A/N Don't own, please don't sue. This idea's been a bug in my ear for a few days, finally purged it with words and writings. Has not been beta'ed, so I apologize for any errors. Thanks to Gledwyn for the Indian character ideas. This is my first POI story, and the first time I've ever used anything non-canon/AUish/mystic/supernatural in a story so I'm very interested in people's opinions of it. I hope you like it, and any and all reviews are welcome.
Halfway between Fort Worth and El Paso on US 180, John's car overheated, gasped and stopped. It had had enough. To be honest, he's had enough too after 30 hours of straight driving from New Rochelle, without stopping for more than food, gas, and to empty his bladder. His muscles ache from sitting in the same position for so many hours, but he knows he's still got it better than Brad Jennings, who has been in the car's trunk the entire trip.
It's just after one in the morning. The night is a moonless one and the sky is light up with stars. The road is completely deserted. It's been at least thirty minutes since he's seen another car. The last thing he needs is a good Samaritan stopping to offer some roadside assistance, not with his unwilling passenger.
After pulling the lever to pop the hood, Reese grabs a flashlight out of the glove compartment and steps out of the car. He gives the engine a cursory examination and determines that if he waits an hour or so, it should be cool enough for him to continue journey. He closes the hood and hears the barest whisper of sound from directly behind him. Whipping around as he draws his gun, he finds himself pointing the barrel at a small, dark shape on the road about twenty feet in front of the car. It takes him a moment to realize he's looking at a fox, and the barest hint of starlit sheen on the animal's pelt shows that it's one of the rarer silver variants.
John Reese stopped counting the number of people he'd killed long ago, but he's never intentionally harmed an animal unless given no other choice. He slowly uncocks the hammer and reholsters his weapon. Man and animal stare at each other. "Finch send you?" he finally asks.
The silver fox cocks its head.
"Didn't think so." He returns to the front seat of the car, pulling the door shut and rolling the windows down to let in the cool night air.
The fox remains where it is, watching him in the darkness.
John turns on the car's headlights.
It blinks liquid brown eyes at the sudden illumination, but doesn't move. There's a canny intelligence and perception in that gaze that inexplicably makes him uneasy.
After a moment, he honks the horn at it, figuring the sudden noise will be enough to startle the animal and run it off.
That earns him nothing more than a second head tilt.
A series of loud thumps come from the trunk. Brad Jennings is awake. Were it not for the duct tape over his mouth, John is sure he'd also be hearing a series of muffled curses and threats. Duct tape. Amazingly handy stuff, that.
Now the silver fox moves, not away from the car but toward it, trotting with that effortless, vulpine grace the species is known for. The animal passes so close to the door that John's fairly certain if he'd had his hand hanging out the window it would have brushed past his fingertips. Watching the reflection in the side mirror, he sees the fox's muzzle lift as it scents the air, ears pricked forward inquisitively. It jumps up, placing forepaws on the edge of the bumper and sniffs at the trunk again. The fox recoils when Jennings gives the trunk one final, loud thump, and it seems to John as if the animal's lip curls with disgust with what it has discovered there.
He can't help being amused and turns the headlights back off. "Can't blame you for that one."
The fox sneezes and paws at its nose, gives a good full body shake, then ambles past Reese again. Casting one final look over its shoulder at him, it trots up the road in front of the car, the small shadowy form shrinking in the distance until it is gone from sight.
It is dark and still and quiet. Reese finds himself looking around at the flat, dry scrubland around the car, and wondering if Sarah Jennings would be better off if her husband Brad disappeared right here and now. But then he remembers Detective Joss Carter's expression and words from when he last saw her, knows the trust brokered between them is a beautiful and fragile thing, and he is not willing to throw it away a second time—not for a man like Brad Jennings.
There's the faintest hint of light from afar and, a couple of seconds later, headlights come into view. He tries to start the car and gets a wheezing protest in return, so he hunkers down in the seat and hopes that the vehicle just passes the spot where he's parked on the side of the road. The lights coming toward him are higher off the ground, round in shape, and he can hear the rattle and bang of the old truck's pistons even before it starts slowing and then pulls over to the side of the road and stops.
