Skin of the Wolf

by Sam Cabot

  “No! Your science is a deception. Science can’t explain the Gift the Creator gave us.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “No. You’re deluded. You’re blinded by the white world as you always have been. Gata, come back to us. Stay here and help me teach. Help us free the people. Your science—all right, then use your science. Use it for us, for the people. Use it to find the children. And the adults, the Shifters who don’t know their Power.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You can! Help us show the world our strength. Once it’s known people have Shifted, more will come. Some won’t be Shifters but they’ll be medicine men and women, able to learn the Ceremony, able to go home and perform it on their own lands. Think of it! Think of how you feel in your wolf-self. Think of hundreds, thousands of our people, feeling that way! We’ll be strong once again. Mighty and unstoppable.”

  “Unstoppable.”

  “Yes! And united. The nations together. The dream of so many grandfathers, we can create it. This land that was stolen can be ours again. The Shifters will lead. The people will follow. Brother, stay. Help us take back what was ours, so that something more than ashes and dust can be passed to the children.”

  “Take it back? You think you can turn back history? You think you can drive the white man back over the ocean?”

  “With Shifters leading, so many from all the nations, with our Power not hidden any longer but shining in the sun—yes. We can. We will.”

  Michael stared long over the field, and Edward, hope warming his heart, stood silent beside him. Finally Michael spoke. “People will die. Edward, Ivy Nell had a dream.” Edward attended as his brother recounted Ivy’s vision: deer, eagles, but something wrong with them; and fire.

  Worry subsiding when the story was over, Edward said, “That’s already been. Abornazine told you. Four times at the Ceremony, responses but not complete Shifts. I’ll hide nothing. Two died, brother. Two survive but cannot complete their Shifts and cannot recover their first selves. These were tragedies, but with the mask this won’t happen anymore.”

  “And the fire?”

  “The Ceremony is done at a fire. Our fires have been large.”

  Michael shook his head. “People will die,” he said again, harder this time. “Three already have. Edward, you’ve trained, you’ve learned, but last night you killed in anger. You say you weren’t thinking clearly. How can you expect the newly Awakened, wrenched from the lives they’ve known and drowning in new scents and sights and sounds—how can they think more clearly than you did? People will die and people will go mad. What you’re doing will end in disaster for the nations, the people you love.”

  “It will end in victory. In honor.”

  “Honor? No. Your heart knows this: your wolf-self killed that woman, but it was your man-self who wanted her death. Thousands of men and women with the powers of their animal forms, intoxicated with the Shift, and with the violent hearts of their man- and woman-selves—don’t you see the calamity of it?”

  “The Creator made us—you and me, brother—made us men with the powers of wolves. We must use those powers—the Power—to free our people.”

  “Our people can’t be free until the white man is free, too.”

  “The white man is the jailer!”

  “And the jailer is also in the jail. Do you know why we were given the Power? What I think?”

  “What, brother? What do you think?”

  “The wolf, the eagle, the deer—the animals, they’re better than men. They kill for food, but not for sport, or in anger. They don’t poison the water or ruin the land. Shifters know both lives, both ways of being. We can lead, as you say, but not by force. Our task is to bring an understanding of the way of animals to men. Not to give men new ways to kill and ruin.”

  “And so what would you do? Find the children one by one? Train this one, teach that one, over the years while Mother Earth sickens and dies?”

  “Mother Earth will live. We can cause great damage, but in the end if we can’t live in peace with the earth, the earth will survive and we’ll be gone. Yes, I want to find and teach the children. They can learn. They can bring peace. What you’re doing will cause catastrophe. Tahkwehso, please. Stop this.”

  Edward stood in the wind, feeling nothing at first; then icy disappointment began in a place deep within him, replaced almost immediately by a fiery rage. “Don’t call me that. Call me by the name I’ll take. Call me Ohtahyohnee.”

  “‘Ohtahyohnee.’ Is this your dream?”

