it nothing but a slurry of mixed up shades and lines, in the air and on the ground. When Thomson moved through the painting it changed as well, but always peacefully, and then it fell back into place. The Windigo did the opposite, disturbed the essence of the painting and left it that way, and it had to fight for every step. It wasn’t natural to this piece of art, even though the paint held a taint of its blood.
“Can you find someone else and bring him here?” asked Thomson. “Does it work that way?”
Mac stared at the oncoming monster for a few seconds. Then he turned to Thomson. “I can try. Who am I looking for?”
“Big Goose.”
“A what?”
“Not a what, a who. I don’t know his Ojibway name, but he was a shaman, a medicine man, a long time ago.” Thomson spun the paddle in his hand and hefted it, ready to swing at the giant monster when it came into range.
“What can this Big Goose do for us?” I asked.
“When he faced the Windigo he was turned into Missahba the giant, and defeated the beast.” The Windigo was no more than a half-dozen steps away from us now.
“Great,” muttered Mac. He mopped at the sweat rising on his forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket, his skin smearing into a new series of patterns. “So I get to go digging for a medicine man who may not speak any English so that he can come and turn into a giant and defeat the monster, all before this Windigo gets to us.” His voice rose as he spoke, near hysteria by the end.
“Mac!” I barked. “Just try to find the Big Goose!” I jumped forward and bit the Windigo’s foot, and at the same time Thomson swung his paddle through the air, connected with a solid thunk on the creature’s forearm. It roared in response and slowly kicked at me, but I easily jumped out of the way.
Thomson hit the Windigo again, and this time it struck out and hit him in return. He stumbled back, his feet splashing through the shallows of the lake. “Hurry up, Mac!” I shouted.
“I’m trying, Pat, I’m trying, but nobody’s answer . . .” Mac’s voice trailed off, and the Windigo raised an arm, now close enough to strike him.
I bared my teeth and prepared to jump again, but a powerful new voice stopped me dead in my tracks. “Wetikoh! The Great Manitou helped me strike you down once before. Today he will help me do so again!”
I turned and looked, up and up and up. Mac was still there, but he was huge now, a giant every bit as big as the Wendigo. The voice wasn’t his, but it came from his mouth. He reached across and grabbed the creature by the throat; it let out a strangled cry and fought back, scoring lines in Mac’s body, but it seemed to my colourless eyes that he didn’t bleed, that instead the paint just furrowed and ran. He cried out and let go of its throat and it immediately leaned its head forward, striving to bite Mac, to eat his flesh.
“Tom!” I yelled. “We need to help!”
“I’m on it, pup!” Thomson called back. He ran from the water and pulled a book of matches and something that looked like a cross between a spatula and knife from his pocket. He knelt on the beach and, using the spatula, pulled portions of painted shore and plant together and built an enormous bonfire, which lit up with one spark of a match.
“Missahba!” he called. “Big Goose! Into the fire now!”
Mac—Missahba, Big Goose, whatever he was called right then—looked down and grinned, slapped the Wendigo’s head away just before it had reached his throat, then pushed it down towards the fire. “Your heart of ice will melt, Wetikoh, and the stone of your body will be destroyed.”
The Wendigo howled one more time, and then its body made contact with the fire, flames roaring higher and higher. The stone of its body cracked and popped, and within seconds steam hissed from the cracks as its heart of ice disappeared into the air. It made one more attempt to lash out, this time swinging at Tom, but he stepped back and took the spatula—something that Mac later told me was a palette knife—and worked away at what remained of the creature, scraped at it and rubbed its stone colours in until the paint of its body was a