Navajo Indian Werewolf Princess

"Ajei, you've been bitten, you now bear the curse of the Skin Walker, when the next full moon rises, you will become one of them, we should kill you for your own good," those were the last words that my father, Hashkeh Naabah, Chief of the Navajo Nation, said to me, the night I came back from collecting fruit in the woods. I got attacked by what I thought was a wolf, albeit an unusually large one, and when I got home, the welcoming I got surprised the hell out of me...

"Azhe'e, ( father ), please give me a chance," I pleaded desperately, but my father Chief Hashkeh, who stood six feet two inches tall, burly and strong even at the age of sixty, would not be moved. This beautiful and stoic, proud Native man whom I loved so much looked at me as though I were a piece of mud attached to his boot. The other young men and women of the tribe looked at me, guns in hand. Shaking my head, I disappeared into the night. Thus I walked away from my family, my tribe and my homeland.

In the myths, the Skin Walkers are seen as worthy of reverence by the various First Nations/Native American people. I wonder who came up with that bit of bullshit, seriously. When I got turned into a werewolf, my clan shunned me, and I was told that under penalty of death, I was never to return to the only home I'd ever known. So much for reverence, eh? Even now, decades later, I know better than to expect tolerance from most humans, no matter their skin color or origin. Hatred is indeed part of humanity's fabric...

Why, just the other day, my mate Shawn Jackson and I were hanging out in the City of Atlanta, Georgia, and saw a white guy with a Confederate flag jacket and a Trump hat coming into the restaurant where we were dining. The bozo looked at us, and the disgust I saw in his eyes made me bristle. I know what he saw, a Native American woman with a black man. In the South, even in the Age of Obama, interracial relationships are still taboo apparently...

"Ignore the fool, babe," I said to Shawn, and my boo looked at me and shook his head. Six feet two inches tall, broad-shouldered and well-built, with smooth chocolate skin and a shaved head, Shawn Jackson is roughly handsome in a way only men of the African American persuasion can be. We met over a century ago, back when Shawn was a mere mortal, before I was forced to change him, and he took my breath away with his strength and kindness...

"Not this time," Shawn said, and he took my hand and brought it to his lips. I watched as he rose from his chair, and walked over to Mr. Trump Hat. Shawn got into the guy's face and asked him if he had a problem with us. Everyone in this classy little Italian restaurant watched the heated exchange between the two men. Finally, Shawn came back to our table. I smiled at my other half, knowing the fool he just confronted just signed his own death warrant...

"You can take him out tonight, babe, for now we feast on pierogis and meat balls," I said, chiding Shawn, and he looked at me and smiled. We kissed, and then I held up a forkful of meatball, and pressed it against his lips. Rolling his soulful brown eyes, Shawn nevertheless ate what I offered him. We resumed our meal, just another couple in the loveliest town of the new south. Tonight, when the full moon rises, we'll wolf out and go on the hunt for a certain redneck.

That's how life is for Shawn and I. We are natural-born wanderers no matter how you look at it. Hell, I was just starting my journey when we met. The year was 1897. The white man had been terrorizing the various Native peoples of the Americas for centuries, and now, at the dawn of the twentieth century, they seemed to have sated their lust for our blood.

I was nineteen years old, and at a time when I should have been fielding marriage requests from young men of nearby tribes and contemplating the future, I found myself rudderless. Worse, I was alone in the world for the first time. Now, some of you might think that being a Skin Walker, or werewolf, as it goes in today's lexicon, made my life easier. I guess you don't know what it's like to have a monster inside when you want to lead a normal life...

I left the City of Window Rock, Arizona, and made my way through the Four Corners, and thus walked off Indian land. I began to make my way into a world I knew next to nothing about. The world of the white man. It soon dawned on me that I wasn't going to last long. When I arrived in the City of Houston, Texas, and looked for work, I was exposed to white racism and bigotry for the very first time. My baptism of fire was swift, and brutal...

Life isn't easy on the reservation, but at least I was free. Everywhere I looked, I saw men and women who looked like me. I was proud Navajo men with their wives along with their sons and daughters. I saw the elders with young ones listening to them as they sat near the fire at night and told stories of the old days. I saw my people, and they saw me. Life wasn't perfect but I was at home and I belonged.

