dannydmc

While Sigismund lay, wounded and weak from the Wendigo's bite, he feel into a deep slumber. So tired was he from the battle, that he did not stir all night, even while the clouds descended and covered the land with a thin coating of white snow. This fluff, fell upon his prone form, melting with the heat of his skin, and gently washed the grime from his wounds.
All the while, the hero dreamed. He dreamt of his Father, embracing him as he had done as a boy, and congratulating him for his victories. He dreamt of the Chippewa people lavishing him witth gifts for ridding the northern realm of the curse which had fallen upon it so long ago. More so, however, he dreamt of lovely Winona, his bride to be. She came to him, the sun radiating from with her, and lay her hands upon his hurts which were then healed. She then nelt down and began to cover his face with the sweetest kisses he had ever known!

He awoke, when the great Sun first peaked its face up from under the horizon; a lone wolf was gently lapping at his face.
Sigismund let out of a groan of suprise and fright; the wolf paused in its chore, let out a howl, and lept away from the fallen man. It dissapeared into the brush and gave no more sign that it had ever been there; so lightly at the beast trode, that it had not even left prints in the freshly fallen snow.
Despite his pain and weakness, the hero grabbed a low hanging branch from the tree and began to pull himself up right, when he suddenly heard a commotion from the brush. For a panicked second, he was sure that the wolf had gone and retrieved its pack, and the group planned to make a meal of him yet.
But such fear was for nothing; within seconds a human figure came from the brush and let out a call to others. Soon a dozen of Sigismund's men came rushing into the clearing. Seeing their fallen leader, they ran to give him assistance, but he begged them off.
"I have fought against a demon, and have won; I think that that has earned me the right to stand on my own two feet!"
Slowly he pulled himself up and stood erect and tall in the morning light. Finding one of his hatchets lying in the snow, he grasped it and began to walk towards the form of the slain Wendigo, which still lay bloodied and buckled under the boughs on an old tree; obscenely splayed on the forest floor.
The men mutered as they saw the creature; they backed away slowly from it, unwilling to assume that their foe had finally been conquered by death.
But Sigismund did not back away; he strode closer. Kicking the form with gently with his good leg, he convicned himself that the beast was dead. And then, raising the hatchet above his head, he brought it down and neatly cleaved its head from its neck. A new gush of putrid ichor flowed from the wound onto the snow, where it froze into a blackish-green puddle.
"Come", Sigismund said, bidding his men to step forward, "This head is our trophy; a sign of the great victory that we won here last night. No longer will this craven beast hunt the Northwoods and feas on the flesh of men! Now, take this head and carry it with us; Winter has come, and we have no camp to dwell in this season; we need find a place to hold up."
The men took the head, passing it back and forth amongst themselves, each unwilling to hold it for more than a few minutes. In this way they made their way down from Timm's Hill and to their tents below. There Sigismund found a large oaken trunk and had them toss the head inside, where he safely locked it away from prying eyes.

They broke camp later that day and began their trek; they found their way to the small hamlet of Spirit which lay near by. There they found rooms at a local inn, and stayed there all winter, making themselves useful to the local town folk to pay for the room and board. However, they spoke not a word about their adventures in the forest, or the beast they had slain; the Wendigo's skull lay safely locked away during that entire time, and no one was allowed to see it.
They stayed in Spirit all winter long, until the snows had melted and the the green grass grew anew upon the fields, and the trees once again sprouted new bud-leaves. At that time, Sigismund had a dream where he was visited by Winona, his beloved. He heard her singing a song, lightly as she walked along the shores of Old La Pointe where here people were camped.

She Sang: "Oh when will I wed, and wear a ring
Drink the draught or desire fulfilled
I long for my lover, my Lumber-man
To take me to the trees, to treasure me
No field-sower, No farmer for me
I long for the love of my lumber man"

At hearing these words, Sigismund awoke with a start and knew that the time for rest had ended. He Gathered his men and they made the long trek, Northwards, to the Chippewa camp at La Point.

