The Wendigo

From the collection, Polyadirondackon, a tribute to my favorite campfire gothic, and to memories of nights at camp when I was too frightened to sleep.

  THE WENDIGO


Let scenes of gruesome death unfold
In tales of terror, grim and old,
   Repeated as they first were heard —
   Hushed voices darkly spinning words
To make a camper’s blood run cold.

But none more dread by campfire glow
Than of the fearsome Wendigo —
   Ravenous fiend of the Frozen North,
   From ancient wilderness set forth,
Soaring where the North Winds blow.

As tall as trees, a heart of ice,
With crushing fangs in a jaw like a vice.
   Frost-glazed horns to crown my head,
   And claws like scimitars to shred,
Then slash and sever, carve and slice.

As on my victims I proceed
With every ghastly, brutal deed,
   Until my hunger for fresh meat,
   With living flesh is made complete.
Then on your wretched souls I feed.

For when your precious blood’s all bled,
And then you think you’re safely dead,
   Your spirit’s still held in my power,
   To savor and by bits devour,
While horror frays the final thread.

So have a care to what I’ll spy
When far above your camp I fly.
   For should I catch a fleeting sight
   Of that which stirs my appetite,
I’ll linger in the trees close-by.

Then silently I stalk and claim
Those snot-nose brats that just complain,
   The loudmouth punks; the dimwit fools
   Who disobey the counselor’s rules,
And all who dare to speak my name.

There’s not a one that’s lived to tell
How his feet were dragged through the coals of Hell,
   His body flung to the frozen sky,
   As he screamed in pain and begged to die,
Till like a meteor he fell.

To those who think I won’t pursue
A camper hidden from my view,
   Then in your tent feel safe and sound,
   As nighttime draws its curtain ’round,
And tell yourself the tales aren’t true —

But don’t think I won’t come
                                                 for
                                                        you.

R.F.