They sat at the table and the old man brought the biscuits and butter and a clay jar of honey. “I have blackberry tea,” he told them. He turned to the stove, but before he could move toward it, the blue tea kettle jumped and rattled of its own accord. Molly jerked, startled, and the dog leaped up growling fiercely.
“Go back to sleep, Walleye,” the old man said to the dog.
“What was that?” Molly asked breathlessly.
“A Windigo is about,” Meloux replied, and went to fetch the tea. Cork explained the myth of the Windigo, the cannibal giant whose heart was ice, and Molly looked with wide eyes at the tea kettle in Meloux’s hands.
“Don’t worry,” Meloux told her. “The Windigo is not hunting you.” To put her at ease, the old man entertained them, made them laugh with his stories of all the years in that place. He told stories of Sam Winter Moon and the pranks he used to play as a young man on the Iron Lake Reservation.
“He was hunting once near the edge of the reservation,” Meloux said. “A duck fell right out of the sky at his feet. As he picked it up, a white hunter appeared and claimed the duck was his because he’d shot it. Sam Winter Moon pointed out that the duck was on reservation land, and so the hunter had no right to it. The hunter claimed it was his because the duck was not on reservation land when he shot it. Sam Winter Moon looked at the man who was angry and at his rifle and suggested a way to decide. ‘We will have a contest,’ he said. ‘We will kick one another in the nuts and whoever is still standing will get the duck.’ The white hunter, who was a very big, meanlooking man, agreed. Sam said he would go first. The white hunter braced himself and Sam Winter Moon gave him a good kick. The man turned red then blue then white. He staggered around holding himself in great pain. After a few minutes he drew himself up and said to Sam Winter Moon, ‘Now it is my turn.’ But Sam Winter Moon said, ‘You win,’ handed him the duck, and walked away.” Meloux laughed. “He was a good man. He was a warrior. His Anishinaabe name was Animikiikaa, which means ‘It thunders.’ ”
When they rose to leave, Meloux said to Cork, “I have something for you.” He went to a basket set in a corner and pulled something out. He returned to Cork and pressed a bit of dried root into his hand.
Cork nodded and turned to Molly. “Could you wait outside for a moment?”
“Sure.” Molly left, closing the door behind her.
“I need to ask you something, Henry.”
“Ask, then,” the old man replied.
“You said you heard the Windigo call a name as it passed overhead. What name?”
The old man shook his head. “With the Windigo, you cannot help, Corcoran O’Connor. I do not think you are the one to fight the Windigo.”
“Tell me this. Was the name Judge Parrant?”
The old man laughed. “That is a name I would not mind the Windigo calling, but it was not the name I heard.”
“Was it Paul LeBeau?”
“Joe John’s boy? No.” The old man put his hand on Cork’s shoulder. “It will do no good, but I will tell you the name I heard. The name the Windigo called was Harlan Lytton. And that is another name I do not mind the Windigo calling.” He walked Cork to the door. “Thank you for visiting. I am grateful for your concern over an old man.”
Cork hesitated before leaving.
“What is it?” Meloux asked.
“Sam told me once that a man knows when the Windigo is coming for him. Is that true?”
“A man who listens will hear his name.” The old man stared at him a moment. “You heard.”
“No.” Cork shook his head. “I’m sure it was just a trick of the wind.”
“A man knows the difference between the Windigo and the wind.”
“Thank you, Henry.”
The old man touched Cork’s chest with the flat of his hand. “Mangide’e,” he said. Be courageous.
Molly was waiting for him on the lake. She already had her skis on. As Cork clipped his boots onto his skis, he said, “Come on, I’ll race you back.”
She beat him by a hundred yards and at the Bronco turned to him scolding, “It’s those coffin nails you smoke.”
“No,” Cork replied as he came up to her. “I just liked the view from behind,” and he kissed her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small gift Meloux had given him.
“What is that?” Molly asked.
“A little bit of root from a wild pea plant.”
“What for?”
“It’s supposed to be a lucky charm for a man in a dangerous situation. It’s supposed to ensure that everything turns out for the best.”
She looked at him carefully. “Cork, are you in some kind of danger?”
“Meloux seems to think so.”
“But you don’t?”
He put the charm back into his pocket. “If I am, I don’t know why.”
“The Windigo thing you told me about in there. Is that for real?”
“Just an old myth,” Cork said. He released the clips on his skis and stepped out.
“Old myth.” She glanced back toward Crow Point. “Something made that kettle jump.”
“Do you know what a tchissakan is?” He could tell by her blank expression she didn’t. “It’s an Anishinaabe magician. It also means juggler. It’s a person who can juggle the elements of our world and the world of the unseen. Sometimes a tchissakan communicates with the dead. Can actually bring forth a voice from the dead. So I’d guess a tchissakan is probably a ventriloquist as well.”
“Meloux?” she asked.
“There aren’t many, and Henry Meloux has never admitted to being one, but I’ve heard different.”
“So it was the trick of a-”
“A tchissakan. Probably.”
Molly looked unconvinced. She leaned to him and kissed him hard.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Like the pea root,” she replied. “For luck.”
12
Christmas lights twinkled in shop windows along Center Street as Cork pulled into Aurora. With only a week to go until Christmas, the stores would be open late. Cork spotted a woman standing in front of Lenore’s Toy and Hobby Shop. Although the temperature was in the teens, she wore only a light sweater. Cork pulled into a parking space, stepped out of the Bronco, climbed over a snowbank, and walked to where the woman stood.
“Christmas shopping, Arletta?” he asked.
Arletta Schanno glanced at him and a frown came to her pretty face. “Wally?”
“Corcoran O’Connor.”
“Sheriff O’Connor.” She suddenly brightened. “I can’t seem to remember if I’ve bought gifts for the children.”
“Here,” Cork said. He took off his leather jacket and put it around her shoulders. She was shivering.
“Janie told me she wanted a game this year. Clue, I believe. I think that sounds fine, don’t you? Clarissa says she wants a Barbie doll, but she has so many already.”
Janie was thirty-five and lived in Baltimore. She worked for the post office there. Clarissa taught high school geography in St. Paul.
“How about a ride home, Arletta,” Cork offered. “I just happen to be going that way.”
“I don’t know,” Arletta Schanno said. A distressed and helpless look clouded her face.
“I’ll bet Wally would like to help with shopping, don’t you?”
“Wally’s so busy.”
“Not too busy for Christmas shopping. Come on, let’s go home.”
Cork urged her gently into the Bronco and drove to the Schannos’ house. Wally Schanno opened the door, and