Of their journey, the Ballads have this to say:

Awaking in wonder, and wasting of love
Sigismund forsook tiny Spirit-town.
With his loyal lumbers he labored Northward
To old La Point the Pine Prince came
To find his fianc and feel her embrace
To marry that maiden, and make her his wife.

Gitchie-Gumi the glorious waters
Heard of the hero and his happy-quest
Saw him speeding with his storied band
And gave him a gift, granted his prayers
Her waters welcomed the Wendigo-killer
And carried his craft of kindly seas
Baring his birch-barks to the blissful shores

The gulls also graced the great warrior
They took his tale and told them to
The friendly folk who favored Sigismund
And the beautiful bride who bade him near

When the birch backs beached on the shores
And the Lumber lord leapt to the sands
The heavenly the Huntress hasted to his arms
Sigismund smiled then sank to one knee
"Oh, magical maid of the misty wood
She who holds my heart in her very hands
To beseech your to be my bride and wife.:
I've felled the foe who froze the souls
Of many men, mighty in courage
But it brings me, no brilliant joys.
If you'd receive my ring, wrought by Wheland,
I'd promise my princess, to ply my blades
'gainst any goblin, great or small
No more. To make her merry and light."

The forest fey, favored Sigismund
And kindly kissed the courageous knight
Laying her lips lightly upon
The forest man's forehead, and smiled
A smile so strong, it seemed the sun
Burnt and blazed no brighter than that!

"The minds of men are a mystery to me!
They go to their graves with a gallant shout
Waging their wars, worrying of nothing
Their lives meaning less than loyalty and honor.
And yet, they yelp, in yellow fright
Their tails tucked between trembling legs
When faced with the frightful and fearsome thought
Of a little lass, loathsome with rage!"
The green grasses grew as she laughed.

"You fear I'll fail, to fulfill my vows
And abandon my bonnie, for bravely doing
That job which brings joy to his heart?
A wicked woman, my warrior thinks me!
No, Blond Beard was bred for the trees
To log the lumber and lay low his foes.
My heart it his, and happy I wish him!"

Then Sigismund smiled and stared to her eyes
Made of the emeralds of Mother Nature.
"Winona is a wonder; it hurts to gaze
On this green goddess whose glance could
Hurl me to hell, with a hurtful word
But bravely I'll bound to the bed of marriage
To flee that fate, is fearsome indeed!"

Then raising a ring of rosy gold
He placed that precious promise-band
On her fairest finger, with formal grace
"My heart it hungers, for Hurit alone!
I'll desire this damsel til my days are done
Where once we were two we walk as one."

Then that dazzling doe dropped to his arms
"The sound of my soul is Sigismund's name
My blood beats to be by his side
'til my death day, I'll desire no other
Where once we were two we walk as one".

Then the couple kissed, with careless abandon
While the birds blessed their bliss with song
The winds whispered their wild laughter
And the Giver, glowed in the gloomless sky

Then the saw-men sang their songs with glee
They drank draughts of dream-water, gold
Caroling their king with cutting songs


But, sorrow always lurks in the old songs. Perhaps the fact that men lived larger in those days, experiencing such great joys and excitements, meant that their sorrows were magnified as well. For, although Sigismund's greatest victory was behind him, his fall still lay in the future. And so, we are told:

But behind the belting of the boisterous song
Weird was weaving, it wove its tapestry
That loom of life never lingering
Pitiless, unpausing; its pace never slowing
Foretelling the fall of the Forestman
Killed by his kindred in compassion and love

But that tale's best told another time I feel
When blood is boiling and begging for songs
Of fearless families, and fearsome villains
Of sorrowful sons and sordid beasts
Of weeping wendigos and willful fate

So, lets listen here to the laughter and song
Taking our turn with tankards of beer
Dancing 'til dawn, and drunk with merry
For fickle is fate, and fleeting is joy
It should be shared; should it not?


And yes; believe it or not: To Be Continued