“No, thank you,” he said clearly.
“Really, it’s no bother.”
Now he was getting annoyed. He’d already told her no twice, and there was a line between helpfulness and not respecting consent.
He turned and pointedly started walking. It was how New Yorkers handled things.
The car beside him trailed beside him for another minute and then eventually sped off.
He rolled his eyes. People like her were better forgotten, and he wasn’t going to let her ruin his day.
He kept up his pace, letting the whisper of the trees wrap around him again. He saw some sort of large rodent, a racoon maybe, at the edge of the forest.
He waved at it, thinking maybe it was a shifter, but it didn’t wave back. He liked the idea of it, though. After watching him for a moment, it disappeared into the woods.
His legs were just starting to feel the strain when he spotted the sign for the little store. Next time, he was definitely bringing a water bottle.
He pulled open the door to the sound of tinkling bells. The shop was small and neatly arranged. It felt touristy, but some of the craftsmanship was truly beautiful. He could see that some of the shelves were lined with cheap, manufactured crap, but the handmade stuff belonged in an art gallery or a high-end gift store.
As an artist, he was happy giving away his own stuff, but it always hurt his heart when he saw talented work sold cheaply.
He touched a pouch that dangled from a leather cord. It was beaded with tiny white flowers in the shape of stars.
“Ah…” said a deep voice, as though something important had been discovered.
He looked up to find the storyteller from the other day standing behind the counter. The Guide, he reminded himself. The heart-singer for the tribe.
“Grandfather,” he said in greeting, still hoping he was getting this right. “Do you usually work here?”
The old man winked. “No, just today.” He pointed to the leather pouch that Declan had forgotten he was holding. “That’s a trailing arbutus. Interesting that you should choose it.”
He flipped the pouch back to the beaded side. “Do they grow around here?”
“Only at the beginning of spring. And mostly to the North and East, where my people come from.”
“Oh! So your people aren’t from around here?”
“No,” the Guide explained, his voice a quiet rumble like he was telling another story. “This land has been a battlefield for centuries. It has good water and rich soil. There were once bison as far as one could see. Before the white people came, the nations that you would call the Iroquois and Algonquin fought here. This was Wyandotte land, but when the white people came, they pushed them back. The Wyandotte signed a treaty that allowed them to escape with their lives and some trivial payment if they would settle in what is now Oklahoma. Their tribe is extinct today.”
Declan shivered. That was horrific.
“Tribes moved when they were forced to. Fought back when they could. Those who were blessed with animal forms sometimes stayed with their tribes to protect them, but others slipped away into the woods to protect and support in other ways. Some just wanted to stay alive. Tribes merged over time and many of the people who hold animal spirits alongside their own, the ones you call shifters, settled here. People here still speak many different Iroquois and Algonquian languages in our tribe, though most know Mohawk. Our only shared culture is the one that we’ve built.”
Declan wasn’t sure what to say. There was so much brutal history, and white people, like him, were at the root of so much of it. He settled for nodding.
“Geir came in the 1700s maybe, when Kahshennenhawe, the Chief’s great-grandmother, was our Guide. They made a pact. Our tribe is actually the reason why Geir lives here, or perhaps the other way around. He had Hunters after him, men who thought it was their Christian duty to kill anything that was different from them. We had people fighting to take our land. Well, Geir spoke French and English, and he looked white, so we asked him to buy the land, officially, and live here with us. He was once much more a part of the tribe, or so I’ve heard. Now even I have barely seen him, and I am old.”
It was a truly amazing story, for all of them to overcome so much adversity. It raised all sorts of questions about Geir now, though. How old was he exactly? And was he lonely? Did he want to be more involved? He seemed so committed before, so why wasn’t he now?
“Our tribe bought back the land, at least this part of it. I believe he owns much more of the area around. Our tribe’s accountant would know.”
“I’m glad you were able to do that. Keep the land, I mean.”
The storyteller continued. “Shifters who escaped genocides and relocations heard of us and traveled here. Later, this property was part of the Underground Railroad, getting people up to Canada. We passed humans through, but most of the shifters stayed. I believe you’ve met Rohahen?”
Declan nodded.
“His grandfather was an escaped slave that Geir rescued. I believe they were good friends.”
“Wait. His grandfather?”
“We are a long-lived people. More than a century is common. Sometimes two. But not like Geir.” The storyteller fixed Declan with a steely gaze, like he was supposed to understand something. “Geir used to be part of the tribe. He fought beside us when there were battles and went to testify in court whenever someone brought up an accusation. Our documents,” the storyteller smirked, “say he was even principal of a school that he never set foot in. Our Chief and his counsel drew up all sorts of fabrications explaining how Geir would teach the children English and Christianity and imperialism, and Geir filed them at the capitol and left us to raise our children right. He doesn’t talk much, but his actions have always spoken loud and clear.”
“So he… is not as involved now?”
The Guide nodded.
“Do you think that he… thinks that you no longer need his help?”
“I cannot say. The system is wrong, and we continue to fight it. We have many of the tools for the battle, education and resources, that many others do not have. For more than a century, having Geir as a cover meant that we could fight slavery and dispossession to hold on to our land and future. Now instead of fighting with arrows and guns, we fight mostly through activists and lawyers, not just for ourselves, but for people without rights across the country. Perhaps, as you say, he thinks we do not need his help anymore.”
“You want his help, though? I mean, is that why Kayla, er, the Sentry, was so worried about someone sending me here? Is someone bothering you?”
“There are unfortunately too many reasons someone could be making trouble for us. Humans that know about shifters are often afraid of them, and they respond with violence. And white men are often afraid of angry and empowered people of color. Shifters also have to worry about the U.S. government, which is more than ready to experiment on us, especially when you’re not white. It could be anything.”
They both stood in silence. There was just… so much fucked up shit in the world.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Declan finally asked. “Not, like, fight I mean. But anything else?”
The old man shrugged. “I’m just a storyteller.”
Declan knew that wasn’t true. But it was apparently all the answer he was going to get.