Rebel

by Zoë Archer

  The wolf stirred and began to push out. It climbed through him with the heat of its being. Hunt. Run. Chase the moon. Mate.

  He stared at her, still a little afraid.

  Astrid gave him the smallest nod of encouragement. In her face, he saw acceptance, trust. Not only of him as one who could change into an animal, but acceptance of the gift he was about to bestow upon her.

  Warm, moonlit mists enveloped him as the wolf sprang forth. It shaped his body. Fur, paws, teeth, ears, tail. Not pain, but the hard, swift change of his bones, his muscles. As the mists dispersed, he threw himself forward. His paws hit the ground.

  He and the wolf became one.

  He looked around. This was the same world, and entirely different. Filled with scent and sound and life. He could smell it now, the scent of the Earth Spirits, dark and rich, beckoning.

  He started toward it, then stopped and turned to Astrid. She stared at him. There was no disgust or fear in her face. Only wonderment. Humility. And ambivalence. She was not certain she wanted his trust, the intimacy, but he had given both to her.

  She took a step closer. He crossed the distance. Her scent enveloped him, her woman scent, her flesh, and even the smell of himself on, and in, her. In this form, the combination of him and her together lured, made him demanding, far more possessive than he ever knew himself to be. He rumbled.

  “Nathan?” She held out her hand to him.

  He pushed his head into it, and growled to feel her fingers in his fur. Experimentally, he licked her hand and growled again to taste her this way.

  “Can you find them?” she asked, voice slightly breathless.

  He gave a small chuff of confirmation. He had no voice—and felt its loss. He wanted to tell her what it felt like, what new explorations there were behind the senses of a wolf.

  “We must go,” she said. “Before it grows too dark for me to see.”

  He softly barked an assent. Even enfolded within the beast of the wolf, it pained him to watch Astrid hoist up the other pack with obvious effort and not be able to help. Some rules of society were too deeply enmeshed to be lost. When at last she gained her balance, she said, “Lead. I will follow.”

  Her words set him free. He bounded forward, drawn by the scent of the Earth Spirits, feeling the ground beneath him, the joy in running and tracking. The man receded. The wolf came forth. Around him were the mountains and forests and millions of other animals and insects all living and breathing together in the oldest rhythm, of which he was but one small pulsation. It felt right, impossibly right, to run with Astrid. To have her close, sharing the true core of himself with her. Only she understood, only she could run with him in both his form as a man as well as him as a beast.

  He felt her. He took in the stories around him. A doe and her fawn had passed this way. A young wolverine, on the cusp of maturity, had hunted nearby. Squirrels chattered to each other in alarm to see a wolf out during the day. He had no way to tell them it was not prey he sought, but his own history.

  He leapt over grasses and rocks, splashed lightly through a creek, drawn forward by scent. This was what he wanted, for all those years in Victoria, lying awake at night and curling his hands into fists to keep from throwing open his window and leaping out to run through the darkened streets and on into the wild.

  “Nathan!”

  He whirled around. Astrid struggled to keep up, not only on her less swift human legs, but also carrying two heavy packs and her rifle. He trotted back to her.

  “Be mindful of your speed,” she gasped. She wiped one sleeve across her damp forehead.

  His quiet whine was apologetic, but she smiled her cautious smile.

  “Keep going,” she said.

  He did, but reined himself in enough that she could keep pace. The scent was stronger now, its demands insistent, so that to keep himself in an easy lope rather than breaking into a flat run was a struggle. They took a steeply pitched rocky slope, him moving straight down, her with more careful switchbacks. The slope led into more forest of spruce, ancient trees taller than he had ever seen, whose branches interwove to form thick canopies. Their dried needles under his paws released sharp scents of longing and remembrance. He could taste it as he panted.

  Close. He was so close. The path was before him. He had but to follow it.

  He didn’t know how it happened. He was pushing onward, deeper into the forest, acutely aware of everything surrounding him. But he didn’t hear, see, or smell the animal ahead until it blocked his path.

