Rashmi bookmarks “The Wendigo”

Generally acknowledged as one of Algernon Blackwood’s best-known short stories, The Wendigo is the story of Dr. Cathcart, Hank Davis, Simpson, Joseph Défago, and their cook Punk. Set in the Canadian backwoods of Rat Portage, this is the tale of how a moose-hunting party quickly turned into an unspeakable yet indelible experience when the party decided to split into two, in hopes of a more successful hunt.

What struck me most about this story was the brilliance of atmosphere that the writer has created. As I may have mentioned in a previous blog, I am not a big fan of exhibitionistic gore in the name of horror. But the eerie terror that is borne of a nameless, faceless haunting; that, I find brilliant! “The forest pressed round them with its encircling wall; the nearer tree stems gleamed like bronze in the firelight; beyond that, blackness, and, so far as he could tell, a silence of death.” - Absolutely fantastic!

When Défago and Simpson split from the group and go across the lake into Fifty Island Water, Défago becomes a victim of that horror that Punk had first experienced back at the camp. And what was initially described as just “a backwoods superstition” by Simpson turns into a nightmare that no one could quite describe, yet no one could ever forget.

The brilliance of the story is of course that beyond a few clues, a few remnants, a few stolen glimpses, nothing is conclusively said. We know something is out there. We just don’t know what. And that is always very, very terrifying! “The grey light of dawn that dropped, cold and glimmering, between the trees revealed the scene tolerably well. There stood the tent behind him, soaked with dew; the dark ashes of the fire, still warm; the lake, white beneath a coating of mist, the islands rising darkly out of it like objects packed in wool; and patches of snow beyond among the clearer spaces of the Bush... everything cold, still, waiting for the sun.”

In the end, all we are left with are bits of memory that peep through the pale gleam of the dawn: a violent movement, a foot dragged outside the tent, an uncontrollable quaking, a windy, crying voice overhead, burning feet of fire, the odour of lions, deep marks in the snow with a mysterious, reddish tinge, and a “Shadow cast by the strange Fear, never wholly exorcised”. It is never ever specified what the terrifying creature is. As to what happened to Défago, all we know is - as Punk put it - he had “seen the Wendigo”.

I must mention one small issue that I sometimes face when reading works dating back some 100 years - and that is characterization or imagery, which we instinctively deplore as ‘racist’. The book features the stereotyped Indian who is more mystic than man, sharing traits with wild beasts with his acute sense of smell and hearing that the white man lacks; there is the reference to the “mad African in a New York n----- saloon”. I do realize of course that the writing was not intentionally derogatory - it was just a manner of speaking; it still is a bit of a hindrance in an otherwise seamless reading experience.

That apart, this was a great read; it is for good reason that Blackwood is considered a master of Weird Fiction.