Part 1
He's been hunting and tracking for far too long not to notice when he's being watched or followed, and right now, he's getting a bit of both. Whoever it is, they're good—very good—because despite his best efforts he can't seem to catch a glimpse of the bastard.
Patience ain't exactly one of his virtues, and after ten minutes of straining his ears and pointing his Stryker this way and that, he's had enough. "I know you're out there," he hollers, keeping the crossbow at eye level as he watches and listens for any signs of his tail. "Ya may as well come on out where I can see ya."
Utter silence ensues but then a rustle of leaves behind a tree twenty feet off and to the left is so loud that Daryl can't help thinking it's deliberate. He squints down the sighting of his crossbow and then frowns when his follower emerges. It's a fox, a goddamn fox, and a big 'un at that. It must weigh a good 30 lbs. It peers at him from behind the tree, ears pricked forward and alert, and there's a knowing, a canniness in those liquid brown eyes that's downright unsettling.
It don't matter though because food can be scarce, regardless of the source. He hasn't eaten a lot of fox, but he has eaten a few since all hell broke loose and the dead started walking. Ain't a taste he's particular to, but beggars can't be choosers. He'll just add it to the belt full of squirrels and pair of rabbits he's managed to take down so far and call it a day. No sooner has the thought crossed his mind than the fox disappears back behind the tree. It starts gekkering at him, a series of chatters and clicks that makes him think of an old woman fussing, and he's got a notion that he's being cussed out in fox.
It's so damn stupid that he almost laughs. "Fine, I ain't gonna shoot your scrawny ass. Ya'd taste like shit anyway." He lowers the crossbow and slings it back over his shoulder.
The fox peeks around the tree at him again and it's like the damn thing understands every word he's saying because it gives him a sharp yip of agreement, a good full-bodied shake and then trots right at him.
He tenses because he knows animals and nature well enough to know that this kinda behavior ain't natural. The silver fox stops a few feet away and wags its—his—tail from side to side. The small creature's boldness makes him wonder if it was an escapee from a fur farm, or even someone's pet. Whatever the case, it's definitely not afraid of people, or of him at least.
He ain't no dog, but he's the closest thing Daryl's seen to one in forever, and the man finds himself digging in his pocket for a bit of squirrel jerky. Squatting, he holds the strip of meat out toward the fox. "Here now, ya hungry? I got somethin' ya might like."
There's something almost speculative in the fox's eyes as he regards that offering, like he's working something out in his head or weighing risk versus reward. Finally he seems to come to some sorta decision and edges forward, one step at a time, and Daryl coaxes him the whole way, "Come 'n get it, fella. Best jerky ya gonna find these days."
The animal pauses a couple feet away, looking from the man to the food one last time before lunging forward, quick at a rattlesnake, grabbing the meat—and Daryl's finger. "Son of a bitch!" he yells, jerking his hand back. The fox runs, looking back over his shoulder at the man with an expression that is almost apologetic.
Cussing a blue streak, he inspects the damage. The bite is pretty small and he's damn lucky that the little shit bit his middle one and not his trigger finger, but it's a bleeder and that makes it dangerous. If any walkers get a sniff of it, they're gonna be on him like a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat. He tears off a strip of his shirt and ties it around the wound, and then looks for the culprit that caused it while unslinging his crossbow. "Changed my mind, roasted fox sounds pretty damn good right 'bout now."
The silver fox is up ahead of him moving at a fast enough pace through the forest that getting a shot off that isn't a waste of a bolt is going to be no mean feat, even for someone of his skill. "Yeah, you better run, ya piece of shit!" Daryl hollers, stalking through the woods after the animal. He follows it for a good half mile and by that time he's starting to wonder if the damn thing isn't leading him on a merry chase because it pauses to wait for him when he lags too far behind, but still manages to keep just out of shooting range all the while.
He's about to say 'fuck it' when the fox gives a couple of sharp alarm-like barks and dashes over a slight hill and out of sight. Daryl growls under his breath, trudges up the slope, and then finds himself slack-jawed at the sight before him.
There's a large clearing that looks to be a few acres across with a small stream cutting it in two, grass growing wild and tall, and smack dab in the middle of it is a large white teepee, like he's walked onto the set of some movie. He's always rooted for the Injuns in all those old westerns, always hated how in so many movies they're the heartless savages when in reality they're the ones being kicked out of their homes and driven from all they know and love by white men.
The fox's silver body is a dark streak running full tilt through the grass toward some shambling shapes on the opposite side of the clearing, and the sight of the walkers is enough to get his ass to movin'.
The teepee is clearly occupied because there's a thin curl of smoke wafting up from the top, so he shouts the warning, "Hey! Walkers!" as he runs, following the fox across the clearing. The damn fool animal must be bat-shit crazy because it's heading straight for the undead instead of hightailing it back to the woods and he ain't got a leg to stand on in that discussion, because he's doing the same thing.
There's movement at the front of the Indian dwelling and two forms emerge. The Injun boy is a couple of years older than Carl, clad in a breechclout and moccasins with feathers hanging from his headband. The blond-haired girl in the deerskin dress that follows him is even younger, no more than six tops, and the sight of the two kids causes his heart to rise into his throat. Frantic, he points across the field and yells, "Walkers! Walkers a-comin'!"
The older boy looks that direction and when he sees them, he squares his shoulders and uses one hand to push the little girl behind him protectively while pulling the tomahawk from his belt with the other.
