Вендиго

THE WENDIGO

УДК  372.8 
ББК  81.2 Англ-93 
 
Б68

ISBN 978-5-9925-1693-7

Блэквуд, Элджернон.

Б68     Вендиго / Э. Блэквуд : книга для чтения на английском языке. — Санкт-Петербург : КАРО, 2023. — 
320 с. — (Horror Story).

ISBN 978-5-9925-1693-7.

Элджернон Блэквуд — английский писатель, путешественник и мистик первой половины XX века. Основоположник жанра хоррор, он оказал влияние на всех современных 
писателей этого жанра. Последователи и поклонники признают в нем мастера мистической истории с привидениями. 
В сборнике представлены самые завораживающие тексты Блэквуда. Каждая история со своей особой атмосферой, 
каждая захватывает читателя и заставляет сомневаться в 
том, что реально, а что нет. Автор погружает читателя в мир 
непознаваемых, древних и таинственных сил, где нет места 
здравому смыслу. Реальный мир в его произведениях постоянно соприкасается с волнующей тайной и необъяснимым 
ужасом.
В книге представлены неадаптированные полные тексты повестей на английском языке.

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ-93

© КАРО, 2023
Все права защищены

The Wendigo

I

A considerable number of hunting parties were 
out that year without finding so much as a fresh trail; 
for the moose were uncommonly shy, and the various 
Nimrods returned to the bosoms of their respective 
families with the best excuses the facts of their imaginations could suggest. Dr. Cathcart, among others, 
came back without a trophy; but he brought instead 
the memory of an experience which he declares was 
worth all the bull moose that had ever been shot. But 
then Cathcart, of Aberdeen, was interested in other 
things besides moose—amongst them the vagaries 
of the human mind. This particular story, however, 
found no mention in his book on Collective Hallucination for the simple reason (so he confided once to a 
fellow colleague) that he himself played too intimate 
a part in it to form a competent judgment of the affair 
as a whole...
Besides himself and his guide, Hank Davis, there 
was young Simpson, his nephew, a divinity student 
destined for the “Wee Kirk” (then on his first visit to 
Canadian backwoods), and the latter’s guide, Défa

go. Joseph Défago was a French “Canuck,” who had 
strayed from his native Province of Quebec years 
before, and had got caught in Rat Portage when the 
Canadian Pacific Railway was a-building; a man who, 
in addition to his unparalleled knowledge of woodcraft and bush-lore, could also sing the old voyageur 
songs and tell a capital hunting yarn into the bargain. 
He was deeply susceptible, moreover, to that singular 
spell which the wilderness lays upon certain lonely 
natures, and he loved the wild solitudes with a kind 
of romantic passion that amounted almost to an obsession. The life of the backwoods fascinated him—
whence, doubtless, his surpassing efficiency in dealing with their mysteries.
On this particular expedition he was Hank’s 
choice. Hank knew him and swore by him. He also 
swore at him, “jest as a pal might,” and since he had 
a vocabulary of picturesque, if utterly meaningless, 
oaths, the conversation between the two stalwart and 
hardy woodsmen was often of a rather lively description. This river of expletives, however, Hank agreed to 
dam a little out of respect for his old “hunting boss,” 
Dr. Cathcart, whom of course he addressed after the 
fashion of the country as “Doc,” and also because he 
understood that young Simpson was already a “bit of 
a parson.” He had, however, one objection to Défago, 

and one only—which was, that the French Canadian 
sometimes exhibited what Hank described as “the 
output of a cursed and dismal mind,” meaning apparently that he sometimes was true to type, Latin type, 
and suffered fits of a kind of silent moroseness when 
nothing could induce him to utter speech. Défago, 
that is to say, was imaginative and melancholy. And, 
as a rule, it was too long a spell of “civilization” that 
induced the attacks, for a few days of the wilderness 
invariably cured them.
This, then, was the party of four that found themselves in camp the last week in October of that “shy 
moose year” ‘way up in the wilderness north of Rat 
Portage—a forsaken and desolate country. There was 
also Punk, an Indian, who had accompanied Dr. Cathcart and Hank on their hunting trips in previous years, 
and who acted as cook. His duty was merely to stay 
in camp, catch fish, and prepare venison steaks and 
coffee at a few minutes’ notice. He dressed in the 
worn-out clothes bequeathed to him by former patrons, and, except for his coarse black hair and dark 
skin, he looked in these city garments no more like a 
real redskin than a stage Negro looks like a real African. For all that, however, Punk had in him still the 
instincts of his dying race; his taciturn silence and his 
endurance survived; also his superstition.

