Tall Tale Wendigo

Jack Fiddler's secret to killing the Wendigo.

A shadow heavy lies like a black sheared sheep, blankets the woodland night

Eyes of old Jack Fiddler watches tribe from southern skies beneath headdress powder

Spies the new born Wendigo leaping into pines and between shafts of fresh spun webbed moonlight

"Come back to the Cree" low whispers, shallow breaths from those already passed, "o' ojimaa once again we call upon our tribal protector"

Within the dead of silent winter I hear your tall telling tales assuredly as the wind's cry

Too many my questions of Wendigo, while the Horned owl rarely blinks but forever mute

Tale told of a creature with teeth icicles and jagged nails fifteen feet high

Myth or truth, swirling singing smoke, drifts around the sacred circle teaching younger souls, music through your whittled flute

Drags us into visions to witness giant silhouettes of evil dancing the “Dance upon the Dead”

Glowing eyes watching Oji-Cree from beyond the safety of bonfires end

Black holes inhaling magic and the dragon spitting back spells against the shaman wasted

The warrior witch; the hunter slaying all our mighty Dogmen, stealing away the women, men and children

 

 

Even now, I hear your spoken words “when the cloud shall swallow moon, then swiftly become the totem of the tree...

Guard your shadow, because it is the first victim it will seize

Exercise a sense of spirit to behold the unforgiven as a chill wind roaming free

Because it lives within dream state stalking in and out; a destruction to reality's peace

For a moment hold your breath and ensnare what can only be trapped from within

A place of cold; bitterness, where morning nor happiness can further exist or progress

A hallway of soul looking glass shadows leading out to open windows of sin

Time here deceives, pretends, twists into a nothingness flowing river of empty space mist

You must come to understand a thing that should never be, without reasoning and humanity gone; done

Say a prayer if you must to godly beings in human ways

Fighting its lure, fight the urge, the need to run

Know, its consequences of evils is a choice that as man it had made

The shell once called human now is stone cast hardened...

As if encased in solid ice, and...

The heart turns gray, unfeeling, frozen

Without the conscience of Great Spirit's guiding light and wisdom

Your words of safety and cunning still cut deeper than a coal black knife

“I align myself with my God's will to shed (Like you said) just a single tear...

In compassion for the creatures plight

It will then walk on by without sensing the frailty of my human fear”

 

My next breath is the mastery in ghost walk into it's footsteps blood-filled between here and after-life there

I follow the prey, playing back the end of flute visions remembering the dream catchers warning all across the village in sync spinning  

So the ritual begins and now ends with chanting and praying, raising my double-edge Buck knife... over this half man/ half were

I never took a life, but somehow I feel a blessing, more like I am to it giving...

The Wendigo falls like an oak without sound, becomes an after thought blackened melting bane

And once again all accounted for my people do awake to partake of another morning, never knowing of the beast

Or, of the received, in blessings, the knowledge that you gave

So, I again lastly pray "o' Wendigo and Old Jack Fiddler please shall you forever rest in peace"