  “The name should have been yours. But I’ll wear it proudly.” Edward felt his shoulders tighten and his thighs tense to spring. The sight and scent of his brother enraged him. “You’ve deserted us, Michael. Gata—that’s the joke! You were never prepared. You fled from your duty, from your people, as soon as you could run. I can’t look at you. Leave this place.”

  “I’ll stay until I persuade you.”

  “Then you’ll die here.”

  Michael stood, facing Edward, feet apart, head high.

  Edward’s vision started to fade, his hearing and sense of smell to sharpen. His skin stung, his blood raced. Choose now, he told himself: stop this Shift, or let it happen. He smiled, baring his teeth. Always, they had a choice. But since the end of their childhood days, when Grandfather had demanded they stop the Shift, over and over, learning to control it, since the time when the exhilaration of inhabiting his wolf-self, his ancient, fierce, unconquerable self, had been denied him, over and over, and he was made to sit and learn prayers and incantations while the sounds and scents faded and the dreary, limited world accessible to human senses grew to choke him once again—since those days Edward had never, ever, made the choice to stop.

  He’d Shift, soon, here in the wind and the cold. But he had another choice. His injured brother stood before him, obstructing his path as he intended to obstruct his work. Truly they were estranged now, all hope lost. With one spring, Edward could make his own words come true. Or he could turn his back before the fury inside him grew too powerful to control.

  Michael spoke. “Don’t, Edward. Stop the Shift. Talk to me.”

  Edward saw nothing but crimson fury, heard nothing but his own thunderous howl. He leapt and slammed into Michael with all the power roaring through him. For a moment he stood over his fallen brother, whose face was full of pain but who made no move to rise. Their eyes met and locked. Another howl tearing from his throat, Edward turned and raced toward the trees.

  44

  Livia Pietro was walking up the slope, trying to comprehend what she’d seen in the shed, when the wind brought new sounds: an argument inside the house. Even her Noantri hearing couldn’t make out the words from this distance but the timbre of anger was unmistakable. Three voices, and she thought one was Michael’s. Of the others, one sounded similar to his, a man of his own age; the third had the pitch of an older, weaker man. The voices rose, warring. Then they stopped. The door opened and Michael stalked out. She could see his rage in the length and speed of his stride. She veered to go to him but checked herself when another man burst out the door. The wind streamed his long hair out as he loped up the hill. Michael slowed and the other fell in with him. They walked together, stopping at the top of the bluff, both looking toward the river. They were arguing. She saw that in their tense stances, heard it in the angry snatches of conversation the wind brought her, now that she was nearer: We were young. There isn’t time. Please, listen. And then: Don’t call me that.

  Their fury grew, and something else, a change in the other man. Nothing Livia could see or scent but it was surely there. She started toward them and wasn’t fifty yards away when the long-haired man, howling, threw Michael to the ground and stood over him, quivering in rage. Livia sprinted with Noantri speed. She was almost there, ready to grab him before he could reach down and do Michael more harm but he didn’t reach down at all. He howled
once more and took off running toward the trees.

  Livia bent over Michael. “Are you all right? Is that Edward?”

  “Yes.” But as Livia stood Michael said, “Don’t go after him. He’s Shifting.”

  “He can’t hurt me.”

  “He can.” Michael leveraged himself to a sitting position. “Maybe he can’t kill you, but he’ll hurt you badly. Like he did Spencer.”

  “Spencer wasn’t prepared. I can protect myself and subdue him.”

  “He won’t let you. If he can’t kill you, he’ll fight until you kill him. Please.”

  “Michael,” Livia said gently, “if he killed that girl, if he’s willing to kill me, he’s dangerous. I’m sorry but we can’t just let him go.”

  “I know that. But please—let me find the way.” Michael stood slowly, gripping his left shoulder. For a long time he stared into the woods where his brother had vanished. Then he turned and walked forward on the bluff, to a place on the edge. Livia followed. The silver ribbon of the Hudson flowed below.

