Free Skin of the Wolf by Sam Cabot Page A

Spencer, I didn’t think there was anyone like you at all.”
    Spencer spoke in a voice that was quiet, hopeful. “Michael? Will you tell us your story?”
    Bonnard sipped his brandy, looking across the room, to the window, to the dark night. “My people say stories have lives of their own. They know when they’re being told, and why.” A long silence settled. Just when Thomas was beginning to think Bonnard wouldn’t go on, he said, “We’re twins, Edward and I. Fraternal, not identical. To look at us you might not know we’re related. But we both have the Power. Shapeshifting, in English. You’d call us werewolves, maybe, I don’t know. We have a word in the Abenaki language but it doesn’t matter. We’re almost gone.”
    “The Abenaki?” Spencer asked.
    “No. Though Edward and I didn’t grow up on Abenaki land. Our father was Mohawk. The reservation we grew up on is a Mohawk one, that’s the language we speak. But the Shifters. The Shifters are almost gone.”
    “There are—few of you?” Thomas heard a sad note in Spencer’s voice. Bonnard must have caught it, too; he looked almost apologetic when he nodded.
    “I think it’s one reason Edward hasn’t killed me yet. He hates me. But without me, he’d be alone.” Bonnard finished his brandy.Livia reached across and poured him more. “The Power seems to be genetic. It’s not clear why some children inherit it and some don’t, but I imagine it has to do with a cluster of genetic requirements.”
    “And are you saying only the Abenaki have the gene? Among the indigenous people?”
    “You can say ‘Indians,’ Spencer. We do. I told you that.”
    “And I’ve told you, it doesn’t sound right coming from my mouth. ‘Indian.’”
    “Sounds fine to me.”
    The men’s eyes met, and Thomas could have sworn he saw Spencer George blush. That, he decided, called for more brandy.
    “Anyway, no,” Bonnard went on. “My— The research is very new, so a lot of this is still hypothesis, but the gene seems to be widespread throughout the tribes. Not common, but widespread, like other genetic anomalies—somewhere between albinism and left-handedness, say.”
    “But if that’s so, why are—”
    “There’s another component. You have to be born with the gene, but the Power’s not automatic. You need to learn to use it. To bring about the Shift you have to create a specific, precise emotional state in yourself. A resonance, a pitch, like a tuning fork. It’s almost impossible to do without being taught. It can happen in flashes by accident, especially when you’re young, and it’s a spectacular feeling—like a cocaine high times ten. You’re invincible, tireless, afraid of nothing. You feel the astounding change to your senses in your animal form. Once you’ve felt it, you want it again, and again. But without teaching and practice you can’t sustain it. Some people, the stories say, can never reliably do it, even so. Edward always found it easy. For me it’s much harder.” He waved the brandy snifter to indicate himself, exhausted, blanket-wrapped. “And it always wipes me out.”
    “How is one taught?”
    “There’s a ceremony. An Awakening, it’s called. It’s remarkably similar across tribal cultures, and not much else is. That says to me it can’t vary much or it’s not effective. It involves music, chants, dances, certain objects. Ritual objects. In the past, most tribes had someone who could perform it, or if not, a neighboring tribe did. A medicine elder. Not a Shifter—it’s dangerous for a Shifter to even be there.”
    “Why is that?”
    “A lot of the training goes into learning control. It’s a knife-edge in any case. Like driving too fast. Like downhill skiing. You almost
want
to lose control. To see how far you can take it. The Ceremony is designed to draw the Power from a Shifter who doesn’t know he’s got it. To hear the chants, see the dances again once you’ve learned—the stories say it can drive a