John rests his fingertips on his gun. Brad Jennings resumes pounding on the inside of the trunk. He hasn't quite decided what he will do if, or rather, when, these two do-gooders figure out he's got someone stuffed in the trunk, but is confident he'll think of something.
There are two figures in the truck, one large and one significantly smaller. The reason for that becomes obvious when they both open their doors and step out. The old Indian man is thick-set and barrel-chested with weathered, leathery features, and his hair is long and as silvery gray at the pelt on the fox he'd seen earlier on the road. The boy with him is no more than eight years old, with short black hair and dark, inquisitive eyes.
John purses his lips and assesses the situation. He's not going to do anything to harm an old man and a boy, so his options are quite limited. He gets out of the car, gives them a nod. "Thanks for checking on me, but the car just over heated. It should be fine in half an hour or so, and I'll be on my way."
The boy nods and turns to speak to the old man in a language John has never heard before, but before he can answer, muffled yelling and loud thumps come from the direction of his car. It seems that Brad has managed to get the duct tape off of his mouth.
Wincing internally, John keeps his expression neutral and open, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips, and makes no attempt to explain the racket.
An questioning expression on his face, the boy looks between the source of the noise and old man, but says nothing.
The old Indian doesn't even look at the car, just stares right at John with dark, perceptive eyes that seem to be looking for something. Then he says something that causes the little one's eyebrows to raise. He hesitates, then relays, "My grandfather says that you must have an awfully big weasel in your trunk."
John almost smiles. He's quite willing to play along with this, it's better than the alternative. "Biggest one I've ever seen, actually."
After translating that and getting a response, the grandson asks, "He wants to know if the weasel is dangerous."
Reese replies to the old man, "Very dangerous. This one bit the one it should have loved the most. Many times, in fact, terrible bites. She lived in fear of this weasel for a very long time. I am, ah, helping relocate it."
After listening to that translation, the Indian man's face assumes a thoughtful expression before he speaks again.
"Grandfather wishes to know why, if this weasel is so dangerous, that you did not break its neck and end its life. Surely such a vicious animal should not remain living, for if it bites the one it loves most, what would it do to those it hates?" The boy tilts his chin to look up at John while he waits for the answer.
It's not a question John hasn't asked himself many times, especially given the duration of this road trip. Something compels him to an honest answer. "Once upon a time, I would have. Maybe I even should. But I made a promise to a friend, that I would do what needed to be done, that she needed to trust me." Again, he thinks about Carter's beautiful, worried face. He pauses, carefully chooses his words. "I need her to trust me. Whatever it takes."
The grandson renders that into native tongue for the old man, and then a back and forth conversation ensues between the two, punctuated by nods here and there from the younger one. When their discussion is finished, the boy walks over to the old pickup truck, hops up into the bed, and begins rooting around in the junk piled there.
"Your friend, she must be both wise and compassionate," the old man speaks to him for the first time, in English.
He considers that, a slight smile touching lips. "She is, but I am willing to bet she would rather be told she is tough and honest."
That earns him a full bellied laugh, complete with a thigh slap. "I'm Todd," the Indian man introduces himself, and then gestures at his grandson, "and that's Samuel."
Raising one eyebrow, Reese says, "Todd? Samuel?" a little surprised by the English names given the lingual display earlier.
"Well, if you want, you can call us..." the old man said a long string of vowels and consonants that were so intricate, he couldn't tell where one name ended and the next began. When he finishes, Todd looks at him with wry humor, waiting his reaction.
"So... Todd and Samuel it is. I'm John," he introduces himself, holding out his hand.
Todd gives it a firm shake with his large, leathery hand, and then gestures him over to the pickup truck. "We've got to get your car off the road. Sheriff'll be coming by here any minute on his way home, and I'm pretty sure you don't want him to find you transporting your weasel friend. You taking him to Juarez?" he asks, taking offered heavy nylon tow straps from his grandson.
