Walking Wolf (10 page)

I learned that what I was, in truth, was a species of being known as a metamorph, a creature who could take the shape of man or beast at will. I also learned that there are many different kinds scattered all over the globe. There were the
kitsune
of Asia, the
naga
of India, the
birskir
of the Arctic Circle, the
anube
of the Nile, the
bast
of Africa, the
silkie
and
undine
of the North and South seas … and the
vargr
of Europe.

My particular clan, the
vargr,
are wolves. And, according to Sundown, they were the most successful and aggressive metamorphs on earth. Europe had proven a fertile home for their packs, and many had come into power in the world of man as popes and kings and warlords, albeit in their human guise. In fact, the
vargr
had proven so successful they had expanded their original territory and begun to traveling into the New World. The
vargr,
like the Europeans they had tied themselves so closely to, were champion exploiters and imperialists.

“That is how you came to this country, my young friend,” Sundance explained. “No doubt your sire was a
vargr
who traveled to this country in search of unmarked territory, intent on breeding his own pack. And, from what little you've told me, he was unfortunate enough to place his den too close to those familiar with werewolves. Still, I must admire his courage in coming to this new world!

“While our peoples have warred with one another over dwindling territory and supplies in the Old Country, the
upir
have always held a grudging respect for the
vargr.
And, in this open country, I do not see any reason for such Old World animosities to continue. We are strangers in a strangle land, wolf-son, surrounded by humans.”

All of this information was heady stuff for a kid my age. Bear in mind, although I was almost seventeen years old—which is fairly young, even in human years—by
vargr
standards I was little more than a pup, still wet behind the ears, with feet I had yet to grow into. For the first time in my life, I began to truly think of myself as something besides a man. While I had been aware of my difference, my
otherness,
from an early age, I had also been raised human and taught to act human and respect the customs erected by humans.

Still, despite my embracing my
vargr
identity, there were some taboos I could not bring myself to knowingly break, the strongest of which was the deliberate taking of human life and the eating of human flesh.

About a week after Sundown and I first teamed up, we came across a small hunting party of Apache braves. There were four of them, huddled around a small campfire. Three slept wrapped in blankets, while a fourth stood lookout. We watched them for a few minutes from atop a nearby rise, then Sundown climbed off his horse and began heading toward the camp.

“Where the hell do you think you're going?” I whispered.

“I'm going to go down and pay my respects.”

“Are you mad? The Apaches don't like anyone who isn't Apache—and they
especially
hate Whites!”

However, my warning was to no avail. By the time I'd finished my sentence Sundown was gone, swallowed up by the night. Seconds later, the Apache serving as lookout staggered backward, clutching at his throat. As he stumbled, he succeeded in firing his gun once, but it was too late. Sundown flitted amongst the hapless Indians like the shadow of a bat, killing them before they even had a chance to realize they were in danger.

I hurried down the side of the hill, still too stunned to do more than gape at the carnage in front of me. The smell of fresh blood was heavy in the night air, causing the dead Apaches' ponies to whinny nervously and paw the ground with their hooves.

Sundown stood in the middle of the camp, his pale face dripping crimson. Now that the hard part was done, he was taking his time, going from body to body, draining the dead and dying warriors of their blood before it had a chance to coagulate.

“I saved you one,” he said, gesturing to a butchered brave he had yet to drink from. “I know
vargr
like their kills fresh and juicy!”

I stared at the dead Apache. My stomach growled and I began to salivate. Suddenly my mind was filled with the images of how I snatched poor Small Bear's liver from his bleeding carcass, and how I tore open Flood Moon's lovely, soft throat with my bare hands. I turned my eyes away from the freshly slain brave in self-disgust.

“Go ahead! What are you waiting for—?” Sundown urged as he knelt beside his second victim. “They don't get any better with age, my friend!”

“I'm not hungry.” It was a lie. My stomach was growling like a sore bear, but I could not bring myself to knowingly partake of human flesh.

Sundown shrugged his indifference and resumed his feeding. “More for me, then.”