There's more walkers than he'd thought, eight or nine at least, and as good as he is, it's gonna be touch and go with that many. When he's about 40 yards away, he aims and fires. One down and a shit ton more to go. Cocking the Stryker again, Daryl takes aim and right before he pulls the trigger, the walker goes down unexpectedly, growling and arms flailing. He ignores that one and lines up another shot, the bolt flying across the field to imbed itself in the walker's eye with a wet squish.
The goddamn fox is right in the middle of the shitstorm, darting in between the legs and decaying hands that grab greedily at his nimble body. When the opportunity presents itself, he tears at the Achilles tendon of the nearest leg, shredding the rotting tissue and giving a good yank before scampering away again. They may be undead and may not feel pain, but when that walker takes a step toward Daryl, it stumbles and falls, struggling to get back to its feet, and yet another trips over the fallen one.
He has time to cock and fire one more time, killing a third before he has to get out the Busse. Two of the walkers are still down on the ground fighting to get their mangled legs working and dragging themselves toward him by their hands.
That leaves four of them still standing, and three are coming at him with out stretched arms and jaws chomping the air hungrily, like they can already taste him. The fourth is after the fox, who evades those grabbing hands with such agility and skill, it's pretty clear that this is not the first time the animal's wrangled with walkers instead of running like hell like any sane animal would do.
But Daryl's got problems of his own to deal with, three of them to be exact, and he lunges forward, skewering one through the eye with his knife. Yanking it out, he backpedals, trying to put enough distance between him and the remaining two that he's got room to maneuver but they're coming so fast, he's barely got a chance to raise his arms before they're on him. His thrusts his knife upward through the chin of one while using his left arm to hold the other at bay, but the weight of the pair charging into him is enough to knock him to the ground.
He's fighting to pull the knife out, but can't seem to draw his arm back far enough and bucks from side to side an attempt to throw both living and dead walker off of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the fox-chaser has given up on that and is dragging herself toward him. The silver fox has a hold of her foot and is hauling on it with all of his thirty plus pound weight, but he's just slowing the inevitable. Her brittle skin tears in sharp vulpine teeth and she scrabbles toward Daryl on all fours like some horrific crab when something whooshes over his head. Fox-chaser's head sprouts a feather-adorned tomahawk.
The walker on top of him gnashes its teeth with frantic growls and he rolls hard to the side. It allows him just enough leverage to yank the knife out and bury it in the top of its skull, giving the blade a twist for good measure.
There's two left alive—so to speak—crawling along the ground well behind the others, and Daryl dispatches one while the boy retrieves his tomahawk and takes out the other.
The little girl watches, thumb in her mouth and tears streaming down her face but her wide eyes are fixed on him and not the blood bath around them.
"Thanks, kid," he tells the Injun boy, but when he speaks the girl gives a sharp squeal of pure terror and takes off running toward the teepee like there's a whole herd of walkers chasing her. It ain't them she's scared of, he realizes, it's him and he's got no idea why cause he's never seen the kid before.
The boy gives him a quick smile, acknowledging the gratitude and then heaves a weary sigh before following after the fleeing child.
After wiping off his knife and retrieving his quarrels, Daryl glances over to see the fox rubbing his muzzle all over the ground as though trying to get a foul taste out of his mouth. Walkers smell bad enough, he can't even imagine how bad they taste. But he's gotta give credit where credit is due, and tells the fox, "Thanks ta you too, ya little shit." He'd never have believed a fox could do that much damage if he hadn't seen it with his own two eyes.
The silver fox yips at him, somehow managing to look as smug as the cat who ate the canary, and then trots away from him and toward the tree line without a backward look.
Daryl watches him go before turning back to look at the teepee. The boy slips inside after the little one. Chewing his thumbnail indecisively for a moment, he shakes his head and walks toward the Injun tent because he'll be damned if he's gonna walk off and leave two kids to fend for themselves.
The teepee is even bigger than he'd though, at least twice his height, maybe a few feet more. There's a couple of rabbit skins drying on a rack, and to the right of the door flap, a deer skull on a tall stick is looking at him through dry eye sockets and seems to be asking, "What the fuck do you want?" When he reaches the hide opening, he's not quite sure what to do, it ain't like he can knock. He can hear weeping and the boy speaking in quiet, soothing tones but it's in some language he's never heard before. He shifts from one foot to the other and finally asks, "Everythin' a'ight?"
The girl starts caterwauling even louder and the boy calls, "It is best that you remain silent until he gets back," before going back to comforting the younger kid.
He frowns at that and starts worrying his thumb again. "Until who gets back?" he asks under his breath.
"Me," a man replies from right behind him, and purt near scares the bejeesus out of him.
He whips around, bringing his crossbow up in one smooth move, and finds himself staring at an old Injun wearing nothing but a breechclout, thick-set and barrel-chested with long silvery hair flowing free.
Daryl can't believe this geezer was able to get so close to him without him knowing. He must be losing his touch. "Who the hell are you?" he demands, and his loud voice sets the kid inside off again. "And why the hell is that girl so afraid o' me? I ain't never seen her a'fore 'n my life."
The Injun answers evenly, "I'm Todd. Still Waters is afraid of you because you remind her of the men who kept her as a sex slave."
A wave of revulsion hits him and is so strong, it almost staggers him. The old man brushes past, reaching for the tent flap, and Daryl's hand lands hard on his shoulder, pulling him back. "Hey—they dead? Them that did that to 'er?" Because if they're not, he's got a notion to take the first vehicle he finds on a hunting trip, and it won't be ears he takes from them.
