Walking Wolf
Page 16
I raised my hand in a feeble attempt to grab her ghost and make her stay, but it was no use. She was gone. In her place were two shadowy, indistinct figures that moved just outside my field of vision. One stood upright while the other moved on all fours. They seemed uncertain—hesitant—then the one that stood upright stepped forward, kneeling beside me. It was a woman, her hair the color of gold, her scent warm and familiar. I lifted my head and tried to get a better look, but her features remained fuzzy and indistinct.
“Mama?” I whispered.
The second figure made a snuffling noise and my mother reluctantly pulled away, following my father into the dim haze of the afterlife.
I woke up to the sound of something digging at the snow that covered me. Opening my eyes, I found myself muzzle to muzzle with a lone timber wolf. When I groaned and moved, it danced away, watching me warily from a safe distance as I climbed out of my frozen tomb. My pelt was scorched, I had more broken ribs than whole ones, and there was a bullet in my hip, but outside of those injuries, I was relatively unscathed. The timber wolf, recognizing me as being an unnatural thing, quickly quit the scene.
After extricating myself, I started digging out the ruins of the cabin with my bare paws. I did not find Witchfinder Jones’s body, nor did I find the shirt made of our father’s pelt. However, I did manage to locate the tobacco pouch made from my mother’s left teat. I also found six silver bullets, laid side by side in the snow.
Chapter Twelve
I took what was left of my Ma and cremated it. I spent the rest of that winter in my true skin, fending for myself as best I could, shunning all company, human or otherwise. During that long, cold, lonesome season I traveled so deep into grief and madness I must have come out the other side. In many ways, after Digging Woman’s death, I was a changed man. Or werewolf, if you will.
When I returned to sanity, it was to find the world I once knew no longer existed. Hell, it had started to disappear long before Sitting Bull’s death. Since all my friends and family were dead, I saw no reason for me to hang around, so I struck out West. I eventually made my way to California and settled in the San Fernando Valley. From there I stood still as the years raced past, like a rock in the middle of a swift-running stream.
I have seen fortunes made and lost—dynasties rise and fall. I’ve watched the White Man’s magic expand beyond all known boundaries. Electricity. Antibiotics. Moon flights. Genetic engineering. Atomic energy. Indoor plumbing. I still don’t trust them, of course. They’re all still crazy. Maybe even crazier than before. But I have done well for myself, buying and selling tracts of land over the decades under various names and holding companies. No one would ever guess my wealth by looking at me or my house. I live modestly—some would almost even say humbly. I’ve discovered that it pays to keep a low profile when one does not appear to age. But, then, the modern era’s penchant for plastic surgery has provided me with convenient camouflage for the last few decades.
I have made it a point to avoid other vargr as best I can. They suffer from the same madness that afflicts the Whites. Not surprising, considering they sprang from the same continent. As for Witchfinder Jones, I believe he walked away from the battle in Clubfoot Charley’s cabin. Although it’s hard to imagine anyone surviving such a wound, my elder brother is one tough bastard. As much as I still hate his guts, I can’t deny him that.
But what is left of him, now that his frontal lobes are chopped into mincemeat? Can he remember who he is or—more importantly—what he is? Is he still an infernal engine of retribution, hunting down the monsters whose lives he so envies? Or has he been reduced to drooling in his beard, selling pencils on a nameless street corner? Or is he finally at peace with himself, settled down with a family of his own?
It’s been more than a hundred years since we last met, and I have yet to catch sign of him, although I have had ample opportunity to witness the atrocities of others of his misbegotten clan. Hitler, Manson, Dahmer … The past century has been rife with the bloody misdeeds of the esau. Yet, I still keep an ear cocked for the sound of his tread on my porch. Creatures such as my brother do not give up the hunt lightly. Nor do they forgive.
Maybe it is time I went out looking for him. Sitting down and writing out all the things that happened to me as a boy has made me nostalgic for the open spaces I once knew. It’s been a long time since I wandered the countryside as I did as a youth. Digging Woman’s newest incarnation is only six years old. It’ll be some time before I can properly reintroduce myself to the latest version of my wife. I’ve got the time, the opportunity and the money to wander if I so choose. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I like it. It is time for Walking Wolf to stride the plains once more.
What will I do if I find my long-lost brother, you ask? Will I forgive him his trespasses and embrace him as my only living kin? Or will I show him the same mercy he gave my wife and child? And there is the matter of our father’s pelt to be resolved.
I ask you, dear reader—am I my brother’s keeper?
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All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Nancy Collins
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1537-0
Distributed in 2015 by Open Road Distribution
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