Gather The Bones by Jasmine Rahmel

Lost deep in the woods of Algonquin Park, they follow a curling thread of smoke, their last hope before nightfall. The air hums with something ancient, the trees close in, and the trail they left—a breadcrumb path of broken branches and cedar shavings, once meant for a fireside bundle—is disappearing behind them. By the time the sun vanishes behind the pines, Maren’s ankle has swollen to twice its size. Ansel carries her weight as she leans against him, clinging like ivy to stone. Greta carries the packs, the three of them slipping over moss-slick rock and tangled roots. The trail disappeared hours ago. Greta resents their choice to leave the path, regrets being so malleable to the whims of others.

“It will be fun,” Maren had said. They were huddled in the booth, the air ripe with the scent of stale beer and warm bodies. Trivia night always drew a crowd, and their little trio, Trivia Newton John, vied for space on the leaderboard. Competitive by nature, Maren and Ansel spit out answers, heads bowed together, with a ferocity she could not match. Greta scribbled them down. Maren’s eyes were locked on hers now, demanding confirmation.

“I don’t know… isn’t it a bit late in the season?” Greta reasoned, turning to Ansel for support. His arm was draped casually around her shoulders, but his smile was trained on Maren, face alight with mischief, as if in on a secret only those two shared. As if it wasn’t just a weekend away.

“Come on, Greta. It’ll be an adventure,” Maren said, clasping her hand.

It’s been this way since the schoolyard, the two swinging in tandem. Maren pushes her to greater heights, and Greta follows, never sure where she ends and Maren begins. Two souls stitched as one.

Spirited and spontaneous, Maren loves a challenge. The 35-kilometre loop of the Highland Backpacking Trail is rife with steep elevations, rugged terrain, and dense forests. Difficult and isolated. Maren is athletic but, today, unlucky. She twisted her ankle on a jagged root, sending her sprawling, and now every step is agony. She’s slowing them down.

Dead weight.

Ansel is charming but reckless, with eyes that roam and devour. The day they lit and settled on Greta, everything changed. When they started dating, Greta wanted her two favourite people to forge a friendship. Now, seeing Ansel’s hand on Maren’s waist, fingers grazing exposed flesh, she feels a deep ache in her stomach, a gnawing sort of hunger. She swallows her bitterness down like bile.

She hasn’t confronted them yet, but she sees the glances, the hesitation in Ansel’s voice, the guilt in her friend’s eyes. She’s been waiting for the right moment, but currently, there are more pressing matters.

A twig snaps behind them.

Greta whirls in search of the noise. The shadows seem to sway with the branches, to grow and lung in her direction. Turning back to her companions, she stumbles to keep up.

They’re closer now, the smoke thick and sweet, and Greta catches the scent of something burning—birch bark, maybe meat. They follow it, famished. When a woman emerges from the trees, Greta mistakes her for a quaking aspen, gnarled and bone-thin with empty black eyes. Solemn, the elder raises a finger to her lips and points with her staff.

The trees thin, opening onto a clearing, a hollow in the dense forest. The cabin isn’t on any map, but then it wouldn’t be. The Anishinaabe—guardians of this land—predate cartography. Three people stand waiting by the fire to greet them, unsmiling. Greta lags behind, uneasy. Around the fire-lit clearing, carved wooden talismans of skeletal figures hang from the trees. A totem pole stands on the edge of the forest, worn leather straps hanging from its sides like limp limbs.

“You’re just in time,” says the eldest man, who introduces himself as Makwa. He stands tall and gaunt, clad in fur-lined leathers, his long grey hair tied back. “We’ve brewed something for tonight.”

#

They sip birch sap mead from carved wooden cups, sweet and earthy, tinged with a bitterness that curls the tongue. Greta drinks to be polite. Ansel, to show off. Maren sips and stares into the fire as if it might keep the pain away. A young woman named Wabigwan—flower—young and pale, offers aid with silent urgency, applying a salve and wrap to Maren’s ankle. She is hollow-cheeked and dressed in a white tunic streaked with pine pitch beneath her furs. The elder woman, whom they call Nokomis, watches silently from her pine perch.

Meat cooks on a spit, suspended over the flames. The scent of its smoky, bacon-like aroma makes Greta’s stomach growl. Their fourth host, Migizi, a broad, silent man, slices into it as an offering. They feast together. The meat oozes, the juices running down their chins. Migizi opens his mouth to chew on another piece, and Greta notices the stub of his missing tongue. Her stomach churns.

Greta takes a long sip to wash it down and feels the warmth spread through her chest. It blurs the edges of her thoughts, a seductive heaviness settling in her bones. Around her, the others drink greedily: their faces flushed, eyes growing dilated, lips pulled into wide smiles. Ansel’s laugh is too loud, like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. His face is inches from Maren’s, his breath warm on her ear. Maren’s eyes are wide. Her lips part as if to say something, but all Greta hears is the erratic rhythm pounding in her chest.