Todd gives him a feral smile and points at the deer skull. There's about a dozen leathery strips nailed to the post from the base up to just beneath the bone, black, blonde, brown hair of various lengths curled and crusty with dried blood. Looks like the ol' Injun is into taking trophies as well.
He turns to look back at the old man just in time to see him gesturing for Daryl to follow him into the teepee. After a moment's hesitation, he unhooks the string containing the day's kills from his belt and leaves them hanging outside on the drying rack and then he slips past the door flap. Inside, it's like he's walked through a door that takes him back one hundred years in time. The teepee has hide walls that have been painted with horses, wolves and other animals that seem to race around the room. There's two beautifully carved recurve bows resting against a wall, and a short spear that's about as long as he is tall. Thick woven blankets are carefully arranged into bedding around the outside edges, next to woven grass baskets. A small fire pit in the center the room is the source of the smoke he saw billowing up through the opening in the top.
The girl child is throwing a fit over his presence in the small dwelling and Todd draws her into his arms, speaking to her in that same language the boy was using. He has no idea what the Injun says to her, but one moment she's crying her eyes out, and the next she's staring at him, blue eyes wide with wonder.
Smiling, the old man takes off the child's moccasins and sets them in front of the door beside two larger pairs and sits, Injun style of course, opposite the tent opening and draws Still Waters into his lap before gesturing at Daryl to sit to his left. "Please take off your boots. The treads are hard on the hides and bedding."
He frowns at the request but does so, and after a slight hesitation, removes his socks as well, figuring it's better than having his big hairy toe sticking out through the hole in the right one and places them beside the other shoes beside the door flap. Taking a seat beside Todd, he glances behind him at the tent wall that has a black horse painted on it. He shrugs out from under his crossbow strap to lay the weapon down beside him and then lays his backpack down beside it. There's a brief silence, during which the old man puts a large cast iron skillet on the fire in the center of the room, quietly chanting to himself. The older kid moves to sit to the old man's right and pulls the lid off a clay jar by his knee. He reaches into the pot, stirring the batter-like contents with a dipper.
Daryl's not really sure why he's there or what he's supposed to be doing, it's got him as fidgety as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. The blonde girl is still gawking and he's not much on being stared at, but it beats the hell out of the alternative. His curiosity gets the better of him, and he wonders, "How'd ya get 'er settled down so quick? She seemed pretty riled up."
Todd smiles, tossing a sprig of herbs onto the fire. It starts smoking, giving the teepee an incense-like smell. "I told her she did not need to be afraid of you, because you were the adopted son of Killer of Enemies."
The story behind the Cherokee Rose isn't the only Indian folklore Daryl Dixon knows, though it takes him a moment to place the reference to the Apache legend. He gives a slow nod of understanding and eyes the little girl. She's sucking on her thumb, but her other hand toys with a chunk of turquoise that hangs from a leather thong around her neck. He gestures at the blue-green stone and says, "That must make ya one a' Child a' Water's children."
Her jaw drops and he senses that she's not the only one he's managed to surprise, because both the old man and boy are staring at him. He shifts his gaze to the fire and plucks at the frayed edge of his shirt, muttering, "Always kinda liked those Injun stories."
"I'll be damned," Todd slaps his thigh and roars with laughter, and the boy chuckles as well. Daryl ducks his head with embarrassment, but can't help smiling. It's a few moments before the old man regains his composure, wiping a tear from his eye. "So let's get the introductions out of the way before we get this party started. It just doesn't seem right to include you in the ceremony when we don't even know your name."
"Daryl Dixon," is his brief response, and he looks between the two natives. "Ceremony?"
The old Injun nods, "Yep. We need four to complete it. Apache are big on the number four. Four arrows to slay the enemies of the people, four directions, four sacred rivers, four parts to every ceremony, and they last four days, and so on and so forth. I'll tell you the truth, it gets a little tedious, but who am I to argue against tradition?" He points at the boy, "That's my grandson, Samuel. And as I've said, this is Still Waters." The little girl keeps sucking her thumb, but moves to sit cross-legged on some blankets in front of the door flap, directly opposite the old man.
He's not really sure how he got roped into all this. He's supposed to be hunting for the group, and everyone's at the end of their rope from the clusterfuck that was Terminus. After leaving that mess, they ran into Carol, Tyreese, and Lil Ass Kicker on the way. Beth was with them too, along with a new addition to the group, Father Gabriel. It'd been his car driving away from the funeral home with Beth. The good padre didn't realize he was more kidnapping her than rescuing her, and by the time she'd convinced him otherwise and returned, Daryl was already gone.
Once the reunion was finished with, they all headed west toward the Alabama border. In the hills around Pine Mountain, Daryl and Tyreese had stumbled across what would come to be known as the Manor House. Whoever owned it musta been as rich as Donald Trump and obsessive about their privacy, because the entire property, all forty plus acres, is encircled by a massive brick privacy wall standing about eight feet tall. It isn't the prison, and they are all aware that their time there may be just as limited, but they're making the most of it while they can.
Brick wall or no, there'd been a fair share of walkers that had to be cleaned out first. There had been a group of people there before Daryl and the others arrived, but they're gone now. Maybe some of them were in that pile of dead bodies that was still smoldering and black when they explored the property. Judging from the blood, bullets and gore spattered all over the walls in the rooms, they didn't go quietly. Rick and Daryl suspect that there'd been some sort of disagreement among the people living there, because there's no sign that the walls were breached by walkers, and the bloody hoofprints of an unshod horse tracking in the foyer make any sense at all.
