential, you know, no big deal or anything— hold on, I've got another call." The Wendigo lowers his phone for a second to press a button. "Hello? Yeah, I called earlier. That pizza you sent me? I asked for double pepperoni. There were twenty-two pepperonis on it. I counted. How is that double? There's no way a regular pizza has eleven pepperonis. That's just basic math. …Uh huh. Well, you shorted the Windigo, pal, and now you're going to face my stormy wrath. …YEAH WELL SAME TO YOU, PEASANT!" Another press of the button. "Sorry. Important Windigo business."
The Windigo has his back turned to the group now. Ford discreetly motions for everyone to spread out further, partially encircling their strange opponent. Dipper crawls along the cold stone floor until he's maybe twenty feet away from the Windigo, hidden below the raised rim of the crater pool.
"It doesn't matter if it pays, it's important. …No, lis— listen, Mom, I am the Lord of Storm, okay? That's a real title I made up. You don't have to lend me money, it's more like a tithe. …That is so a thing! LOOK IT UP! I can't explain every little—" the Windigo cuts himself off. He's squeezing his spare staff so hard his knuckles are white; the wind in the middle of the cavern is starting to spiral. "Why can't you just make this easy?! …No, I don't want a bus ticket home. You just want to control me! Why can't you just blindly support my dream of becoming an invincible Storm God?! YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE!"
The Windigo hurls his phone towards the pool and the wind sucks it up through the hole in the ceiling with astonishing speed. Trembling with rage, he stumbles over to his cheap chair and slumps into it.
After half a minute or so, he sighs with great length and feeling. "…I still had minutes on that phone."
Perhaps sensing an opening, Ford clears his throat and stands up. "Greetings—"
"WHOA!" The Windigo shoots to his feet; his duct-taped antler clatters to the floor.
"No need to be alarmed, I've only come to talk," Ford says placatingly. "I understand you've been experimenting with a powerful offshoot of shamanism. Now, I don't know what grievances you may feel you have, but surely you must be aware of how dangerous—"
The Windigo raises his miniature staff. "SO, YOU HAVE SOUGHT TO CORNER THE LORD OF STORM! YOU DARE CONFRONT JUPITER WITHIN THE VERY HEART OF HIS TEMPEST? OH, HUBRIS! OH, TRAGIC PRIDE!" he booms, the wind once again expanding his voice.
"You can't keep controlling the weather like this," Ford says stridently. "You're barely harnessing powers that can tear you apart! Let me help you. You were smart enough to come this far; imagine how much farther you might go with discipline and study!"
"YOU SOUND LIKE MY— I MEAN, GREG'S MOM! GREG IS SOME GUY, SOME OTHER GUY. HE'S NOT IMPORTANT. FORGET I SAID… THAT." The Windigo begins to float, which Dipper knows is not a good sign.
"I'm not here to fight, Greg," Ford tells him. "Be reasonable! We can talk, just put down your talisman."
But Windi-Greg is in no mood to be reasonable. "YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME." He shoots ten feet up into the air and a gale force wind erupts around him. "NOW REAP THE WHIRLWIND!"
"Can't say I didn't try," Ford remarks as he backs away.
"Alright, enough being nice," Grunkle Stan grunts, standing up.
"GET HIM!" Grenda roars as she begins to run.
Candy somehow matches her much larger friend's speed, yelling, "Go for the eyes!"
With a collective shout, everyone charges the Windigo. For a moment, the man seems dumbfounded by the sudden show of force, hovering uncertainly. A second later, a barrage of rocks comes winging his way (along with a railroad spike from Grenda) in an attempt to knock him back to earth. He counters them with a blast of wind that slows everyone's advance and sends stones bouncing off the walls. Dipper's hat flips off his head and goes flying to the back of the cavern.
Dipper can tell something is wrong. The wind is less focused; it howls in random directions and even seems to be affecting the Windigo, his hides flapping violently as he twists in the air. His power seems unaltered by the loss of his first staff in the sense of its strength, but he's not in control like he was before. And he's far past the edge of whatever slight self-discipline he has.
The Windigo lashes out, sending Grenda and Candy spinning across the floor. Mabel and Pacifica narrowly slide out of the way and make it halfway to the Wendigo before he pins them both in place; Grunkle Stan jumps forward and takes a swing, but the Wendigo is too high in the air, and the punch just bashes one of his shins. The Windigo twirls like a top and the wind follows suit; Stan gets caught in the whirlwind and splashes into the pool. Soos, who had been trying to get behind the Windigo, is also trapped in the sudden twister and loses his balance, spinning on his back as if he's breakdancing; it would be funny if it weren't so dangerous.
Dipper dives to one side to avoid a broken stalagmite that's rolling across the floor and finds himself next to Great-Uncle Ford and Wendy, who have both taken cover below the lip of the reservoir.
