Freedom is death now, she said, her breath hot on my face. Freedom was lost to me/us long ago. Long before last litter. Long before Jane became human again. Now I alone am no more. We have become we/us, I/we. Together.
We’ve . . . merged, I thought. Become one thing. And if I cut you free anyway?
I will die. And Jane will be killer only. She blinked at me, her eyes closing and reopening slowly. Beast . . . wants to live.
Sucking a breath, I woke. Gasping. Shuddering. And I met Aggie One Feather’s eyes across the dying embers of the fire. “Your eyes glow with pain and excitement,” she said softly. “You have learned something.”
“Yeah. I have.” My eyes burned, as if I had forgotten to blink, and they had dried out. “Yeah,” I said again, breathing as if I had run for miles. If I wanted, I could be a skinwalker only, a shape-changer with only one soul, and no Beast soul, no big-cat fighting to be in charge of my future and my life.
“Do you want to talk about this?” Aggie asked.
“I . . . I want to think about it.” I had never told Aggie about Beast, about the unintentional evil that had bound Beast’s soul with mine. It was the most foul black art, according to my memories of skinwalkers, according to the things I remember Edoda teaching me before he died.
I had been without Beast once before and it hadn’t been fun. It had been difficult, a time when she was lost or hiding somewhere inside me, in the dark places of my soul. It had been troubling and lonely; I had hated the experience of not knowing where she was. Deep within me, Beast said, as if trying to convince me, I/we are better and stronger and faster than Jane is alone. Better than Puma concolor is alone. Better than mountain lion. Better hunter. Better. I/we are more. Beast is more. Angel Hayyel made us even more than we together were before.
Yeah, I thought back. Yeah. I looked at her, at her golden eyes, so like my own. Slowly, I reached out a hand and touched her face. The hair there was smooth and dense, softer underneath, near the skin, thicker and coarser near the surface. I scratched her face, up behind her jaw, and she leaned into me, rubbing her head into my palm. I scratched the base of her ears and stroked down her side, my hand closing on her thick tail, and running its long length. The tail was warmer than I expected. Beast retracted her claws and the headache eased. She released me and I stood, looking into her eyes.
“Water?” Aggie offered, holding out a glass to me. I pulled from the dream that wasn’t a dream and looked at the glass. It looked like clear water, but with Aggie one never knew.
“More drugs?” I asked.
“No. You have sweated out the toxins of hate and troubles. You need liquid to be restored.”
I took the water and drank it down. It tasted wonderful, like mountain spring water, or glacier melt. Fresh and perfect, and I could practically feel my body soaking it up. “More?” I asked, and Aggie refilled the glass from a pitcher. “Thank you, Aggie One Feather, Egini Agayvlge i in the speech of Tsalagi. Thank you for the sweat. For the cleansing. For the memories and the wisdom you share so freely.”
“The memories are your own. Wisdom is there for any who seek.”
“Seek and you shall find?” I paraphrased the Bible.
Aggie smiled slightly. “Yes. Knock and it shall be opened to you. The gift of wisdom can be found, if one wishes to search for it, and is willing to be altered by it. It is not a gift given without cost or transformation, nor one to be used lightly.” Her eyes twinkled for a moment and when she spoke, her words sounded as though she was quoting, though I didn’t recognize it. “Stand in the crossways and look, Jane Yellowrock. Search for the old and ancient pathways. These are the good ways. Walk in them, and find peace and wisdom. This is old philosophy. Ancient teaching.” She shrugged slightly. “I changed them a little. You have done well, Dalonige’i Digadoli. But I sense you have questions.”
“Yeah. One. Earlier, you—or maybe it was your mother—used the term War Woman. And once you called me War Woman. In the history of our people, what does War Woman mean?” At her puzzled look I said, “What were their—our—duties?”
“In Tsalagi society, before the white man changed who we were and are with their God and their ways, women were of great value in the tribe. We owned all property. We farmed and were in charge of all commerce. All arts and crafts. All children. Men were for use in hunting and battle and war and husbands when the winter was cold, and for as long as they amused or satisfied us. But War Women”—I could hear the capitalization of the words, the importance of them—“War Women were more. They were Beloved. Wise. Stern. Gentle. Demanding. They sat on the council of men as equals, voted in council, fought in wars with their husbands, took their husbands’ place in battle if they fell. They were strong. Fierce.”
I nodded, her eyes holding mine. And in her words I saw the promise. The memory. The equality of women in the tribe.
“In war,” Aggie said, her voice going softer, “it was important that the losses in battle be compensated. If warriors of the tribe were killed, no matter if our people won a battle or lost, those warriors had value that had to be replaced in some way. After a battle, the Tsalagi would take the same number of prisoners, scalps, or lives that they lost.”
Aggie paused, watching my face. Even more gently, she said, “Women led in the execution of prisoners. In the torture of prisoners. In the buying and selling of prisoners as slaves to recoup the financial cost of war. In the adoption of prisoners into the tribe. Such was the right and responsibility of women. As mothers. As widows. As warriors in their own right.
“There was no one more fierce than a woman avenging her husband or son.”
I closed my eyes. Understanding. Finally understanding. I felt again the hilt of the knife as my grandmother put it into my hand, too large, hard to hold. I saw the blade, bright gray steel, the same blade Edoda had used on the fish when he gave me gall to taste. I saw my hand as I reached out and made the cut in the white man’s flesh. Watched as he bucked. Heard the strangled sounds he made as my grandmother, a woman of another age, another culture, a War Woman in every way, started to train me for my life’s work—to avenge the losses of the tribe. And then I remembered the feel of the hilt in my hand as I killed Evangelina, her blood a hot flood over me.
Evangelina, who had once been something like a friend, a woman I had always respected. And who had died because she . . . had killed the innocent. Was trying to kill others. Who had broken all the laws of her own kind. No one else could have killed her in time. Had I not acted, many more might have died. I knew that. But my soul still held on to the grief and guilt, because I wanted there to have been something, anything, different that I could have done.
Hot tears coursed down my cheeks. Burning.
I hadn’t forgiven myself for either death. Not yet.
Aggie went on. “Our women celebrated the capture of prisoners. They sang and danced and joined in the torture of their enemies at the stake.” I nodded, closing my eyes, understanding, remembering, and Aggie’s voice softened yet more. “Women had the right,” she insisted, making certain that I heard and understood what my grandmother had been doing when she led me to torture and kill, “and the power to claim prisoners as slaves, or adopt them as family and kin, or condemn them to death, ‘with the wave of a swan’s wing,’ as the old words go. The right.” Her fist struck the clay floor. “And the responsibility. Sometimes . . . ofttimes . . . it sat heavy upon them.”