As the daughter of the Chief of the Navajo Nation, the largest band of Native folks in the southwestern United States, I had a certain status. The fact that I was easy on the eyes didn't hurt either. At the age of nineteen, I stood five feet eleven inches tall, sturdy and curvy, with dark bronze skin, long black hair and light brown eyes. Among my people, I was akin to a princess, admired for my lineage and good looks. In the white man's world, I was nothing...

"Not in the habit of giving work to no squaw woman, you're just going to drink away any money I might give you," said Jedediah Simpson, owner of the Cracker Lounge restaurant in the south side of Houston. The creep cussed me out the day I came by his place of business while looking for work. I looked at the tall, silver-haired and blue-eyed Texan and the raw hatred I saw in those eyes of his made me shudder...

"Sorry for the trouble," was all I could say. I walked away, and must have wandered across much of Houston before I ended up in the so-called Colored Area of town. I had never seen black folk before, and from the way they looked at me, they didn't know what to make of me either. I went to a restaurant called Lincoln's Pub, named after the former U.S. President, and inquired inside about food. I had only three dollars to my name, and although I was hesitant about spending it, I wasn't about to starve.

"Honey, where did you come from?" asked a waitress whose nametag read Wanda, and I looked at the tall, apron-wearing, fifty-something black woman with a resigned look. I was alone, dirty and smelly, and I was starving. Everywhere I went in Houston, people looked at me funny or called me names. The elders often spoke of the white man's hatred for native folks, and it looks like they were right. The question is, how would the colored folk treat me?

"Ma'am, I'm Ajei, I'm from Arizona, and I'm dying for some food, been walking all day, please help me," I pleaded, and Wanda looked at me, sighed and nodded. I went inside, and the lady sat me down at a nice table by the window. As I let my tired legs rest a bit, Wanda hollered and the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps caused me to look up. I'm watchful, it's both an Indian thing and a werewolf thing, I'm afraid...

"Shawn, please give some food to our friend Ajei here," Wanda said, and I watched as a tall, burly young colored gentleman walked into the room. Shawn looked at Wanda, then at me. The young man wrinkled his nose, and I realized that I must have smelled something awful. It's not easy to maintain hygiene and feminine decency when you're homeless, and Native, and people in redneck central won't touch you with a ten foot pole...

"Yes, auntie, I reckon the lady might want to use the showers," Shawn said pointedly, and I looked at him. Our eyes met, and his did not waver. Wanda patted her nephew's brawny shoulder, and Shawn went to the kitchen and soon emerged with a plate of white rice, brown beans and sweet-smelling goat meat. I barely stopped myself from salivating as the young man and his delicious-smelling tray came near...

"Thank you so much, I'm Ajei," I said, and Shawn shrugged, then set the plate in front of me. I nodded, said a quick prayer, and then began to eat greedily. I hadn't had anything to eat in almost two days. I ate quite noisily, and Shawn and his aunt Wanda watched me even as they went about the daily work of taking care of their restaurant. I finished my plate, then got up.

"You folks just saved my life, thank you," I said as I pulled a dollar out of my tattered purse and placed it on the table. Shawn and Wanda exchanged a look, then nodded. I inquired about the shower, and Wanda let me do it. I thanked her profusely, then closed the washroom door. I cleaned myself with soap and water for the first time in weeks. As the cool water fell over me, I felt renewed...

"Where are you off to next?" Wanda asked me, a little while later, as I asked her about the Houston public transportation system. I had seen enough of the Texan metropolis and was seriously considering leaving the state altogether. I looked at the only human being who'd shown me kindness in ages, and I didn't have an answer for her.

"Ma'am, you've been kind to me so I'll be honest with you, my own people don't want anything to do with me, and them rednecks hate me, I need a job, otherwise I'm dead meat," I said finally, and Wanda looked at me and nodded. I saw strength and resilience in her eyes. Not for the first time it occurred to me that as tough as life was for me and my fellow Natives, colored folk endured much worse at the hands of whites, yet they were so kind to me, a perfect stranger...

"Now, Ajei, I am not in the business of welcoming strangers with strange stories but I can see you're really hard up, and as it happens, I need help with the restaurant, since Shawn's cooking skills are limited, so I'm offering you a job, but if you lie to me or steal, you're gone," Wanda said sternly, and I looked into her eyes and nodded, and then impulsively hugged her.

