Free As Long as the Rivers Flow by James Bartleman Page B

his summons, because he was the only one in all those years who ever displayed any affection for her—even if it was just to abuse her body. A possible exception was Sister Angelica, who had tried to encourage her to conform, not to kick up a fuss, if only for her own sake, since it would do no good. She remembered her sex sessions with the boys and felt dirty. A sense of dread seized her, locking her in an icy grip, a crushing weight squeezed her chest and stomach, feelings of worthlessness and self-hatred overwhelmed her. Her world was now a great black pit from which there was no hope of escape.
    Slipping into a fitful sleep, she began to dream. She was a little girl of six again and it was her last summer of innocence before she was shipped away to residential school. Accompanied by her parents, she came from a tent, where there had been feasting, drummingand dancing, to a campfire where the people had gathered to listen to a smiling old man tell the old stories. She edged closer and closer until she was sitting at his feet. There was much laughter and good-natured joking, and the little girl felt safe and secure, surrounded by people who cared for her.
    The old man announced that he intended to tell stories about the Wendigo, paused as if lost in thought, and looked down at Martha. His smile was gone and his eyes were no longer friendly but were gleaming like burning coals sunk deep in his head.
    “Little girl,” he told her, “children are not normally allowed to listen to the stories of the Wendigo. Should you insist, however, you can stay but you must be prepared for the consequences.”
    The elder was actually a bearwalker but Martha was not afraid. After all, her parents were close by and she could count on them for protection. He shrugged his shoulders and began to tell his tales.
    There was a flash of lightning and a distant rumble of thunder. The malicious gleam in the bearwalker’s eyes faded and was replaced by a glow of fear. He bent over, thrust his face up close to hers and spoke in a voice only she could hear.
    “Little girl, I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. Now, never forget what I tell you tonight as you go through life. The Wendigo can do more than just eat people. It can remove children from their mothers, steal their souls, make them hate themselves and their people, ruin their culture and turn them into soulless devils. Worse, it can change the children of these children into Wendigos. The cycle will continue until a shaman arrives in the form of a raven to break the cycle.”
    All at once, a smell as foul as the one that used to pollute the dining hall at the residential school filled the air. The earth broke open and a repulsive winged Wendigo, as tall as a tree, emergedand looked around, seeking out its prey. When it spotted Martha, its face turned from devil monster into human beast—assuming the lewd look that Father Antoine used to adopt when he abused her. Seizing her with its claws, it squeezed her chest and stomach until she could hardly breathe. Unable to cry out, she frantically motioned to her parents to save her.
    Her mother and father anxiously pulled flaming branches from the fire and ran to the rescue, but as they drew near, their footsteps faltered, and they gave her up without a fight. The Wendigo cried out in triumph, opened its wings, and with a roar that sounded like the engine of a float plane taking off at full throttle, lifted Martha in its talons and flapped away across the lake and up into the sky—vanishing from the view of the small band of people standing helplessly around the fire.
    Night turned to day, and the Wendigo, still clutching the little girl in a tight, icy grip, soared upwards toward black storm clouds that appeared on the horizon in the shape of the residential school where Martha had suffered so much. Other winged Wendigos, dressed in the black habits of nuns, and led by one with the head of Sister Angelica, crawled out from under the eves of