John hesitates. His instincts tell him he has nothing to fear from this man and his grandson, but he isn't used to this kind of help from complete strangers. Then he reminds himself, the old man is doing for him what he's done for dozens of people in the months since he's met Finch.
At his reticence, Todd says, "Trust me, you don't want Sheriff Berk anywhere near you. The only thing he hates more than New Yorkers is spics and us damn injuns. He'd impound your car for shits and grins even if you didn't have some guy in the trunk. Here, hook these up to your car while I turn the truck around."
Sensing he has little choice, John hooks the loops onto the undercarriage and by the time he's finished, the old Chevy pickup truck is backed up enough for him connect the straps to.
Todd hops out, saying, "We're going to go west about two miles, then turn off and head north to get to my place. Just watch my brake lights, fixed 'em last week so they're good for a couple more days." His grandson is already back in the truck, leaning out the window to watch the two men talk.
The old Indian clambers back into the cab, waits for John to get back into his own car, then waves his arm out the window to indicate that he's starting to tow.
Fifteen minutes later, they reach Todd's home. There are a few antique cars parked in a neat row beside the garage, all in various stages of repairs. Todd calls them his second job. When asked about his first job, the old Indian just laughs and shakes his head. While he is inside getting little Samuel settled for bed, Reese uses the time alone to check on Jennings and apply more duct tape to his mouth.
He is just shutting the trunk when Todd emerges from the house, and the old man leads him over toward a fire pit on the other side of the cars. The embers are still faintly glowing, and the two men settle opposite each other on broad flat logs that serve as makeshift stools. The old man sings under his breath in that unknown language as he adds a couple of logs to the fire and sets a frying pan over the flames.
"Where are Samuel's parents?" Reese wonders, as there doesn't seem to be anyone else living in the small two bedroom house.
The Indian takes his time in answering by opening a battered ice chest and pulling out two Caffeine Free Diet Pepsis. Each drink is placed in a foam Budweiser beer holder, and then he offers one to Reese, "His mother died when he was two. Alcohol poisoning. His father is a tribal cop, on the Mescalaro Apache reservation. It's a few hours northwest of here. He gets home when he can."
John takes the offered drink, "You diabetic?"
Todd looks offended by the question and gives him a stern look before lifting his can to drink deep, smacking his lips after. "No. Because I drink these. I like this drink. Tastes so much better than the Caffeine Free Diet Coke. Ever had that? It tastes like bad peyote."
Sipping at the can, John grimaces at the syrupy flavor and sweet taste of aspartame. It's cold and wet, and those are the only good things to be said about the beverage. Sadly, he's had worse. "So why don't you and Samuel live on the reservation?"
"Huh. You've never been on a reservation before, have you, because if you had, you'd know why we live here. His father insisted upon it after my Mary died. It caused a hell of a to-do. I was already out of favor with the tribal council, and it just added salt to the wound." The cast iron pan on the fire is starting to smoke, and Todd delves into the cooler again, this time pulling out a plastic carry-out container. He gives it a little shake to mix up the contents a bit more and pours some of the thick white batter into the frying pan, forming two round cakes. "Ever had Acorn cakes? Traditional Apache food."
"I've had acorns." It wasn't an experience he's inclined to repeat.
"Like so many things, it's all about the preparation."
Reese studies the surroundings, the preparations, and the man across from him with sudden suspicion. "Did Finch set all this up?"
Todd's confusion is genuine. "Who?"
Exhaling, he shakes his head and brushes at the condensation on his soda can with a thumb. "A friend. I'm sorry, it's just… it's pretty obvious you were prepared for someone to join you." He gestures at the cooler and food cooking on the fire. "You had the table all set, so to speak."
The Indian shrugs, expertly flipping both cakes at the same time and removing the pan from the fire before taking a pull from his drink. "Waiting for someone, yes. Just didn't know who. But now you're here, so it appears I was waiting for you."