Any port in a storm though, and it's October, so the days are getting shorter and colder. Georgia winters ain't that bad, but they ain't that good either, and the Manor House gives them all a chance to regroup, a place to hole up for the harsher weather that'll be here soon enough. They've only been settled in there for a week, and he's done his best to stay close to the Manor in the meantime to help Rick keep an eye on things. Hell, he can barely stand to let Beth out of his sight, after what happened last time. He blames himself for her being taken by Gabriel, he should have kept her right with him at the funeral home instead of telling her to leave him. He's still learning the lay of the land in this area, which is pretty much how he ended up in the woods being tailed by a fox.
It'll be dark soon and he should be getting back, but the chance to participate in a for real Indian ritual is mighty tempting. "How long'll it take? The ceremony, that is?"
"I'll give you one guess and I bet you get it on the first try."
He thinks back to what the man had said. "Four hours?"
The Apache touches his nose and points at him. "Bingo. Give or take, anyway. It's not like we shaman set alarm clocks for that kind of thing."
Daryl chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment and asks, "How's come ya'll got just plain ol' names and not Injun names like hers?" he gestures at Still Waters with his chin.
Todd looks amused. "Well, if you insist, our real names are..." and he says a long streak of complete gibberish that Daryl can't make heads nor tails of and then looks at him with one raised eyebrow.
"That 'sposed ta be a name?" Daryl asks incredulously. "Screw that shit, man, let's stick with Todd 'n Samuel."
The cast iron pan on the fire is starting to smoke and Samuel ladles some of that batter into the skillet, one spoonful at a time until there's four of them sizzling and popping. Catching Daryl's inquisitive look, he tells him, "They're acorn cakes."
Daryl nods and picks at the bandage tied around his finger. He's eaten acorns before and wasn't impressed, but these don't smell too bad.
"What're you thinking, Samuel? Wolf? Mountain Lion?" Todd asks, waving a feather over the fire and spreading the smoke around.
"Bear," the boy says immediately, like he doesn't even have to think about the answer, and uses a flat wooden spatula to flip the acorn cakes over.
Todd chuckles, as though he's been told a good joke, and then rocks back when he gets a look at his grandson's face. "Wait, you're serious?"
Samuel shrugs. "I dunno, seems pretty obvious to me. Inner strength, courage, protection. Leadership."
His grandfather ponders that, running his finger down the vane of the eagle feather, and even though he has no idea what they're talking about, Daryl feels compelled to interject, "Bears a' unpredictable sons a'bitches."
They both look at him then at each other. "So. Bear," Todd says.
"They are done," Samuel says and moves the browned cakes from the frying pan to a tin plate to cool.
"And for such a special occasion, I've got a real surprise in store for everyone." The old Apache reaches into a wicker basket and pulls out a can of Caffeine Free Diet Pepsi, holding it up like it's a bottle of Dom fucking Perignon. He pops the top and takes a long pull from the soda before passing it to Still Waters. She takes a tiny sip and makes a face. Samuel drinks down a couple of swallows and passes the can to him.
Daryl's never been much of a soda drinker, and even when he was, he wouldn't have touched this shit with a ten foot pole. But he's not really sure if this is part of the ceremony or not, so he takes a swig and it's sweet and salty at the same time, disgustingly so. He forces himself to take another sip and then hands the can back to Todd.
"You sure you don't want any more?" the old man asks, but from his tone it's pretty clear he's hoping for a 'no'.
"Naw, you go ahead," Daryl tells him and Todd drains the rest of the can in a couple of gulps, smacking his lips with delight.
The acorn cakes are cool enough to eat, and Samuel takes one and passes the dish to Still Waters. The round cake looks huge in her hand, and she worries her lip for a long moment before holding out the plate for Daryl. Giving her a slight nod of thanks, he picks up a piece of the flatbread and hands the tin to Todd, taking a whiff of the food. It's warm in his finger and looks like something between a pancake and a johnnycake, but it smells sweeter.
Todd holds his cake with both hands while looking skyward, and says, "Great Spirit, let this sacred meal help us achieve balance and peace. May the two parts be as one, body and spirit, hair and hide, man and beast." Then, he and Samuel chant something together in their native tongue.
When the prayer is finished, the two Injuns begin to eat their acorn cakes, and Daryl takes a bite of his, chewing it slowly. It's actually pretty good, the sharp taste of the acorns adding to the flavor without overwhelming it. He can tell it has corn meal in it, a touch of salt, and is honey-sweetened. There's some other ingredient in there as well that he can't quite identify.
"So tell me, Daryl, do you believe in mysticism? That there's more to this world than we poor fools can see and understand?" Todd asks, and his tone is casual enough but the way that Samuel is darting quick glances at him clues him into the fact that his answer is important.
Daryl thinks out his response, chewing the mouthful of acorn cake slow before swallowing it down. "Hell, man, the dead are walkin'. I reckon pretty much e'ryone had a reality check on what's real and what ain't at that point." He fingers the crusted edge of his food and says, "I saw a chupacabra once."
"Chupacabras don't exist," the old man says without hesitation.
He straightens, scowling at the old man. "You callin' me a liar?" he snarls, "cause I know what I saw."
Despite the earlier reassurances, the little girl shrinks from his anger and crams her thumb back into her mouth.
Todd holds up his hand as though begging for a moment of peace. "The first sighting of a chupacabra was in 1995, in Puerto Rico. Before that, there is nothing else. I do not think they exist because they have never been mentioned in song or story, not in any tales ever told by the People, regardless of tribe. A man who lived a few miles away from us in New Mexico claimed to have killed one, and I went to see for myself. His chupacabra was nothing more than a coyote with mange so bad that he had no hair and his skin was black and blue. And he was not sucking blood from goats, but stealing chickens from the coop."
