Chapter 16

 

 

The old man coughed and spat on the ground. It was time for action. Hadn’t he made his decision? Hadn’t he already started the ball rolling? What a funny Anglo term. But then wasn’t most of the white man’s language full of strange-sounding words with stranger meanings? A language that can be written down loses its power. A language spoken from one person to another is not open to interpretation and misunderstanding. But, it should be noted, a language written down lives on forever; it doesn’t die with the speaker. Wasn’t that important?

Yet, the printed page can’t gesture, or yell, or show anger. It can’t really intimidate or induce rage. But do the young people today really care? Do they study their heritage by listening to the stories of the elders? Will they pass those stories onto their children? Perpetuate history in the only true way practiced for centuries? An oral tradition must have participation if it is to continue in truth. The printed page can lie.

But these musings weren’t getting him closer to a plan. He must anoint a follower, the one to take his place someday. What had been passed from his great-grandfather, grandfather, and father to him must stay in the family. He had been groomed from an early age; the parameters laid out, the secrets shared. Tested, again and again. He hadn’t disappointed. But now, a stumbling block after a long life of service.

He had trusted but hadn’t picked carefully the one to inherit his powers. He excused the brashness of youth, the inattention to detail, as things that would improve with age. But that wasn’t happening. Repeated visits by tribal police gave rise to suspicion and distrust. Drinking, sex with underage girls, unchecked advantage taken against the less fortunate—these were the traits of a weak leader. Or no leader at all.

A Skinwalker could never be laughed at—never, and retain his powers. He must be feared, not because of baseless threats but because of supernatural powers that gave him an understanding of human need, and the ability to command fealty. He had to make decisions, wield evil, not to receive personal gain but to mold a tribe of peoples to stay within their boundaries and adhere to rules.

As painlessly as possible, he would demote his appointed, take away the promise of greatness but leave him in a position of deputy, a faithful follower. The lesson would be a stern one, life-altering and not soon forgotten. And not appreciated. His replacement? Young, malleable, bright, a superior understanding and talent when working with animals. Originally, he’d thought the supreme sacrifice and rite of passage into the brotherhood of Skinwalkers for the young man would be the challenge of killing his horse. With a lack of sibling or other family, he knew this animal was his support. It would have been an acceptable substitution.

But now a young friend had entered the picture. Someone his chosen had grown fond of and treated like a brother. This would be the ultimate sacrifice. His protégé would kill this pretend-sibling. It was the right decision.

He had looked into the eyes of this newcomer and saw a purity, a naivete, that qualified him for a mercy killing without malice. But his death would elevate his friend to a position of power and service. An honorable death, one his spirit would be proud of.

But first, he must figure out how to lure the young men away from their home. It could not arouse suspicion—cause the father to suspect foul play. Ah, if the deities were listening, a path would be shown to him. He only had to wait and be patient. For the first time in a very long time, he felt right about this choice. He had a clear vision of the future and knew a long tradition was in safe-keeping. The Skinwalkers from his family line would continue.