John blinks at the cryptic response, updates his mental description of the old Indian man to include the adjective 'crazy and/or eccentric', and opts for a change of subject "So what'd you do to piss off the tribal council?"
A half-smile touches Todd's thin lips, "That's got to do with my first job. I'm a shaman, but I got sick of all the politicking and infighting among the tribal leaders, so I left. And pissed off doesn't even come close to describing how mad they were." He serves up the hot acorn cakes onto Dixie plates, offers one to John, and then blows on his own to cool it off a touch before taking a bite out of it.
Dubious, John first sniffs at the flat cake and then cools it with a breath as well before he takes a bite from the edge. It reminds him of a corn cake, but it's got a taste and texture all of its own. Taking a larger bite, he chews it slow, considering the blend of flavors. There's ground acorns and cornmeal in it, honey and a touch of salt, plus another ingredient he can't quite identify. "It's good. Thank you."
"Like I said, it's all about the preparation."
The two men eat in silence for a few minutes, and then Reese says, "So, a shaman, eh?"
In response, Todd gives him a mischievous grin, pops the last bit of acorn cake into his mouth and washes it down with his drink before setting it aside. Then he stands and starts a loud, long and singing chant in what is presumably some Apache dialect, making broad gestures with his hands until the fire leaps up eagerly.
For a moment John thinks he sees something in the flames, flickering images of a fox, a large cat, and birds swirling around them both. He finishes off the cake, dusts crumbs off his hands, and reminds himself it's been more than forty-eight hours since he slept. "Nice trick," is all he says.
The old Indian's weathered face crinkles into a smile again, and when he lowers his hands the flames die back down. "Kind of cliche, isn't it?" Draining the rest of his Pepsi, his eyes are bright and perceptive when he looks at the younger man across from him. "Did you see anything in the fire?"
"No," John shakes his head.
Todd gives a skeptical snort. "You're a good liar, John, but a liar none the less. You know what I saw? A fox watching a cougar, that was itself being guarded by birds." Seeing Reese startle a bit at that, he touches the side of his nose, and quotes, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than have been dreamt of in your philosophy." He starts singing under his breath again and digs into the front pocket of his jeans. The old man pulls out a small, leather pouch that's about the size of his palm, and holds it forth.
He's not really sure what is going on now, but something compels him to take the offered item. The leather is warm, and whatever it holds is solid and heavy. The Indian gestures at the bag, indicating he is to open it, so he pulls the drawstrings open and slides the rock into his hand. One side of the blood red rock is gently rounded, rough edges worn off by the touch of many human hands. The other side is hematite, only it's flat and smooth, and the firelight glitters off of the reflective silver surface. John stares at what he sees there for a long moment.
"What do you see?" Todd asks gently.
There's a black panther staring back at him in the reflection, and it's got his blue eyes and a silver-streaked pelt that is the exact same color as his hair, but that's not what makes it so bizarre. No, it's the fact that beyond the cat, he can see the reflection of Todd's old antique cars, and if he turns the rock a little more, then the house behind him comes into view too, and the dusty ground, and the stump he is sitting on. Everything is reflected exactly as it should be in that small surface—except him. Slipping the mirror back into its pouch, he gives it back to the owner, growling, "You tell me."
The Indian instead says, "I can't quite figure out the birds. They follow you—the black cougar—everywhere. And it's not always the same bird. Sometimes it's a crow, other times it's a partridge, a crane, a finch..." He starts with sudden realization and that broad grin reappears on his face. Wagging his finger at John, he says, "Aha! That's why you've asked me twice now about a Finch."
His fingers twitch toward his gun, crazy old Indian or not, and he corrects, "I've only asked you about Finch once."
That earns him another sly wink. "Twice. Who do you think the fox is? The Spirits have been sending me the visions of the black cat and his birds, since September of last year. I knew you would come. Why do you think I was out there, waiting for you on the road?" Todd leans forward, confiding, "When you didn't shoot me, I knew for sure that it was you, that I'd found the right man."