"Yeah? And what bout the walkers, ain't no Injun story I ever heard that told a' zombies walkin' 'round," he sneers.
The old man gives him a surprised look. "There are many stories of the dead walking and preying upon the People. Surely you've heard of the Wendigo?"
Daryl opens his mouth and then shuts it. He can't believe he never made the connection between the two, knowing as much Injun lore as he does. The Wendigo were humans who had turned into something between living and dead, with gray, decaying skin and stinking of rotting flesh. They were always hungry for living flesh, especially of other humans. If that didn't describe a walker to a T, he didn't know what would.
Every time he's told the story about seeing the chupacabra and people blew him off, he's ignored it. But the Apache is right—it don't make sense that the goat-sucking demon would never have been seen or mentioned before a few years ago, especially with all the stories and such that the Injun tribes tell each other. Shit like that don't just pop out of the woodwork, it has to come from somewhere, right? For the first time, he admits to himself (though he'll never say it out loud) that those mushrooms may have had something to do with his chupacabra sighting.
He's the only one who hasn't finished, so he eats the rest of his acorn cake. Todd has the eagle feather out again and is waving it over a leather pouch that's about the size of his palm while chanting softly. Still Waters has pulled a drum from somewhere and is beating on it in a steady, four stroke beat.
Samuel is busy with something as well, and has four small clay jars in front of him. They're little paint pots, red, black, yellow, and white, and Daryl finds himself wondering if it's war paint or for something else. The fox bite on his finger is starting to tingle and itch, so he rubs at it through the bandage. What if the damn animal had rabies? Wouldn't that be a pisser, to die of rabies in a zombie apocalypse?
"Here," the Apache shaman draws his attention once again, and holds the leather pouch out for him.
The leather is warm, and whatever it holds is solid and heavy. The old man gestures at the bag with his eagle feather, indicating he is to open it, so he pulls the drawstrings open and slides the contents 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 reflective surface seems to shimmer and shift like something alive.
"What do you see?" Todd asks, and both Injuns are staring at him intently.
Still Waters is still banging the drum, rum-tum-tum-tum, rum-tum-tum-tum, and blood rushes in Daryl's ears as he stares at that dark silvery stone. "It's a bear." Just like the kid said it'd be. It's just sitting there, looking back at him like he's lookin' at it through a damn window. He's seen enough of them in person to know that this one is a black bear, even though it's not quite black in color. "Is this 'sposed to be a totem animal or somethin'?"
"No, Daryl Dixon, the bear is not your totem. It is you," the old man tells him.
He scoffs, "I dunno, reckon I always thought a' myself as a lone wolf."
Todd leans forward and his eyes are gentle and wise when he speaks, "But you're not alone, are you? Those squirrels and rabbits you've hunted, they're not for you because you're not a greedy man. You're providing for your friends, your family. They may not be your blood but they're part of your family just the same, aren't they? When you came to this place, you protected Samuel and Still Waters from the Wendigo, and you didn't even know them, had never seen them in your life. If you'd do that for people you don't even know, what would you do for the people you truly care about?"
Daryl ducks his head to avoid that piercing gaze, thinking about Rick, Carl, Beth, Lil Ass Kicker, Tyreese, Maggie, Glenn, and all the others. "Whate'er it takes. That's what I'll do," he mutters, running his thumb over that shimmering hematite and the bear paws at it at the exact same time. It isn't until then that he notices it—that everything else reflected in that image is exactly what he'd see if he was holding a mirror. Over the bear's shoulder is a black horse painting on the tent wall that's identical to the one that's behind him. He twists around, angling the rock so it shows him where Still Waters would be in the reflection, but she's not there. Instead, there's an otter with a drum between its legs that sits up on its haunches to peek over the bear's shoulder. Samuel's reflection is that of a black horse, and Todd... Todd is a silver fox.
His mind shies away from the implications of that for now. "That's some fucked up shit right there," Daryl finally says, slipping the rock back into the pouch and returns it to its owner.
"You ain't seen nothing yet," the old man laughs. "Take off your shirt."
Daryl freezes. "That a requirement for th' ceremony?"
Blinking at the other man's unexpected reluctance, Todd shakes his head. "Not really, but I'm not really sure you want the front of your shirt painted yellow." He gestures at Samuel, who hands him a jar of paint before moving closer. The Apache dips his fingers in, and they come out dripping black. He starts to draw on the boy's bare chest with quick, smooth strokes. "The horse gallops in the West. He is of the Earth itself, full of energy and physical power. He provides introspection and insight."
Samuel moves away when his grandfather stops speaking and it may just be finger painting, but somehow that hastily drawn horse with its arched neck and streaking tail seems to embody everything that is beautiful about the animal. He gives another little pot over to Todd, who beckons for Still Waters to come near.
The little girl stops drumming and stands in front of the shaman. She's still wearing her buckskin dress but Todd draws right on the front of the hide with red paint, a slender animal with four short legs and a thick long tail. "The otter swims in the South. She draws her strength from water and finds protection in its depths. She is trust and innocence." Still Waters toys with the turquoise stone on her necklace and returns to her seat in front of the tent flap when he's done, picking up her beater again and slapping it against the drum. Rum-tum-tum-tum, rum-tum-tum-tum.
Todd holds up the little jar of yellow and looks at him with raised eyebrows, waiting.