"I can't get close enough to clock this tool!" Wendy says with frustration, her hair whipping wildly about her face.
"I guess he doesn't need that first staff!" Dipper shouts over the roar of the wind.
"He's about to wish he still had it. He's losing control!" Ford yells back with a grim expression.
It's true. The wind is so violent that the Windigo is now held in the air like a man riveted to a wall, his arms and legs fully extended. The power surging through him seems to be in danger of ripping him apart from the inside. No one can get close to him. Every time it seems like one of them is about to land a hit, he sends them reeling. It's like he is the wind, like it's an extension of him; but it acts like a manifestation of a raging subconscious, outside his rational command.
"He must have a focus," Ford says, "something to ground his power! If we can severe the connection, we can end this!"
"What would it look like?" Wendy asks.
Dipper scans the room, which is difficult with the wind screaming at his face. He's not sure what he's looking for—until he sees it. "There!"
It's not far from the Windigo's hammock. It's a normal looking chunk of rock, for the most part. But the top third of it has been carved into a circle with a hole through it, perhaps a symbolic echo of the domed cavern. The wind is howling through the center of the circle with so much force that the whole thing is vibrating across the floor of the cavern, moving slowly to the right.
"Good eye!" Ford draws his energy gun and aims, resting it on the edge of the pool. "I'll just need to break the circle—"
The Windigo's right hand forms a fist. A tight gust of wind hits Ford like a huge invisible hand; he flies backwards and skids across the ground. The wind continues to push him until he is pinned to the rear wall of the cavern, no longer conscious.
Dipper can only watch. "Great-Uncle Ford!"
Wendy shoves him down just in time to avoid a similar fate. "Look out!"
Soos goes flying by, waving his arms in a futile attempt to steer. "Awwww, duuuuuuuuuude—!"
Grunkle Stan is stuck in the water, barely keeping his head up enough to breathe. Dipper has lost sight of the girls; he tries to look around the edge of the pool and narrowly avoids catching a chunk of rock to the face.
"THE DONUT!" Wendy shouts.
Dipper rolls over to look at her. "What?"
Wendy isn't talking to him. She's miming frantically, pointing past the Windigo to the focus, tracing a circular shape with her hands. "Get the freaking donut!"
He tries to follow her line of sight, but from where he is, he can't see. She must be motioning to Mabel and the other girls.
Wendy turns back to him with an expression of iron resolve. "Gotta run interference," she says. "Dude, if I don't make it, I want a Viking funeral."
He doesn't even know what's going on. "Wendy—"
"OVER HERE YOU GOON!" Wendy takes off running, somehow keeping her balance despite the scouring winds.
She makes it about halfway across the left side of the cavern before the Windigo catches her with a burst that lifts her off her feet. She disappears into the shadows at the edge of the room, and Dipper can't tell if she's alright.
"Geez, Wendy…" he groans through clenched teeth, fervently hoping she's in one piece. He's not sure what she was trying to accomplish, but he can guess. Someone needs a distraction.
Looks like he's the only one left to provide it.
Surmising that Wendy ran the way she did for a reason, Dipper decides to follow in her footsteps. He braces himself and counts to three.
One.
Two.
(holy schnikes this is a terrible idea.)
Three.
"H-Hey! Over here!" he yells, jumping out of cover. He finds the Windigo already looking right in his direction. "I'm… not afraid of you!"
The wind hits him like a truck. Unlike Wendy, he doesn't go far. There's a stalagmite behind him and he slams into it, a bug pinned to a windshield. The wind doesn't let up, and he's soon fighting just to breathe. This isn't going well. What is he even being a distraction for?
He thinks he'll probably pass out soon.
He sees something brightly colored in the corner of his eyes. It's hard to look, but he manages it.
It's Mabel. She's sailing through the air like a dayglo rocket, launched by Grenda. The Windigo is looking the other way and as Mabel flies at him, she holds out her sweater in both hands and catches it on his head like a net. She wraps it around his face and latches onto the sleeves, hanging down his back.
The Windigo flails blindly, Mabel's weight pulling his head back on his neck. The wind turns him in a tight circle, and he rotates in place so quickly that Mabel swings out like a propeller; somehow, she manages to hold on. A second later, Dipper understands her purpose; Pacifica and Candy are racing towards the focus.
He struggles against the crushing pressure, trying to free himself and join in, but it's no use. Despite the Windigo's preoccupation, whatever spell he cast towards Dipper hasn't gone away. It's up to the girls.
The Windigo may be blind, but he's still dangerous. He's attacking randomly, and Dipper watches helplessly as the Windigo gets lucky; his hand opens right in Candy and Pacifica's direction. Dipper shouts a warning, even knowing that it's useless, that they can't hear him.