The party round the blazing fire that night were despondent, for a week had passed without a single sign 
of recent moose discovering itself. Défago had sung his 
song and plunged into a story, but Hank, in bad humor, reminded him so often that “he kep’ mussing-up 
the fac’s so, that it was ‘most all nothin’ but a peteredout lie,” that the Frenchman had finally subsided into 
a sulky silence which nothing seemed likely to break. 
Dr. Cathcart and his nephew were fairly done after 
an exhausting day. Punk was washing up the dishes, 
grunting to himself under the lean-to of branches, 
where he later also slept. No one troubled to stir the 
slowly dying fire. Overhead the stars were brilliant in 
a sky quite wintry, and there was so little wind that ice 
was already forming stealthily along the shores of the 
still lake behind them. The silence of the vast listening 
forest stole forward and enveloped them.
Hank broke in suddenly with his nasal voice.
“I’m in favor of breaking new ground tomorrow, 
Doc,” he observed with energy, looking across at 
his employer. “We don’t stand a dead Dago’s chance 
around here.”
“Agreed,” said Cathcart, always a man of few 
words. “Think the idea’s good.”
“Sure pop, it’s good,” Hank resumed with confidence. “S’pose, now, you and I strike west, up Garden 

Lake way for a change! None of us ain’t touched that 
quiet bit o’ land yet—”
“I’m with you.”
“And you, Défago, take Mr. Simpson along in the 
small canoe, skip across the lake, portage over into 
Fifty Island Water, and take a good squint down that 
thar southern shore. The moose ‘yarded’ there like 
hell last year, and for all we know they may be doin’ 
it agin this year jest to spite us.”
Défago, keeping his eyes on the fire, said nothing 
by way of reply. He was still offended, possibly, about 
his interrupted story.
“No one’s been up that way this year, an’ I’ll lay my 
bottom dollar on that!” Hank added with emphasis, as 
though he had a reason for knowing. He looked over 
at his partner sharply. “Better take the little silk tent 
and stay away a couple o’ nights,” he concluded, as 
though the matter were definitely settled. For Hank 
was recognized as general organizer of the hunt, and 
in charge of the party.
It was obvious to anyone that Défago did not jump 
at the plan, but his silence seemed to convey something more than ordinary disapproval, and across his 
sensitive dark face there passed a curious expression 
like a flash of firelight—not so quickly, however, that 
the three men had not time to catch it.

“He funked for some reason, I thought,” Simpson 
said afterwards in the tent he shared with his uncle. 
Dr. Cathcart made no immediate reply, although the 
look had interested him enough at the time for him to 
make a mental note of it. The expression had caused 
him a passing uneasiness he could not quite account 
for at the moment.
But Hank, of course, had been the first to notice 
it, and the odd thing was that instead of becoming 
explosive or angry over the other’s reluctance, he at 
once began to humor him a bit.
“But there ain’t no speshul reason why no one’s 
been up there this year,” he said with a perceptible 
hush in his tone; “not the reason you mean, anyway! 
Las’ year it was the fires that kep’ folks out, and this 
year I guess—I guess it jest happened so, that’s all!” 
His manner was clearly meant to be encouraging.
Joseph Défago raised his eyes a moment, then 
dropped them again. A breath of wind stole out of 
the forest and stirred the embers into a passing 
blaze. Dr. Cathcart again noticed the expression in the 
guide’s face, and again he did not like it. But this time 
the nature of the look betrayed itself. In those eyes, 
for an instant, he caught the gleam of a man scared 
in his very soul. It disquieted him more than he cared 
to admit.

“Bad Indians up that way?” he asked, with a laugh 
to ease matters a little, while Simpson, too sleepy to 
notice this subtle by-play, moved off to bed with a prodigious yawn; “or—or anything wrong with the country?” he added, when his nephew was out of hearing.
Hank met his eye with something less than his 
usual frankness.
“He’s jest skeered,” he replied good-humouredly. 
“Skeered stiff about some ole feery tale! That’s all, 
ain’t it, ole pard?” And he gave Défago a friendly kick 
on the moccasined foot that lay nearest the fire.
Défago looked up quickly, as from an interrupted 
reverie, a reverie, however, that had not prevented his 
seeing all that went on about him.
“Skeered—nuthin’!” he answered, with a flush of 
defiance. “There’s nuthin’ in the Bush that can skeer 
Joseph Défago, and don’t you forget it!” And the natural energy with which he spoke made it impossible 
to know whether he told the whole truth or only a 
part of it.
Hank turned towards the doctor. He was just going 
to add something when he stopped abruptly and looked 
round. A sound close behind them in the darkness made 
all three start. It was old Punk, who had moved up from 
his lean-to while they talked and now stood there just 
beyond the circle of firelight—listening.