A few days I was riding Erebus, leading one of the ponies we'd taken from the Apache camp, when I saw some Comanche framed against the horizon. Although they were too far away for me to make out their clan, I knew they were following the buffalo, gradually making their way towards the Brazos River.

I reined Erebus to a halt and watched the cloud of dust stirred up by the hooves of the hundreds of ponies herded by the young boys of the tribe. So many horses together signaled that this was a wealthy clan, one that had won many ponies through successful raids against the Whites, Spanish and other Indian tribes. A handful of braves broke off from the main group and headed my way, whooping and waving their lances and shields, but I did not move. As they approached, I recognized their clan markings as those of the Penateka, my old tribe.

The braves were young and fierce, eager to show their contempt for the Whites. They rode their ponies around me in a tight circle, giving vent to war cries that would have chilled the blood of a true White Man. I sat quietly on my mount, watching them impassively. After a minute or two of shrieking and waving rifles and axes at me, they fell back. A young warrior rode forward. Although he was no older than myself, his hair was already plaited with the eagle feather of a sub-chief.

At the sight of the grim-faced Comanche, I suddenly grinned and lifted my hand in ritual greeting and called out in their tongue: “Good day, Quanah!”

The sub-chief seemed taken aback and blinked, frowning uncertainly. His eyes narrowed as he studied my face, only to widen in recognition a moment later. “Walking Wolf! My brother!”

Laughing loudly, we climbed down off our mounts and embraced one another in front of the perplexed young braves. After a few moments of pounding each other's backs, Quanah turned to his fellows and pointed at me.

“This is my brother, Walking Wolf! The one I had thought lost to me!”

The braves muttered amongst themselves, and I could tell by the looks that passed between them that stories of my being the living hand of Coyote were still being circulated around the campfires.

“How have you been, Quanah? Is your father, Peta Nocona, well?”

At the mention of his father's name, Quanah's face darkened. “My father is dead. The season after you disappeared, Rangers came and stole my mother and baby sister from the camp. Peta Nocona tried to stop them, but it was no good. He died in the Antelope Hills from the wounds the Rangers gave him as he fought to save his wife.”

“That's a shame, Quanah. Peta Nocona was a good chief. What of Eight Clouds Rising? Is he well?”

Again Quanah shook his head. “He died of the pox last season, along with Little Dove and many others in the tribe.”

Now it was my turn to look sad. Eight Clouds might not have made me, but in all the ways that counted, he had been my father. One of the braves called out to Quanah, pointing in the direction of the main body of the tribe. A young boy riding a spotted pony pulling a drag was coming our way. Quanah smiled and turned back to me.

“It looks like Medicine Dog has seen your return.”

“Medicine Dog? He's still alive?”

“The Great Spirit will not allow him to die, at least that is what he claims,” Quanah said with a shrug.

The pony drew up beside me, and I could see the withered form of my old teacher huddled on the litter, wrapped in blankets like a grandmother. He turned his ancient face toward me and spoke. “Greetings, Walking Wolf. You have been a long time gone.”

As I stepped forward to reply, I could tell that the old shaman's remaining eye has joined its twin in darkness. “Greetings, Medicine Dog. It is good to see you.”

“It is good to see you too, Walking Wolf. Although I see you with the eyes of my heart, not with the shriveled things in my head.”

“How are you, Medicine Dog? Do you still council the tribe?”

The old man shrugged. “In some things I am consulted. The older ones still come to me for advice. More and more, the younger ones turn to Coyote Shit in such matters. He is the shaman now.”

“Coyote Shit?”
I couldn't believe my ears. I'd known Coyote Shit from when we were boys—he was always coming up with harebrained schemes that ended up landing those foolish enough to go along with him in trouble. Perhaps the years had changed him, but I doubted he had half the vision with two good eyes that Medicine Dog had with none.

“You sound surprised, my son,” Medicine Dog said, a sly smile on his lips. “Do you doubt Coyote Shit's ability?”

“The Penateka are making a mistake.”