The gale-force gust slices towards the girls. With great ingenuity and bravery, Candy steps behind Pacifica and braces the blonde girl. The wind strikes them—Candy pushes in counterbalance against Pacifica, and in the process is thrown violently backwards, tumbling to the floor.
Her bold maneuver works: Dazed but still on her feet, Pacifica staggers in the opposite direction. Her left foot catches on the uneven ground, and with widening eyes and a mouth opened in unheard exclamation, she falls towards the focus—
—and her hair—her thick, obsessively brushed, expertly-styled mane of gorgeous blonde, her follicular pride and joy—is sucked directly into the focus like a bird into a jet engine.
And instantly stops it up.
Silence descends in the cavern so suddenly that it's deafening.
The Windigo plunges limply to the ground, a puppet with his strings cut. Mabel lands directly on top of him, audibly knocking the air from his lungs.
She stands triumphant on his chest. "Sneak attack!" she gloats. "Spy style."
"Oh god, no no no— my hair." Pacifica is bent over stiffly with her hands extended in dismay, clearly afraid to move. "Someone get me out of this thing! Now."
Dipper is still trying to catch his breath. He manages to get to his feet, his head spinning from a lack of oxygen. Grunkle Stan heaves himself out of the pool, spitting water and curses in equal measure. Dipper is relieved to see Great-Uncle Ford and Soos both conscious and moving. Candy rises from the stone appearing a bit unsteady; she shakes it off quickly and reconvenes with Mabel and Grenda. Dipper is briefly worried about Wendy, but she soon emerges from the shadows of the far edge, looking only slightly worse for wear.
"Dude, that was intense," Wendy says, trading a high five with Soos.
"Ow. Everything hurts," Stan groans, mopping water from his face.
"We somewhat underestimated our opponent," Ford says, noticeably limping as he approaches Stan.
"We?" Stan grumbles.
"We're fine, Stanley," Ford says, patting his brother on the back. "Not like it's the first time we've faced a storm!"
The Windigo stirs feebly beneath Mabel's shoes. "Please get off," he wheezes.
He loses all ability to speak when Candy and Grenda pile onto him. "Stay down!" Grenda instructs him. Candy says something in Korean that sounds equally threatening.
Pacifica, meanwhile, is not happy. "Seriously, get my hair out of this thing or I am going to lose it."
Grenda stands up and reaches for her. "Okay!"
"That's probably not a good idea," Dipper says quickly, wanting to avoid Pacifica's hair being ripped out.
Soos is examining the focus. "I don't know, dude. This thing is still going like a vacuum or something."
Wendy clicks a pocket knife open. "I could just cut her hair off."
Pacifica doesn't think much of that option. "Don't you dare!"
Ford approaches Pacifica, adjusting the settings on his energy weapon. "Breaking the circle should break the spell. Hold still, Pacifica."
"I am. I can't move," she says through clenched teeth.
Ford holds down the trigger of his gun and it emits a low-energy cutting beam which gradually slices through the rock. He leaves a thin segment intact, keeping some distance between the beam and Pacifica's ignitable hair. He grabs hold and heaves, and the chunk of stone cracks loose.
Pacifica stumbles away from the focus. The state of her hair reminds Dipper of the way she had looked after the decompression of the warehouse. She grabs a fistful of her blonde locks and inspects them. "Split ends?!" She turns threateningly towards the Windigo.
Dipper catches her hand and holds her back. "I think he's had enough."
"I have," the Windigo says faintly.
Ford has taken the Windigo's spare staff and is examining it. "Entirely insufficient to maintain that kind of channeling," he pronounces. "You really should have known better."
"C'mon, man, you stole my good staff," the Windigo whines.
Dipper curiously approaches the Windigo's spartan sleeping quarters. He picks up a book sitting on the bed; it looks like a journal. He opens it to a random page.
The Windigo's handwriting is difficult to decipher:
Every (wind? road?) leads here. Don't know why. Small place, kind of (?). Found some promising crystals in the woods. Stole them from some weird little dude said they were looking for a queen. You and every other guy, buddy. Promised to hook them up with some dating apps and then took off. Probably should steer clear of the (east?) valley for awhile. NOTE: CALL MOM.
"You ripped off the gnomes?" Dipper says, kind of impressed despite himself.
The Windigo is not pleased by Dipper's choice of reading material. "Hey, that's top secret!"
He quickly shuts up when Grenda raises a fist. "Can I punch him now?" she asks.
"I'll be good," the Windigo squeaks.
Dipper tucks the journal away for later perusal. Besides, it's probably best that the Windigo lose his notes.
When they finally emerge from the tunnels and into the sunlight again, Dipper finds himself blinking against the brightness of the afternoon. It really hasn't been that long since they began their impromptu quest, but it sure feels like it. He had perhaps unconsciously been expecting the purple hue of the late evening, or even the darkness of night.