  A massive bear, standing on all four legs, easily four feet at the shoulder. A female. He’d never seen a larger animal. Nor one so powerful. The size of her jaws alone ensured crushed bones. Her shaggy russet fur was tipped golden along her shoulders and back, but her straight, sharp claws held his attention. One swipe could gut a human.

  Even though he could hear Astrid behind him, he had to glance back to ensure she was safe. Her eyes were fastened on the bear, her posture straight. She held her arms out, as if to make herself appear larger, as she began to move slowly backward.

  “A grizzly,” she murmured to him. “It may think we’re coming between it and some food. Or cubs. Just back away. As slow as you can.”

  He didn’t know how a wolf might fare in an attack on a bear, but if the sow charged Astrid, he’d find out. Like hell would the bear reach her.

  Something of the man prevailed, because he forced himself back. The bear stared at them, snorting, squinting, not entirely aggressive, but staking her claim on the path. There was a rustling sound behind the sow.

  “Oh, my God,” Astrid whispered.

  Two more bears appeared, males, even larger than the sow. They lumbered up beside her, making guttural growls, heads hanging low in challenge.

  He growled back. He wouldn’t survive taking on all three, but he could give Astrid some lead. She could drop the packs and run. She had to know that a bullet could not stop these bears, not unless her aim was perfect, and he wouldn’t let her take that chance.

  “Nathan,” she breathed, “adult grizzlies are solitary.”

  That made no difference to him now. His only thought was how to inflict as much damage as he could before the bears killed him. He took a step forward. Then stopped.

  A wolf trotted out of the forest, followed by five more wolves. They ranged in size, but they were all full grown, all focused on him and Astrid, all making low rumbles of warning. The wolves arrayed themselves in front of the bears in a semicircle.

  Several screeches overhead brought his attention skyward. Red-tailed hawks circled, easily half a dozen in number, perhaps more. They flew lower and lower, gliding through the tree branches, eyes sharp, talons ready.

  He crouched low, growling, baring his teeth, readying himself to spring.

  When something brushed his neck, he snarled, then caught her scent. Astrid placed her hand on his neck as she stood beside him.

  He wanted the power of speech, to shout at her. Get back, he thought savagely. Run.

  “Wait, Nathan,” she whispered. Then, louder, she said in Nakota, “We are friends.”

  He realized she was addressing the gathered animals.

  Every one of them, bears and wolves, approached. The hawks made a final circle, then landed on the ground nearby.

  It swept over him suddenly. A surge of power, of energy, beginning with the bears and then rippling outward to the wolves and hawks and then beyond. Even Astrid felt it, her fingers tightening in his fur. He lost his snarl and could merely stare, amazed.

  He had only felt the change in himself, never seen it in others. The forest filled with power as bears, wolves, and hawks lost their animal forms, silver mists swirling around them, as they reshaped themselves. One after the other.

  The female bear transformed herself into a tall woman with long, dark hair that swept over her bare shoulders. Beside her, the male bears took on the forms of large, powerfully built men. The wolves and hawks shifted and shimmered until they, too, reshaped into men and
women, all of them lean and strong, their dark copper skin marked with scars from wounds new and old. No one wore clothing, but that did not lessen the fury sparking in their dark eyes, the threat in their postures.

  The woman who had been a bear stepped forward. Her eyes were obsidian wrath.

  She spoke a dialect of Nakota, yet he understood her words without trying. And wished he did not.

  “Traitor,” she said to him. “You have brought a human, a white human into our sacred lands. For this, you both must die.”

  Chapter 8

  The Earth Spirits’ Judgment

  Astrid looked from face to face, searching for one who might be, if not an ally, then perhaps less hostile. She found none.

  Under her hand, she felt Nathan change. A warm mist swirled, the fur at her fingertips shifted to smooth skin, and then he stood in front of her as though to shield her from the Earth Spirits. She was the one who was armed, but still, he guarded her, sending a challenging glare to the assembled shape changers, fists ready, posture poised to spring into a fight.

