Walking Wolf by Nancy A. Collins Read Free Book Online Page A

identify as a patent medicine whose main ingredients were alcohol, bloodroot and laudanum.
    As I said before, the Reverend was a big man and, despite my status as a Comanche brave, I was still a youth of fourteen, and a rather slight one at that. While I had years of bareback riding and strenuous living on my side, the Reverend was a good six inches taller and outweighed me by at least fifty pounds. Bellowing like a wounded bull buffalo, the Reverend grabbed me by my hair and threw me roughly to the ground, planting his booted foot on the back of my neck.
    Why did I not shapeshift, you ask? While I could have easily killed him in my true skin, this was something I did not want. After all, it was my bloodlust that had driven me to seek the help of Whites in the first place. What good would it do me to make myself a pariah amongst them so soon? So I kept my human shape and took the punishment the Reverend meted out.
    â€œHonor thy father and mother!” he shrieked as he worked to remove his belt. “I’ll have no sassin’ me in this house, young man! No back talk! No misbehaving! You’ll do as I say and like it!”
    I winced as the belt came down across my bared buttocks, the buckle biting into my flesh, but I refused to cry out in pain. It came down again—and again—and again—until my ass streamed blood, but still I remained silent. His rage apparently spent, the Reverend let the belt drop from his numbed fingers and staggered over to his cot, where he sat for a moment, staring at me without seeming to see me.
    â€œSin no more,” he mumbled, although I was uncertain whether this admonishment was directed at me or not. With that, he promptly closed his eyes and keeled over. He was snoring before his head touched the cot.
    I slowly got to my feet, grimacing in pain. However, I knew my discomfort would be fleeting. I had discovered I possessed miraculous recuperative powers years ago, when me and a fellow brave were trampled by a wounded buffalo during one of the hunts. The brave I was with died within hours of massive internal injuries, drowning in his own blood, while I was up and about the next day. More important than my physical state, however, was the emotional situation I now found myself in.
    I had suffered a humiliating physical insult that, in Comanche society, would have called for the death of my attacker if I was to reclaim my dignity. On the other hand, the Reverend Near, as far as I could discern, was a holy man of sorts, not unlike Medicine Dog. Which meant that he had access to hidden knowledge and was thereby worthy of respect. And it is well known that shamans of great power are often quite mad, prone to fits of violent, irrational behavior. And those who wish to learn from a shaman must suffer ritual debasement to prove themselves worthy …
    I searched the room until I found the pair of scissors Reverend Near had abandoned during his frenzy. I looked at them for a long time, then at the Reverend, snoring away fully clothed on his cot. Then, without any hesitation, I reached up and snipped off my remaining braid.
    My time with the Reverend lasted three months, and every moment remains vividly etched in my memory. For the longest time, I had no idea whether my so-called “spiritual father” was a holy man or a raving lunatic. Since I had nothing to compare White society against except the Comanche way of doing things, I was at something of a disadvantage.
    During our frequent “tutoring sessions,” which consisted of the Reverend reading aloud certain passages from the Bible and a pamphlet called “What Every Good Boy Should Know,” two things were stressed: that it was a dire and mortal sin to touch oneself below the waist, and it was an even worse sin to have someone else touch you there.
    The Reverend also advised against strong drink, calling it “the devil’s blood.” However, this prohibition did not extend to his own