The whole situation has taken a turn for the surreal, and John is ready to be done with it. He gets up, sets his Pepsi down on the log he's been sitting on, and his voice is dark and menacing when he speaks, "Ok. Here's what is going to happen. I'm going to go back to my car, and get it started and leave. Don't follow me. Don't even come near me." He stalks toward his car.
The Indian calls after him, "You don't think I know what kind of man you are?"
"You don't know anything about me."
"You're wrong, John. You're so wrong. I can see it in your eyes, the eyes of a man who has killed innocent victims under the pretense of following orders. That's what you told yourself, isn't it, when you killed them? 'I'm just following orders?"
Grinding his teeth, John forces himself to keep walking away.
Todd is shouting at him now, "You're an animal, John—a monster. That's what you tell yourself when you look at your reflection in the mirror? I know it's true, John, because I had the same look in my eyes after My Lai."
He stops walking.
"I ignored the past, the history of my People, for so long, so long... I was young and arrogant... like so many men my age... And there I was, killing old men, women and children, just like those men did at Sand Creek, Bear River, Wounded Knee and so many other places." The Indian has lowered his voice, and sounds weary and sad. "Something had to change. So I did. I changed, and in doing so, finally was able to forgive myself."
John wages a brief internal war with himself, and when he turns around and walks back over to rejoin the other man at the fire, he's not sure if he's won or lost.
The two men sit in silence for a few minutes, and then Todd asks, seemingly out of the blue, "Ever heard of Rilke? Ranier Marie Rilke? The German poet?" When John shakes his head, the Indian closes his eyes, and softly quotes,
'His gaze, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; and beyond the bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly-. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.'"
Scratching at the back of his hands and then his neck, John listens in silence. His skin feels tight and itchy, and his joints are beginning to ache.
"The Panther. That's you, John. Strong. Silent. Patient. But yet, prone to sudden, controlled violence, when the situation calls for it," the shaman tells him. "Only, you're not trapped in a cage at a zoo. No, the black cougar is inside of you, it always has been, warring with the man—the real killer—but not any more. It's time for you to set him free." The Indian's voice seems to be changing as he speaks and he hunches in on himself, like he's becoming less. Less there, less man.
John's muscles convulse, his bones shift and his skin feels like it's crawling, like ants are just under the surface, scurrying up his limbs. With sudden realization, he looks from Todd to the frying pan to the Dixie plate. Poison! But he's certain that he and the old Indian ate the same thing, so why isn't he affected as well?
The Indian grins at him, and his teeth are sharp and pointed, his nose growing narrower by the minute and making it difficult to speak. "Do you know...what happens... when you give measles... to a man who already has... the measles? Not much... at all...I am a fox... because I choose to be..." And then he can't talk anymore because he is changing, transforming, into something else. Todd the man becomes the tod fox.
Gaping at the writhing figure with horrified fascination, Reese thrusts his hand inside his suit coat and fumbles for his gun. He can't seem to wrap his aching fingers around the grip and the reason why becomes apparent when he gets a look at his hand, the fingers shrinking and thickening, nails becoming curved and sharp, black hairs shot through with silver sprouting through his skin like a time lapsed lawn on fast forward. Then he too is lost in the change, and the feel of his bones elongating here, shrinking and narrowing there, and muscles and organs shifting under his skin is more painful than any torture he's ever endured. There's nothing human about his scream of agony when his tail emerges from the base of his spine.
It's finished in a matter of minutes. If it had lasted much longer, he's afraid he would have gone mad. John lays there, panting with exertion and looking through new eyes at a world that seems to have changed right along with him. Night vision goggles haven't got anything on cougars when it comes to seeing in the dark, but at the same time, he's aware that the colors of the world are muted and far less intense. The air is full of vibrant smells and sounds that his pitiful human senses had not even noticed.
Now that the pain is gone, he's aware of a sense of absolute rightness in his new form. This is not some kind of lycanthropic curse, this is what is meant to be, what should have been a long time ago, and now that it is, he is content in a way that he has never been before. A low, rumbling sound vibrates through him and it confuses him, because it's so close. When it stutters and restarts, he recognizes the noise. It sounds like...purring. I'm purring, he realizes, and gives a feline chuff of amusement.