"Thank you ma'am, you won't regret it," I said, and Wanda looked at me, then shook her head and laughed. That's how it all began, ladies and gentlemen. I crossed paths with Wanda Jackson of Houston, Texas, and her twenty-year-old nephew Shawn Jackson. These two were destined to change my life forever, though I didn't know it at the time. I had yet to learn a harsh truth, that family and blood are sometimes two very different things...

"So what's your story?" Shawn asked me, a few days later, as we took out the trash. I was starting to adjust to my new surroundings. Working at the restaurant wasn't so bad. Wanda is a tough boss but she's fair. Five dollars at the end of every week was a very generous pay rate in those days. We're talking about a time when five hundred dollars could have bought you a house in the nicest parts of town. Yup, things were looking up for me...

"My father banished me from the reservation, and I found myself exiled to the white man's world," I said, omitting quite a lot, and Shawn looked at me. From the expression on his handsome face, I could tell that he wasn't buying what I was selling. There was no way I was going to tell him that I'd been banned from my own clan for being a werewolf. I didn't think a church-going lad like Shawn could handle that...

"That's your story and you're sticking to it, Ajei, just don't expect me to buy it," Shawn said, and I smiled and shook my head. I could tell that he and his aunt Wanda were cut from different cloths. Wanda was a sharecropper's daughter, a hard-working and no-nonsense woman who basically raised her nephew Shawn after his parents split. From Wanda, I learned that Shawn attended Allen University in the City of Columbia, South Carolina. What's a college guy doing working at his aunt's restaurant year-round?

"We've all got secrets, Shawn, you got yours and I have mine, I work hard and I respect you and your aunt, so please cut me some slack," I said as politely as I could, as I finished tossing the trash, and then walked back toward the building. I could feel Shawn's eyes on me, and when I briefly turned around, I saw a wicked smile on his face.

"You've got a fire on you, and quite a nice behind too, Miss Ajei," Shawn said, laughing, and I ignored him and shook my head as I returned to the restaurant. I slept on a cot in the room above the restaurant. Shawn and Wanda lived in a tiny house some four hundred meters away. Pretty much everyone living in this neighborhood was colored. Nice, hard-working folks just going about their daily lives. I was different from them, but they didn't mistreat me in any way.

"Don't pay my nephew any mind, he's a fool, all guys are like that at his age," Wanda said to me as I returned to the kitchen. I nodded at her, and shrugged. Truth be told, I wasn't bothered by Shawn's words. I had heard much worse from redneck lads during my sojourn on the mean streets of Houston. They called me things I won't print here. It still hurts sometimes...

"You're a decent lady and you got a good place here, Wanda, thanks for letting me be a part of it," I said, meaning every word, and Wanda nodded graciously. I had nothing but respect for this lady, seriously. We sat at a table together, sipping tea. There were seven other people in the restaurant, all of them colored workmen and women who worked at various places in the Houston area.

Bellboys, train workers, cooks, mechanics, drivers, dock workers, the hard-working colored men of the area did it all to feed their families, enduring all kinds of hell at the hands of white men as they earned their living. It occurred to me that in American history, both whites and Natives like myself have mistreated the sons and daughters of Africa living in our midst. Living in this predominantly colored neighborhood, surrounded by them, I learned to respect them, and admired their strength and resilience...

"Ajei, I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier, and, um, invite you to church with me," Shawn said to me one Saturday evening, after we finished working. I looked at the tall, brawny young colored man, and smiled, pleasantly surprised by his change of attitude. Truth be told, I was curious about colored churches, rumored to be quite vibrant and unique.

"Apology accepted, Shawn, I'll be happy to go to church with you," I said, smiling at Shawn, even as it dawned on me that colored folk dressed up for church, and I didn't have anything to wear. Oh, I've bought a few dresses but nothing church-like. Nevertheless, I'd given Shawn my word and wasn't about to rescind on it. My clothes would just have to do...

"Thank you for accepting, I'll be by tomorrow morning at nine, church starts at ten," Shawn said excitedly, and he impulsively hugged me. I was a bit surprised by that, but I hugged him back. It's been my experience that the colored folk are quite lively, and passionate, and express themselves, showing affection to friends and loved ones without fear or shame. It's the way my people are, or were. I hugged Shawn, and looked into his eyes.