  “I am one of you,” he said in the Nakota dialect the woman had spoken. How he knew to speak it, she could not fathom, but, then, she had just witnessed nearly two dozen animals change into human form, so this mystery was less urgent. “We mean no harm.”

  The woman scoffed. “How can you say that? You have brought her,” she gestured toward Astrid, “to our territory, violating our secrecy. No white man or woman has ever seen our kind before.”

  “I have not seen our kind before,” Nathan replied angrily. “I have come here to seek answers, and she—”

  “Is your mate,” said one of the men who had been a wolf. He said the word “mate” as if it were a curse.

  Astrid fought her flush, realizing they could likely smell Nathan all over her, the scent of their sex.

  “She is my friend,” Nathan shot back. “And she knows more of magic and medicine than any of us. She helped me to find you.”

  “All the worse,” the woman sneered. She nodded toward the men who had been bears. “Hold them, and we will take them to the village.”

  The men approached, faces stern, hands ready to grab them. Nathan snarled, priming to attack.

  “Wait,” Astrid whispered urgently to him in English. “If we are taken to the village, we’ll speak with the chief.”

  “And run the risk that he’ll kill us? I’d rather fight.”

  “Nathan. There are too many of them. We’ve no chance here.”

  The men came forward and seized their arms in unbreakable grips. Nathan growled at the man holding her, but Astrid sent him a quick, warning look. His growls subsided into low rumbling, and he looked as though he wanted to tear out someone’s throat.

  One man took her knife, rifle, and revolver. However isolated this tribe was, they knew about firearms.

  Without any further words, the group of Earth Spirits turned and began walking farther into the woods, Nathan and Astrid their captives. Some of the wolves carried their baggage. As they walked, her mind raced. What could she say to convince them she and Nathan were not threats? That the bigger threat might be only a day or two behind? She would not allow herself to contemplate Nathan’s death at the hands—or claws or talons—of his own people.

  It was a little odd, being the only dressed person in a group of two dozen. Yet the Earth Spirits were unconcerned with their nudity, and Nathan was not self-conscious. She felt, in fact, out of place and awkward in her clothing, as though the construct of clothes was foreign and unnatural.

  They wove deeper into the forest, down snaking trails, no one speaking. Her sense of direction had always been good, but she could not reckon where they were or how she might navigate out again. Perhaps a glamour further shielded their village. She remembered, suddenly.

  In her coat was her Compass.

  What had possessed her to take it from her cabin? No Blade was ever without their Compass. It was their prized possession. Even though it held no magic, all Blades cherished and protected their Compass, the signifier of their important role as guardians of the world’s magic. She could make her way without its mechanical assistance, but she had taken it when abandoning her cabin. Why? Did she still consider herself a Blade?

  The smells and sounds of village life reached her before they entered a wide clearing. And the strong reverberations of magic. She smelled smoke and heard voices, the nicker of horses. When the group came around a sheltering bend, she gave a small start. She was not certain what to expect from the Earth Spirits’ village, but what she saw now had been far from her mind.

  Despite the powerful, invisible emanations of its magic, the normalcy and ordinariness of the village surprised her. Hide tepees grouped in clusters. A rough guess numbered them around two hundred. And surrounding them were the perfectly normal routines of Native life. Women cooked and dressed hides, some with babies strapped to their backs. Men sat or stood in clusters, talking. Children played with dolls or tiny bows and arrows. Everyone was dressed, though some of the men were shirtless and wore only breechcloths, and a few women wore simple tunics rather than longer, more elaborately decorated dresses.

  Only one thing truly distinguished this village from any other. Grizzly bears and wolves wandered freely, while red-tailed hawks circled and roosted. Astrid observed a woman talking to a huge bear. Two wolf cubs wrestled with a few children. A hawk landed on a man’s outstretched arm and handed him a small fish.

