Free That Which Should Not Be by Brett J. Talley Page B

aside. 
    “Jack,” he said, “this is dangerous business, and a man who lives by the forest may well die by it.” 
    My father was not an educated man.  I guess he never had any schooling at all.  But he was wise, wise in a way that a man only gets through hard experience.  He knew one bit of Latin I suppose.  Just one bit.  And he taught me it that day. 
    “Always remember this, Jack.  If the breaks go against you, if you are staring death in the face, in hoc signo vinces .  In this sign, you will conquer.  Remember it Jack, always.  And if death comes, you’ll die in His bosom.”
    The Wendigo was on me now, so close I could smell death on his breath.  I looked down at the log next to me and accepted my fate.  I took it, raised it in the air and brought it straight down.  Then, I moved it from my left to right.  In the darkness, the cross of flame I had cut into the night shimmered in front of me, though the flaming brand was now at my side.  The Wendigo stopped, grinning at what I had done.  He laughed.
    “More foolish superstition?” he asked.  “I wager this one will serve you no better.”
    Then, he took another step forward, his chest passing through the spot I had marked.  I closed my eyes and prepared for death.  But nothing happened.  I ventured a look and saw the Wendigo standing in front of me, his blood red eyes peeled back, his mouth hanging open in what can only be described as shock.  He took a step backwards, and his knees began to shake.  He grabbed at his heart. 
    “No!” he cried, in shock as much as pain.  I stood there dumbfounded as flame burst from his chest.  I watched as it spread, consuming the beast before my eyes.  In haunted cries, he broke from one unknown language to another, speaking words whose meaning I do not wish to know.
    The beast fell to his knees.  But then, as the flames threatened to consume him, he looked at me and said, “The body dies, but the spirit lives on.” 
    I saw his eyes change, saw the red drain from them.  In the instant before he died, I saw the eyes of Andy.  And though he was in unimaginable pain, they were filled with gratitude and joy. 
    I suppose that is the end of the story, though it was not the end of the ordeal.  The horses were dead, and Tom could barely walk.  I took a bear skin and made it so that I could pull it behind me.  Tom rested inside, and I began to drag him through the snow, back through the forest to the town that lay miles beyond.  We had no supplies, no provisions.  But I was not concerned.  I could trap something, find something.  But as we moved on, it was as if every animal in the forest had vanished, as if we were cursed.  There was no food then, nothing to eat, nothing to catch.  A man can go a long time without food, but not in the cold, not when he is dragging another behind him.  Things happen in times like that, things you try and forget, things you don’t talk about.  Five days later, Tom died.  Seven days after that, I stumbled into the village.  Alone, but not starved. 
    That was fifty years ago now, fifty years in which I have made the forest my home.  I never saw the Wendigo again, not in the flesh at least.  But there were times when the night was dark and cold, when the moon was full in the sky and the icy wind would cut through flesh and bone.  In those times, I would hear a voice on the wind and my dreams would be filled with flashes of light and peals of thunder, of dark shapes moving in the distance, and the screeching cry of a great bird seeking its prey. 

 
    Part III
    Chapter
    10

    Carter Weston:
     
    The howling wind continued to roar outside, and even the flames in the fireplace seemed to shiver as the strongest gust yet shook the very walls of the old tavern.  I looked around warily at the ancient structure, but my companions showed no signs of concern, and so the moment passed. 
    Jack had leaned back in his chair now.  His ale was in his hands, but