Upon rising to his feet—all four of them—he comes to the realization that he's still tangled in his clothing. The pants are easy to get out of, the shirt and jacket take a little longer to shrug his shoulders free of and when he finally feels them slide off of his pelt, he's glad that he has a tendency to leave the first few buttons on his shirt undone. Next time, he thinks to himself, I'll take the clothes off before I change, and finds himself desperately hoping that there will be a next time, that this isn't a once in a lifetime experience he's going through.
Todd has finished his transformation as well, and is patiently sitting on top of his pile of clothes, tongue lolling out with vulpine good humor. The silver fox stands up and flicks his oversized ears at the cougar, his bushy white-tipped tail wagging from side to side. Well? Are you coming? He wordlessly asks and then darts off into the darkness.
John takes one cautious step forward, and then couple more, finding that moving in his new form is as natural to him as breathing. He trots at first, and then breaks into a run that is all fluid, easy grace, following the silver fox and eager to see what the rest of the night holds in store.
When the two return just after dawn that morning, Reese feels exhilarated and overwhelmed by the extent of changes in himself, both physically and mentally. He has a better understanding of who he is and what he is, but knows that he is a long way from reconciling both of those into what he does, and what he can do.
The shaman shifts back into human form and John watches the whole process from beginning to end. It's revolting, but he doesn't look away until the old man begins to pull his clothes on. When Todd's dressed, he picks up the leather pouch and pulls out the blood ore piece again, holding it out toward the black cougar. "Look here, John."
The cougar pads closer, looks at that reflective surface, and sees the human version of himself, naked and crouched down.
"The man is just as important a part of who you are as the cougar is. Never forget that. You just have to find balance between the two. It takes time and practice, but you will see."
That's all well and good, but John has no idea how to turn back into a human. He makes a questioning mrowr of sound and paws at his discarded clothing.
Todd grins understanding. "To change back, just picture yourself in human form and then tell your cougar self to change back."
The thought's barely had time to take hold in his head before he begins to transform back into a human. Despite his hopes, it's just as painful in reverse. He's sweaty and shuddering in the cool morning air now that he's got no fur to protect him, and begins to pull on his clothing. "Does it get any easier, going back and forth?"
The old Indian makes a face, "Eh, it goes faster with practice, but it always hurts like hell. As they say, change hurts."
Shrugging into his shirt, John buttons it while asking, "So what now? You going to give me your acorn cake recipe in case I want to change again?"
Todd laughs and shakes his head. "The medicine I put into the cake jumpstarts your body, makes it aware of the fact that you can make the change to begin with. You may have even figured it out on your own, eventually. Anyway, once the first one's done, it's all mind over matter. Just keep in mind, the longer you go between changes, the more out of balance your body and spirit will be with one another."
He nods and shifts from one foot to the other. "Thank you, for everything," he finally says. He's not good at goodbyes or thank yous either for that matter, but isn't really sure what else to say in a situation like this. Fishing in his wallet, he pulls out a business card for John Campbell and offers it. "If you ever need anything, or make it up to New York, give me a call."
The Indian gives it a careful examination before he tucks it into his shirt pocket. "No, thank you. Those dreams were about to drive me batshit crazy. I'm glad to be done with them."
The two shake hands and John walks over to get into his car. Sure enough, it starts right up. He puts it into drive and then sees Todd waving, "Oh! One more thing, don't drive off just yet!" Gesturing for him to remain where he is, the Indian trots over to the ancient Ford Falcon that's parked in the row of beat up vehicles. After digging in the trunk for a few minutes, he returns with a sealed cardboard box and gives it to John. "Glad I remembered it, I figure this helps us both. I need to get rid of it, and I'm betting it'll help you when you get to Juarez."
"What's this?"
"Ten pounds of uncut heroin."
Reese's eyebrows shoot upwards.
"What, you think you're the only person who's got weasel problems? Nasty little bastards."