Once all is consumed, silence settles. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees stirs the totems, like secrets whispered. A deep sense of dread weighs her down.

Their matriarch breaks the silence. Knuckles knotted by arthritis, she points an index finger at Greta and speaks. “The woods do not give freely. You must give something back.”

And then, she invites them to play.

#

The Hollow people gather around the fire, pinning them in. The firelight bends and flickers unnaturally, casting shadows that stretch too long, reaching for her in strange, liquid movements.

“Gather the bones,” Nokomis commands.

Greta’s pulse quickens, but she feels detached, the world distorted.

“We honour the hunger tonight,” Makwa says, lifting a cloth bundle. The scent hits her: Burnt earth. Rot. Something rancid.

“A game,” says Wabigwan. “Six bones, six fates.”

They pass the pouch. One by one, the bones are drawn.

Makwa begins, drawing a bone marked with an eye: the Bone of the Witness. Migizi pulls a bone engraved with a dagger. As the Bone of the Blade, he must wield the ceremonial knife. Wabigwan selects a bone marked with a chalice, the Bone of the Vessel. She must prepare the sacrifice. Nokomis stands back, overseeing the ritual. She does not draw.

The trees bend inwards, closer to the clearing, something moving among them. A cold shiver runs through Greta. It’s their turn.

Ansel goes first, pulling a bone carved with a tiny tree. The Bone of the Forest—he can leave unharmed. He whoops with glee, his smile faltering when he looks to his right. Maren’s hand trembles. She pulls a bone carved with an open ring. The Bone of the Offering. Her face drains in shock. The others murmur in approval. Greta looks at her in panic, but Maren’s eyes dart to Ansel.

“This is bullshit,” he says in an uproar. The bile rises in her throat again.

Greta is the last to choose. When she uncurls her fingers, her bone bears a crown. Makwa leans close, breath thick with cedar. “She who draws the Decider may name the one to take the place of the Offering.”

“Choose someone else,” Ansel urges, pointing to the others, always quick to decide. Maren, tears streaking her face, pleads silently for mercy. Greta won’t look at her. Instead, Greta considers their hosts. A lifetime of sacrifice and pain etched across their long, drawn faces. The Hollow People. She shakes her head, mute. She can’t do it.

Ansel bends for Maren, but she pushes him away. She won’t leave Greta. The Hollow People step forward, blocking his path. They speak of an old evil who watches from the trees, of a balance they must maintain. One of them must stay behind. It’s her choice. Greta finally looks at Maren. An understanding passes between the two women.

The air tastes of decay.

Ansel grabs Greta’s wrist, whispering, “Let’s go.” When she doesn’t move, he straightens. “Fine, I’m out of here,” he says, turning for the treeline, and Greta knows then. Knows he will leave them both. Her fingers close around the bone, digging it into her palm. Greta breathes in the cold, ancient air and speaks.

“No. I choose him.”

The Hollow People pause—then nod. The wind shifts. The trees creak.

Something is coming.

#

Ansel laughs like it’s a joke until his eyes meet Greta’s.

“Why?” Ansel demands to know.

“Why her?” is Greta’s only reply. The look of comprehension on his face seals his fate. Maren sobs out of relief—or grief.

It all happens quickly: the Hollow People move like a current around Ansel, lifting him as he flails and swears. Ansel screams as they drag him to the pole. Hands shaking, Makwa ties the knots. Wabigwan pours the mead laced with datura down Ansel’s throat to numb him, and then she marks his forehead with ash. Into his chest, Migizi carves the symbols of sacrifice. Maren sobs, unable to move. Greta watches in frozen horror.

When all is done, the Hollow People step back, make room. A drumbeat starts, deep and bone-rattling, as Nokomis hums and chants. A presence stirs. The trees bend and crack as something enormous descends upon them. Something ancient scraping against bark. And then it steps into the firelight, towering, with sunken eyes and emaciated limbs. The Wendigo, its flesh striated with rot, antlers black with age, eyes burning with starvation. Its face warps—for a moment, Greta sees Ansel’s reflection in it.

The creature lunges, tearing into flesh. Ansel’s cries turn to gurgles. The Wendigo’s breath is rot, its putrid stink enveloping the hollow. Its eyes burn like cinders. It does not kill cleanly—it feasts, devouring the man she once loved as if flesh is memory, and it meant nothing. A wet smacking sound reverberates in its throat, accompanied by the crunch of bone beneath teeth. The Hollow People bow their heads as it strips flesh from bone. All but Makwa, who must bear witness, horror painted across his face.

Without removing his gaze, he speaks urgently under his breath to Greta.

“Leave. Now.”

Greta grabs Maren, throwing her friend’s arm over her shoulder, and together they run. As they stumble back into the dark, the wind carries a voice—Ansel’s voice, but wrong, warped and hungry. They pick up speed, crashing and crying through the forest, a symphony of wails. By moonlight filtered through the trees, Greta attempts to follow the cedar trail she laid. But even if they make it back, Greta already knows she will always be stuck in these woods.

Not all who survive are spared.