  Looking down, Livia asked, “What do your people call it?”

  “Cahohatatea.” Michael stared silently for a time; then he slipped his hand into his jacket and brought out a small brown pouch. He spilled some of the contents into his palm: tobacco, she saw. He replaced the pouch and held his hand out, open, letting the wind take the tobacco. Eyes closed, he started to chant low, under his breath. Livia stood transfixed. She found no meaning in the words and she wasn’t sure there was any, as such. Michael’s deep voice seemed to sing the notes of the wind in the trees, the rhythm of the river curving through the valley. The sound and the pulse hypnotized her with wonder.

  She wasn’t sure how long Michael’s song lasted. When it was over he opened his eyes, lowered his hand, and slowly sat. From the edge of the bluff he looked out across the trees and the river. Livia sat beside him. For a long time in the cold wind, Michael didn’t move.

  Finally, with effort, he rose. “Will you come?”

  “Of course.”

  She walked with him back to the house. He tried the door. It was unlocked and she followed him through a wide entry hall to a study in the back. Like the hall and the other rooms she saw through open doors, the study was furnished with Native artifacts, some of them very old, all of them very fine. Peter van Vliet clearly had not just money, but discerning taste.

  The study, though full of beautiful pieces, was empty of people. Michael stopped at the door, then walked past the desk to the French windows, looking out at the bluff they’d been sitting on. He and Livia both turned when a voice came from behind them. A young woman in a flannel shirt asked, “Dr. Bonnard? Are you looking for Abornazine?”

  “Where is he?” Michael said.

  “I don’t know. He left.”

  “To go where?”

  “He didn’t say. Or when he’d be back, either.” The young woman smiled. “I’m sure you’d be welcome to stay.”

  Michael gave a small, cold smile. “Yes,” he said. “I’m sure I would.” He strode past her and Livia once again followed him, out the door and down the hill, to the car.

  45

  I want to look at that shoulder again,” Livia said as they neared the car. “And don’t tell me you’re fine.”

  “I’m not fine. The damn thing is killing me. I wish I’d gone looking for a healer.”

  “Where? You mean, here? There are healers here?”

  “According to my brother, yes.”

  “You want to go back and find one?”

  He shook his head and didn’t say anything more. She briefly kept her silence, for which he was grateful; but what was he expecting? That she’d be content to be his driver and leave him to—to what? What was he hoping for, what was he going to do?

  He looked back up the hill, at the house, then turned again to the bleak woods where Edward had disappeared. Wearily, he got into the car. And of course Livia wasn’t content. Even an Indian, consumed with the questions she no doubt had, would have had trouble staying quiet. As the car crunched down the long drive, she asked, “Did you find out what it’s about? Why all those people are here?”

  Michael thought he saw a gray shadow moving among the trunks and branches, keeping pace with them. Near the main road he lost sight of it. “Yes,” he said.

  Livia waited again, then asked, “Can you tell me?”

  He changed position, which did nothing for the pain. “It’s so . . . Telling you goes against everything I was taught.”

  “I understand that. Believe me, I know how hard that is. But whatever’s going on, I think you need us, Michael.”

  He wished it weren’t true. All his training rebelled against sharing this work—whatever that turned out to mean—with anyone. And with white people? But it was what he’d heard on the bluff, in the voice of the wind and the words of the river, when he’d asked for counsel: Accept the hand that’s offered. This is not a task for one man alone. And if two of the people offering hands weren’t quite—or were more than—human, and the third was a wide-eyed Jesuit priest, did that make a difference? Surprising himself, Michael laughed.

  Livia threw him a glance. “Something’s funny?”

  “Among my people, pretty much everything. It’s how we survived. The stories say the Creator likes to hear us laugh and we honor him when we do it.” The car turned onto the main road, the growl of gravel replaced by the soft whirr of asphalt. “I said I thought Edward wanted the mask because he’d identified another Shifter. A child who’d need to Awaken. I was almost right, but in grad school we used to say ‘almost’ blows the lab up. He hasn’t identified anyone. He needs the mask to do the Ceremony wholesale. They’ve been doing it that way already. Fifty, sixty people at a time. To Awaken any Shifters among the people here. That’s why these people have come.”