The Windigo stumps miserably along, held hostage by Grunkle Stan and Grenda. His wicker helmet has been removed, revealing the plain and pale face of a nondescript man in his late twenties or early thirties. He is thoroughly unimposing. Stripped of his staves and focus, he's also harmless. Dipper has already begun to think of him as just Greg.
"So, Greg," Dipper says, falling into step with the dour man, "how did you get into magic, anyway?"
"Mail order," Greg says vaguely.
"But why try it?"
"I don't know," he says with monotone apathy. "Figured it'd get me more respect than a nursing degree."
Ford objects. "Medicine is a very respectable field, Gregory. You should return to pursue your studies!"
"I'd just fail at that too," Greg sighs despondently.
Dipper moves ahead slightly to confer with Great-Uncle Ford. "What are we going to do with him?"
"Send him back to his mother; or his brother's place. I remain unclear on his living arrangements," Ford answers.
Dipper is surprised. "Not the police?"
"We could turn him in for assault, I suppose, but it'd be our word against his. I don't think the charges would stick, especially if the county's law enforcement hasn't improved since the eighties." Ford glances at Dipper. "I take it from your expression that it has not."
"Uh, no. Not really."
"We'll catalogue his Weirdness wavelength before we let him go. If he shows up again, we'll know about it," Ford says.
"But he can still make another staff somewhere else," Dipper points out.
"He could. But I think he'd find it would grant the barest echo of the power he tapped into here."
Ford looks upward pensively. The pine trees stir in the gentle breeze of the afternoon. As the adventure party and their glum quarry descend the hill to the road, at the opposite side of the valley the trees rise up to meet the other cliff so steeply that it's as if the horizon itself is a forest, like they are perched on the downturn of a wooded mobius strip and the sky will soon be underfoot.
"He was brought here, Dipper," Ford says. "Just as we were. There are few places in the world where he could have come even close to harnessing the same energy."
Dipper supposes he can't really blame Greg if the man returns someday, unable to stay away.
It's not like Dipper can.
When they reach the road and pile back into the vehicles, Dipper elects to sit inside the truck with Pacifica. She's once again doing what she can to fix her hair with her hands, not that she's having much in the way of success.
"I guess fashion saved the day," he says, unable to suppress a grin.
She is not amused. "Why can't monsters and other idiots just leave my hair alone? Why is that so hard?"
She probably shouldn't be asking him, seeing as he has a minor obsession with her hair as well. "You're okay, right? Did it hurt your head?"
"A little," she says. She drops her hands with an offended huff, giving up. "If only I had a boyfriend to give me a scalp massage."
He can take a hint (sometimes). "Alright, come here." He's not really sure how to give a scalp massage, other than it probably involves rubbing the top of her head. But she doesn't complain when he starts, so he must be doing something right. "Better?"
"Mmmm," she says with evident appreciation. "You're not too bad at this."
Her palpable enjoyment is making him wonder what all the fuss is about. "Do I get a turn?" he asks.
"Maybe if you shove your head into a magic donut and save everyone," she tells him.
"I don't know if my hair would have cut it," he admits.
"Hair this thick and strong doesn't belong to just anybody," Pacifica boasts. Her head tilts slightly in consideration. "…Okay, maybe Candy."
Dipper is far from being an expert. "I'll take your word for it."
"Obviously." She sighs dramatically. "My fashion genius is wasted here. I should move to Paris."
He has the brief mental image of her holding a baguette on a balcony, the Eiffel Tower in the background. But whatever she might say, he knows she doesn't mean it. Her hair smells like the forest, overlaid with the earthy scent of the cave. It's a reminder that she—the prestigious, dignified Pacifica Northwest—just chased after a rogue wind wizard and jammed her head into a dirty stone donut to stop him. Not once this summer has she demurred from adventuring. Which, when Dipper really thinks about it, seems as likely as a disgruntled dude controlling the wind.
He slides his arms around her, savoring her warmth, her shape, the reality of her presence and history, just the fact he's allowed to do this. That he can touch her, specifically, not just any girl. There's something about that he can't put into words.
"You are glad to be back," he needles her.
He can't see her face, but he'd bet just about anything that she rolls her eyes. "Fine, whatever. It's not boring, at least."
He can't resist. "I told you so."
She releases a sharp breath through her nose in exasperation and what might be suppressed amusement. "You're such a dork."
The truck jolts as Soos shifts into gear. The crackle of gravel beneath the tires gives way to the steady hum of the blacktop. Before long, the Windigo will be on a bus moving the opposite way, passing once again beneath the trestle and the valley's mountainous maw. Being banished from Gravity Falls probably wouldn't seem like much of a punishment to a lot of people.
Dipper can't think of a worse one.
& Brand the Ground With Storm and Song by The Shivering (Alone, 2004)