“Perhaps. You shall be able to judge for yourself in a moment or two. Coyote Shit is coming.”

I glanced up and sure enough, there he was, riding toward the little band gathered around my horse. He looked pissed. Someone must have told him that old Medicine Dog had gone out to join Quanah. I'll give him one thing—he knew how to make a show of it; he hopped off his horse without waiting for it to come to a full stop and pointed his coup-stick at me and thundered, “The White devil brings evil medicine!”

Quanah—who always had a low tolerance for Coyote Shit's antics when we were boys—rolled his eyes. “This is not a White devil, this is my brother, Walking Wolf.”

Coyote Shit's face darkened as the other braves laughed. “That may be so, but I say he carries bad medicine! If you doubt my word, ask the old man.”

Quanah looked to Medicine Dog, shrouded in his blankets. “Does he speak truly?”

Medicine Dog nodded. “Coyote Shit does not lie. Walking Wolf carries death with him.”

Coyote Shit pointed to Sundown's leather sleeping shroud, lashed to the pony drag hitched to Erebus. “The evil lies in here!”

Quanah looked at me inquisitively. It was now up to me to explain myself. I decided to come clean.

“I carry with me a White Man who is dead during the day and walks at night. He drinks the blood of the living—both animal and man. He hunts them as you hunt the buffalo, in order that he might survive. He is very old and very wise, in his way. I wish to learn from him—but to do so, I must serve him in this fashion.”

Quanah eyed the leather bag, obviously trying to decide whether or not he should do something about its contents. “This living dead man—does he drink the blood of the Comanche?”

“He prefers the blood of settlers and Apache.”

Quanah mulled this over for a second. “Then I guess it is none of our business. If this dead man only drinks the blood of our enemies, we have nothing to fear.”

I glimpsed Coyote Shit, out of the corner of my eye, hunkering down and poking at the leather shroud with his coup-stick, as if trying to raise hornets from a nest.

“Stay away!” I snapped, allowing my
vargr
face to surface for the briefest heartbeat.

Coyote Shit yelped in alarm and scuttled backward on his hands and heels. I could tell, first by the look on his face, then by the smell, that he had soiled himself. This amused the assembled braves, who had a good laugh at the young medicine man's expense. His face burning with shame, he strode back to his mount, doing his best to maintain some semblance of dignity amidst the catcalls. If I hadn't known him to be a pompous fool with delusions of grandeur, I might have felt sorry for him.

“I must go, Quanah,” I said. “I have far to go. And I do not want to be close to where the Wasp Riders will make camp when it grows dark.”

Quanah grunted and nodded. “Perhaps you will return to us some other day.”

“Perhaps,” I replied.

With that, my old friend hopped back on his pony and led his band of braves back in the direction of the tribe. Only Medicine Dog remained.

“So—what do you think of Coyote Shit, now that he is grown?” the old man asked.

“He's a fool!”

Medicine Dog shrugged. “Perhaps he is a holy fool. All I know is that the tribe would rather heed his words than mine.”

He pulled a leather pouch out of the tangle of blankets and shook it. I recognized the dry rattle of thunderstones—the fossilized bones of the great beasts that once wandered the plains in the time before the White Man even dreamed of this land. Medicine Dog was looking into the future.

“Coyote Shit is a small man who would walk in big shoes. What vision he has is dim, and he is too proud to allow his sight to grow. And in the end, his medicine will be false. He will lead the Comanche into the killing corral. Not within my lifetime. But soon.”

“And what about me? What do the thunderstones say about me?”

Medicine Dog stopped shaking the bag and shrugged. He frowned, and his withered eyes seemed to grow moist. “They say you still have much to learn. Much to see. Much to suffer. And they say you will not see me again. Goodbye, Walking Wolf.”

“Goodbye, Medicine Dog.”

The boy astride the pony clucked his tongue and it started away, hurrying to rejoin the others. I watched the old blind man sitting stiffly on the drag, facing backward, clinging to it as he was pulled across the plains, until he was swallowed by the dust on the horizon.