Slowly, Daryl unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it one shoulder at a time before laying it at his side. Clenching his jaw, he looks straight ahead at the side of the teepee as he shifts to kneel within arm's reach, and forces himself to remain perfectly still when the old man begins drawing on his chest.
"The bear hunts in the East. He burns with the fire and the intensity of the Sun." Daryl thinks about the cigarette burns his daddy left in his flesh and thinks that sounds about right. "He seeks enlightenment and illumination."
When he's finished, Daryl retreats back to his spot and steals a look at Todd. The old Injun's eyes are wet with tears, not of pity, but some deeper emotion that he can't quite put a name to, even if he'd wanted to.
Samuel clears his throat and is the one to speak next, holding up the last jar. He spreads the white paint on his grandfather's chest with skill to match, saying, "The fox hunts in the North. He is Air, and moves like the wind. He is wisdom and logic."
Todd seems to have recovered his composure, because when the boy sits back down, he gestures at the round room. "Here is our center, where we accept the truths of our true natures, and find balance, beauty and harmony." His eyes drift closed as he starts chanting again, and when he waves his hands over the fire, the flames seem to lick up eagerly toward his palms.
Daryl almost thinks he can see something there dancing in the firelight, a horse rearing up and kicking its heels, an otter frolicking in the water, a fox chasing its tail in the grass, and the bear standing up on its back feet like a man. He's not sure what the secret ingredient in those acorn cakes was, but it's some damn fine shit. Merle's mushrooms ain't got nothin' on this.
At some point while his mind was drifting, it seems that he missed something, because all three of them are looking at him. He hates being the center of attention, and for some reason, his skin is starting to tingle—not just where the paint is on his chest, but all over his body. "What?" he growls and it comes out a little louder and sharper than is necessary.
"Let me see the bite wound on your hand," Todd says evenly. Samuel's nervous about something, judging from the way he keeps looking between that bandage and his grandfather.
"It ain't no walker bite," Daryl gruffly tells them, but pulls the bandage off and holds out his hand out. "Damn fox bit me."
"I know, I was the fox," the Apache says, and takes hold of his arm with his strong, weathered hands, leaning over to get a closer look at the wound. It isn't bleeding anymore but there's two distinct holes where the fox's teeth sank into his skin. His close attention is starting to set Daryl's teeth on edge, and his words are making it even worse. Still Waters keeps banging away on the drum with her beater, and Samuel has picked up chanting where his elder left off.
Daryl tries to pull his hand away but Todd's grip on his arm is so strong it feels like he's being held in place by a damn vise. "Let go a'me," he demands.
The Injun keeps talking like he hasn't said anything at all. "It used to be easier before. Put the dust in the acorn cake, and pfft, that did the trick. But the world changed and the infection spread. We had to change too, and as you know, change isn't always easy. But I have good news," he says cheerfully and spits right onto the bite wound before continuing, "You'll never become a Wendigo, because this ceremony that we've been doing? It's given you the cure."
The instant the spittle touches Daryl, it feels like his hand has been set on fire. "Fuckin' let go a'me!" he hollers and he has been fighting so hard to get free that when Todd releases him, he falls back on the blankets he'd been sitting on, panting and wild-eyed.
The Apache shaman rises to his feet, making sweeping motions at Samuel and Still Waters as though shooing them out of the teepee. They hurry through the flap, and Todd gives him a sad smile, "The bad news is, the cure can be just as dangerous as the disease. Once you've turned...that's it, you'll never have to worry about being bitten by a Wendigo again and turning into one of them. You just have to survive the transformation. But you're survivor, aren't you, Daryl? I mean, look at those scars, what you must have gone through to get them..." He clicks his tongue and shakes his head sadly before heaving a great sigh. "Well. You'll never have to worry about anything like that again either, one way or another." He leaves the teepee as well.
It feels like fire ants are burrowing into his skin, not just in his hand where the saliva touched him, but everywhere. Daryl struggles to his feet, picking up his crossbow before he staggers out of the teepee. He's so pissed off he is fighting the urge to shoot the old man right in front of the kids. The problem is that when he gets outside, it's not an old man and two children that he's looking at anymore, but some other things, humped and misshapen, that are writhing and convulsing in the grass.
The wave of pain that spreads through Daryl's body is so intense, he drops his Stryker. He fumbles to pick it up but can't seem to make his fingers work. Staring down at his hand, he can only watch in horror as it grows larger and there's series of sickening crunches when his bones start popping out of the socket and sliding as they lengthen and shift alignment, his fingernails sharpening and curving into claws an inch and a half long. Coarse, brown hair bursts through his flesh and scurries across his skin, and he feels that heavy pelt shift on his shoulders like he's a boy trying on a leather jacket that's ten times too big. But he's growing into it.
Daryl collapses to the ground too, thrashing in agony as his body stretches, expands, changes. His heart is pounding so hard that it feels like it's about to burst right out of his chest, and when it shifts around in his body with the rest of his organs, he starts retching uncontrollably. Even if this change doesn't kill him, he may go mad from the torture of it. Finally he reaches a point where he can't take a moment more of it and throws his head back and lets out all of his pain, his frustration, his suffering in a deafening roar of rage.
Then it's done.
And Daryl feels... pretty damn good, actually. It seems like his new form should feel awkward and uncomfortable, but it doesn't. Instead it's like coming home, like he's slipped into a favorite pair of boots have stretched to fit him to a T. He's discovered a part of himself that was always there, he just didn't know where to look. Now, more than ever, he understands why he's always so comfortable in the woods.