  “I’m not sure I understand. These people are all Shifters?”

  “No. Some of them may be. They all apparently hope they are.”

  “And Edward can do the Ceremony? I thought Shifters weren’t the ones who did it.”

  “We’re not. He can’t. Peter van Vliet claims he can. He’s the one who’s been doing it.”

  “And? What’s happened?”

  “Van Vliet and Edward both say they’ve had four ‘partial successes.’ Two people died, Edward says, and two had incomplete Shifts. I don’t believe it, though. The Ceremony—it’s mesmerizing. Most likely what happened is, someone, some people, got carried away. Thought they felt something they didn’t feel. Tried to fly, who knows what? And Edward and van Vliet thought they saw something they didn’t see, because they wanted to see it.”

  “Maybe,” Livia said slowly. “But I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean?” Michael asked, but his heart knew. He felt no surprise, just a growing, icy dread, as Livia described what she’d seen in an outbuilding on the edge of the horses’ field. When she was through he sat silent for some time; then he said, “As we were driving up. In the trees—I said it was a deer. I was lying to myself. That’s what I wanted it to be. It was a woman, wasn’t it?”

  Livia nodded. “I think so. Naked, lithe, and frightened. She moved like a deer.”

  Michael let out a long breath. “Damn it. Oh, goddammit. They’re right, then. Edward and van Vliet. They’ve had Shifts. But they’re incomplete. The Shifters can’t control it and they can’t go back.”

  “Shifters.” Livia’s voice was quick with excitement. “Then there are more. More than just you and Edward. And they’ve found them.”

  Her words echoed in his head: there are more. Others like him. He felt it, too, that excitement. Up that hill behind him, Indians, from the West, from the South, Mohawk and Sioux, Navajo and Seminole, native people of this land, the small tattered remnants of great nations. So many now with nothing left, no land, no language, no clan, no culture. But they had this: they had th
is gene.

  He’d been right. This was his proof. The results Edward and van Vliet had achieved were disastrous, but they weren’t failures. This was the empirical evidence his research needed. These were the experiments he’d never have done. The deer-woman in the woods, the eagle-man in the shed: they were his corroboration. He’d been right.

  Almost, in his exhilaration, Michael wanted Livia to stop. Let me out here, he nearly said. Let me go back. These are my people. Doubly so. I’ve been asked to stay: I’ll stay.

  But they’d reached the edge of town, were rolling down the main street, past the butcher shop where the kid had asked, “What’s going on up there?” If he had known, Michael thought. The heat of his excitement dissipated, revealing the ice in his spine that had not left him since Livia’s story of the shed. No. They had to be stopped. Their results weren’t failures. But they were disastrous.

  Livia pulled the car into a parking spot. “Wait here.” She got out, and he sat and watched the people on the shopping street of a pretty town, a pretty white town, where Indians were sports teams’ mascots, or war-paint-wearing primitives battling cowboys in some mythical long-ago.

  “Here.” Livia got back in the car, handed him a large coffee and a bottle of aspirin.

  Again, he laughed. “It’s that obvious?”

  “You’re dead on your feet.” She peeled back the top on her own coffee. “And I’m freezing.” She started the car, steered through the town back to the highway. “Michael, talk to me. Other Shifters: this is what you hoped for. You told us that. And in case it wasn’t obvious, it’s what Spencer and I hoped for, too.”

  “That was clear.”

  “All right. Your brother’s found them. What do we do now?”

  The coffee was old and bitter but she’d sweetened it with honey, thickened it with cream. “I wish,” Michael said, “I wish we could celebrate. But even disregarding the three deaths they’ve already caused: if they succeed it’ll be catastrophic. In a lot of ways.”

  “How? If they can identify Shifters—”