  As the group of shape changers and their captives neared, everyone abandoned whatever task they had been performing to stand and stare. Both Astrid and Nathan garnered the same amount of attention. While they were being pulled through the village, voices murmured together, some shocked, some angry, many curious. Even the bears, wolves, and hawks stared, several changing into their human forms to whisper to people nearby.

  If she hadn’t been concerned for her life and Nathan’s, Astrid would have been fascinated. She longed to study these unique people, live among them and experience their world. But they were determined to keep themselves veiled, and while she could not fault their reasoning, she feared it would mean her and Nathan’s deaths.

  They were dragged before the assembled crowd and shoved forward. Both she and Nathan stumbled but remained standing. The crowd parted to allow a man to step forward. The chief, as evident by his eagle-feathered headdress. Yet this muscular man wore only a breechcloth and no moccasins.

  “What is this, Yellow Bear Woman?” he demanded of the bear woman. “These strangers should be dead by your claws.”

  “He is an Earth Spirit,” Yellow Bear Woman answered. “Yet he brought a white woman to our lands. The honor of killing traitors belongs to our chief.”

  The chief seemed mollified by this response. He pulled off the headdress and handed it to a warrior. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he loosened his breechcloth and almost instantly transformed into a massive charcoal-colored wolf. No one, not even the other Earth Spirits, had changed so quickly.

  The wolf approached them, golden eyes narrowed but tail straight, ears forward. His hackles bristled. A dominant. No one would usurp him. A growl started in the back of the wolf chief’s throat. Astrid could not help staring at his enormous, gleaming teeth. A single bite would tear her or Nathan open from throat to belly.

  Nathan answered the chief’s growl with his own.

  The crowd gasped. None had ever challenged their chief. Yet here was an interloper, a rebel, doing just that.

  Nathan bent low, readying himself to transform into his wolf.

  “Don’t,” Astrid warned, low.

  He sent her a rage-dark glance. “I’m not going to let this bastard just rip us apart.”

  “But you cannot speak as a wolf.”

  “Neither can he.”

  “You’re also an attorney,” she pointed out. “Argue our case, and maybe no one will be disemboweled.”

  He looked as if he was about to fight.

  “There are only two of us, and dozens of th
em,” she hissed. “Even if you kill the chief, we’ll be dead.” Still, he hesitated, preferring action to words. “These are your people, Nathan,” she added. “Prove it to them.”

  Nathan scowled, but gave her a small nod. He stepped forward, rising to his full height. He was not especially tall, but he imbued himself with presence, so that none could look away from him. “Hold, Chief.” His voice held so much authority, such confidence and strength, even the chief fell silent.

  “Look around you,” Nathan said. “At the faces of everyone here.”

  Amazingly, the chief did so. He gazed about, at the gathered crowd.

  “These are your people,” Nathan continued. “Your tribe. Since you were born, you have known them. You have seen many of them birthed and many die. And they will continue to come into the world and leave it, with you as their chief, secure in the knowledge of who they are and what it means to be both human and Earth Spirit. Though the outside world may not understand you, you understand yourself, your history, your birthright.”

  He slowly moved toward the chief. “Imagine, if you can, what it might mean to be taken by strangers. I remember the day I had to say good-bye to my mother, when the white men came to my village and said I had to go with them. She didn’t want me to see her cry. She wanted me to be brave. She gave me a little wooden dog and said it would watch over me when I was far away. But when I got to the school, the teachers said the dog was heathen, and they made me throw it into the fire.

  “Imagine,” he continued, “if you were raised by people who were not your own, taught that the ways of you and your ancestors were savage and unworthy. Never knowing your parents, your home. And, all the while, you know that it is more than the color of your skin that divides you from everyone else, but something deeper, something held far within yourself that you cannot understand. It would destroy you, if you let it.

  “So you fight,” he went on, and Astrid, too, was held captive by his words. “You battle so as not to despise yourself. And you grieve for something that has never been yours.