He's always had excellent senses, but as a bear they're off the charts. He can hear a worm burrowing through the ground beneath where his head lays and the squeaks two bats are trading as they dip and dive in the air, the crunch of one eating an insect. He can smell the stench of the walkers he killed earlier in the field, knows the individual scents of all eleven of the men who were scalped, can tell that it's Todd's urine that's been used to cure the deer hides. When he opens his eyes everything is the same, but at the same time, he sees it through different eyes, literally in this case.
Rising to all fours, he looks himself over and damn if he isn't a fine lookin' bruin in his prime, not one of those gawky young males he's hunted in North Georgia. He must weigh at least 700 lbs now, maybe more.
Todd, the silver fox, is sitting on his haunches a short distance away. Behind him, a young black stallion nervously paws at the ground, and there's a small otter pup peeking around one of those powerful hind legs.
Remembering what the Apache did to him and how mad he was, he's of half a mind to go after them, but then the wind shifts and he catches a whiff of them. He thought they were pretty rank when he was human, but now the walkers don't just smell like dead things, they reek of corruption, of something unholy and unnatural. And it just pisses him off that such a thing should even be allowed to exist.
He stands on his hind feet to get a better look, and figures he stands about seven feet tall now. Everything he's heard about bears having shitty eyesight ain't true, cause he can see just as far now as he could before turning, it's just that the world seems to have more shades between blue and yellow though, and less red. And even though it's dark outside now, he can still see the dark shapes moving just past the treeline. Walkers, a fair number of them, likely drawn by all the noise he was making when he was changing.
Daryl drops back down and stamps the ground with his feet before charging toward the walkers at full tilt, and damn he's fast! Only seconds have passed before he ploughs right into the middle of them, trampling over some and knocking others over like bowling pins. A single swipe of his massive paw knocks the head clean off of one. The zombies claw at him with their puny decaying hands, bite at him with those tiny blunt teeth, but his dense fur protects him as well as any coat of armor. The thick dark blood that spills into his mouth when he tears into them is like drinking battery acid. He tries to stick to just destroying them with his paws after that.
Minutes later, they're all dead. Again. Well, most of them, anyway. The two heads he's knocked off gnash their teeth in the grass, and the wet crunch their skulls make when he crushes them beneath his paws is pretty satisfying. This part of the grassy clearing is more of a killing field now.
He paws at his muzzle, trying to get that foul taste out of his mouth, but since his paws are dripping with blood and gore, that doesn't do a whole lot of good, so he follows the fox's example from earlier and wipes his snout all over the ground. The taste lingers, unfortunately. For a brief moment, he worries about getting the infection but then he remembers what Todd said, that this was a cure. It doesn't affect anything but humans, and, well, he ain't exactly human anymore.
The horse and otter are still back by the teepee, and the fox is watching him with knowing eyes. Todd gives him a sharp yip of invitation, and twitches his ears before looking toward the woods, and trotting off.
Daryl gives himself a good shake from nose to stumpy tail, and lumbers after the fox because knowing that wily old shaman, he's got some more tricks up his sleeve he wants to show him.
Damn if he ain't right bout that.
They return to the clearing a couple hours after dawn the following day and Daryl's surprised to see that the teepee is gone. The fox leads him back to the campsite, where Samuel has everything packed up into a travois and ready to move out at a moment's notice. His backpack, boots, socks and shirt are in a neat pile next to his crossbow, and a second pile has Todd's buckskins and moccasins. He doesn't see Still Waters, but his sharp senses pick up her scent playing in the stream, in otter form. It seems unreal that the boy could do all the work by himself, and even though he's still a bear, his surprise must be obvious because the kid grins at him, gives a modest shrug, and says, "Horsepower."
His quiet chuff of amusement fades as he watches Todd effortlessly shift from a fox into the old, barrel-chested Injun again. It's a gnarly process to watch from beginning to end, and if changing back is as painful that first turn was, Daryl reckons he's liable to be a bear forever, because he's not sure he can take that shit again.
In fact, he's not really even sure how to change back, but figures a good place to start is to remind himself that he's a man, calls to mind what he'd look like if he were staring at himself in a mirror, and then tells himself, There, that's what your ugly ass looks like. Be that, not this. That's all it takes. It still hurts like a sumbitch, but it goes so much faster than the initial transformation did that it's bearable. Heh.
The autumn air is damn cold, and he's as naked as a jaybird. The pants he'd been wearing last night were ripped to shreds.
Samuel tosses him his backpack and shirt from last night and Daryl digs into it for the extra pair of pants he keeps stashed in there and pulls his clothes back on. "Ya'll headin' out already?" he asks, disappointed. He'd been hoping to spend some more time learning from the old Apache.
Todd nods, pulling on his buckskins and soft leather shoes before he checks the ties on the travois. "We're heading up toward New York. I got a friend up that ways I've been meaning to check in on. Need to do some hunting along the way, make sure we have plenty of furs to keep us warm since winter's just around the corner."
"Steer clear of Atlanta," he warns them, even though they probably know to steer clear of the cities. Everyone knows that, nowdays. He finds himself thinking about the past few hours and all that he's experienced and done in that short time frame. "Skin-walkers. That's whatcha are, isn't it?" he asks, and then corrects, "That's what we are."
Todd gives him a dark glare and makes a sign in the air as though warding off evil. "We are not skin-walkers. A skin-walker is an evil, malevolent thing, someone who has traded body and spirit for power. This is a time of great sorrow, the Wendigo are everywhere, and the Earth itself cries for peace, for balance. We help bring that balance."