"Thank you," I said, and Shawn looked at me, falling silent all of a sudden. We looked into each other's eyes, and for some reason, my heart skipped a beat. Shawn's dark, handsome face drew closer, until it was inches from mine. I looked at him, and he looked at him. Without another word, I drew closer to him. And that's when it happened. Shawn Jackson pulled me into his arms, and then he kissed me.

"Your lips taste sweet," Shawn said to me as we came up for air, so to speak. Alright, we'd kissed but it was just a five-second kiss. Nothing like what you see in the movies or on the Internet these days. In those days, when men and women were a lot more reserved when it came to expressing affection, a kiss meant a lot more. And as I kissed Shawn with a passion that surprised even me, I realized how lonely I'd been, and how much I wanted him.

"Right back at you," I whispered, and Shawn gave my hand a squeeze. We were all smiles when Wanda returned from town, and she frowned while observing us. Night had fallen, and I was getting ready to retire for the evening. A most promising day awaited tomorrow. I was so excited that I overlooked what my body had been telling me. Tonight, there was a full moon...

Night fell, and as soon as Wanda closed the restaurant, I slipped out the back door. I went into the woods at the edge of town, and when the full moon rose, bathing me in its silvery light, I was ready. In the movies, a werewolf transformation is grotesque and painful. That's not how it works, at least not for me. When the moon rose, I simply shifted. I changed from a tall, curvy young Native woman into a large, yellow-eyed, muscular and brown-coated, fearsome she-wolf.

Fully transformed, I retained my human intelligence and memories, although they mingled and at times clashed with the wolf's instincts. I felt drawn to the woods, a realm that had been my domain since time immemorial. I stretched my jaws and howled, and then took off at full speed. The wilderness was my domain, and I was going to prowl...

I don't know for how long I roamed the woods, but I soon found myself drawn to a certain place. There was a stench in the air I recognized all too well. The scent of men. I followed the scent and found myself near a clearing, and my eyes fell upon a gathering of men. Clad in white vestments and pointy hoods which hid all but their eyes, the men of the Ku Klux Klan rallied around a fire.

"I'm telling you the negroes are starting businesses left and right, restaurants and dispensaries and whatnot, we have to show them they still need to fear us," said a tall, stern-voiced man who appeared to be the Klan's leader. As he took off his hood, a gesture echoed by all the other men in the gathering, I recognized Jedediah Simpson, the creep who dared call me a squaw...

"We should start at Lincoln's Pub, it's where all of them negroes like to congregate after a day's work," suggested one of Jedediah's acolytes, and a universal cheer went up. I watched as the men put their hoods back on, and got back on their horses. Brandishing torches and guns, they got ready to deliver death and misery to unsuspecting folks whose only sin was to be born with a different skin color. One of the first to saddle up was Jedediah, and as he took off ahead of the others, I gave chase.

"You're going down, fiend," I swore to myself as I took off after the Klansman, and with a werewolf's enhanced muscles, keeping up with his steed was easy as pie. As he rode through the woods, a wicked idea sprang into my head. I raced ahead of him, toward a bend on the road. I moved like a shadow in the night, and neither Jedediah nor his horse saw anything...

Hidden in the bush, I waited. When the horseman came by, I leapt, and struck in mid-air, dislodging him from his mount before I landed on the rough dirt road. Jedediah screamed as he fell, and his steed took off without him. Fangs bared and claws extended, I tore into him. My jaws closed around the Klansman's neck, and I crushed his carotid. Savagely I tore out Jedediah's throat, and he lay there, bleeding to death. Hearing the steeds of his approaching acolytes, I took off, victorious...

When morning came, it found me lying on the grass, in the woods near Wanda Jackson's neighborhood, my lips still bloody from my encounter with Jedediah Simpson. I hurried back to the restaurant, slipped in through the backdoor and showered, then went to bed. I always feel exhausted the morning after my transformation. Fortunately, I recuperate faster than normal humans even while in human form. When Shawn came calling, I was ready.

"Good morning, milady, you look lovely," Shawn said, looking me up and down with an appreciative grin. I looked at the tall, handsome brother, who looked mighty fine in a dark gray suit, white shirt, red tie and dark gray silk pants. His shoes were shiny as though freshly polished. I smiled at Shawn, and, in a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, I threw my arms around him and kissed him.