Samuel says, "We're a bit more like werewolves. Only, we're not controlled by moon cycles, of course. And of course, we're not all wolves."
"So what's that mean, that we can't be killed 'cept by silver bullets or somethin' like that?"
Chuckling, the boy shrugs. "I dunno, never been shot by one. But I can tell you, we're very hard to kill, it doesn't matter if it's men or Wendigo."
That's when Daryl remembers what the old man told him right before he changed. "But it's a cure, right? Ya said I can't be turned anymore, that I'd be cured. Hell, man, I should take you back with me to my group, let ya do the ceremony for all'a 'em too. We'd never have ta worry about walkers again." He jerks on his socks and boots in a rush, eager to lead them to the others.
The old Apache shakes his head, "No, Daryl, I'm sorry but that's not how it works. This Ceremony of Transformation was for you and you alone. We've been here waiting for you for weeks, since the Spirits sent me a dream vision of you. We cleared out that mansion for you, because we knew you and your group would need a place to stay for winter."
Scowling, Daryl says, "That's bullshit, there's nothin' special 'bout me. That don't make no sense. And how the hell did just the two a' ya clear out that Manor?"
"As my grandson has said, we are very hard to kill," Todd says evenly.
The splashing sounds coming from the creek draw his attention and Daryl points in that direction, "Well what 'bout her? Did the spirits tell ya to change her too? She came out a'ight from the changin' and she's just a kid, so ain't it worth a shot, tryin' it out on the people in my group?"
Samuel's face tightens and he stalks away from them toward the stream, his shoulders tight with anger.
Todd watches him go and sighs, explaining, "Still Waters was dying when we found her in the manor along with the other captives they were keeping, a girl about fifteen years old, and two young women. They were all in bad shape, and so we did the ceremony for all of them. She is the only one who survived. The others died during the turning. The Spirits must have something planned for that child that they have not yet revealed to me, because it is a miracle that she survived. She never speaks, and I fear that the sight of any man other than Samuel or myself will send her mind back to that dark place. Her wounds are healed, yes, but she is not whole. Not yet. And she may not be for a long, long time."
"Goddammit," Daryl growls helplessly.
Samuel returns from the creek holding a dripping wet hide sack, and Still Waters skips along behind him, her hair slicked back and the buckskin dress with the red otter painted on the front sticking to her wet skin. The boy hands the sack to him, saying, "Your kills from yesterday. The stream is cold and spring fed, and they should keep until you are able to rejoin your friends."
Still Waters is sucking her thumb at her adopted brother's side and after a slight hesitation, steps forward, something clutched in her small fist. Darting a quick glance at the two Injuns, who look just as surprised as he does, Daryl opens his hand to take whatever it is she has. It's a small chunk of turquoise, smooth on one side and rough on the other, and he knows that if he lined it up just so, it'd be a perfect match to the side of her turquoise necklace.
He swallows hard, speechless, and then he knows exactly what to say. "Thanks. Now I got somethin' ta protect myself from ol' Owl-man Giant."
The little girl beams up at him and then runs behind Samuel, suddenly shy.
Todd chuckles and when he goes to slap Daryl on the shoulder, he can't stop himself from flinching away from that touch. But then he makes himself stand still, jaw taut, and the Apache puts one hand on each of his shoulders and says, "I am glad to have finally met you, Daryl Dixon. Remember, your courage, inner strength, protective nature, leadership skills, even your unpredictability—all of these things make up important parts of who you are, regardless of whether you are a man or bear."
The old man closes his eyes and chants in a singsong voice,
"May the sun bring you new energy by day,
may the moon softly restore you by night,
may the rain wash away your worries,
may the breeze blow new strength into your being,
may you walk gently through the world and
know it's beauty all the days of your life."
Then he releases Daryl and walks toward Samuel, "Well, hurry it up, it's going to be Christmas by the time we reach North Carolina at this rate." The boy rolls his eyes, turns his back to them to shuck his loincloth, and then shifts into the black horse from last night. Still Waters and Todd help hitch the travois to him, and they head off toward the northeast, without a backward look.
Seems like the Apache aren't big on long goodbyes.
Daryl's fine with that.
Authors Notes:
I want to apologize if there are any Apache readers out there who are offended by my ridiculous attempts to do this ceremonial ritual as occurs in the story. I did as much reading as I could on their ceremonies, but in the end, since this was something a bit extraordinary (since I'm pretty sure the Apache don't actually have a ceremony that grants people the ability to shapeshift), I ended up just winging it and using various elements of American Indian culture, including the medicine wheel, the use of colors, symbolic meaning of the different animals, and a healthy amount of creative bullshitting.
Killer of Enemies and Child of Water are two mythological heroes that occur in Apache folklore. In one of them, Child of Water uses a turquoise stone as a protective shield against a powerful enemy called Owl-man Giant.
Before I started this, I had no idea male black bears could weigh upwards of 850 lbs.
This is actually the second appearance of my OCs Todd and Samuel in a fanfic. Their first appearance is "Breakdown", which is set in the TV show Person of Interest genre. John Reese from that series is the friend that Todd says they're going to visit in New York. Seriously, if anyone survives the Zombie Pox Eclipse in NYC, it'll be him.
**edited** my original intent was for this to be a two part story with the second part focused on Beth, but giving it a lot of thought I've decided to flag this story as "Complete" and make the follow-up part 2 it's own story that references back to this. It just makes more sense to me, especially given that it's from a different point of view.