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Description
Tick-tock. Little John was fuming even as he stayed seated. Raven tresses streaked his vision as his slate-blue eyes traveled around the principal's office, though his ears were ever mindful of each and every notch the seconds hand counted. He counted together with it. Tick-tock, tick-tock. He knew he would be in trouble as soon as Jeff arrived. This was not the first time he had been in trouble, though his brother hardly took his side any of the other times. Tick-tock.

The door slowly creaked open, John's rich dark eyes shifting up towards the scowling face of his brother. Jeff always felt it was necessary for the Lightfeathers to keep to themselves, especially since they dealt with a deal of silent racial tension as it was – passive, but felt nonetheless. John's big brother poked his head fully into the room. It was not the first time he'd been called to pick his sibling up from school and as such the secretary immediately recognized him. With a mild wave of acknowledgment, Ms. Harper remotely dismissed Jeff with a warm greeting and John with a sneer.

John simultaneously pulled himself from the seat and hefted his backpack over shoulder. Trudging angrily pass his brother, the boy was rather aggravated that it would be the same old lecture. He could hear it already...

“You know better,” Jeff grunted as he steered the old pickup truck – re-painted cornflower blue, though it as not auto paint and certainly years beyond its scheduled makeover. “Fighting with those kids is not the answer. You can't expect to solve all of your problems with violence.”

“How come its fair when they gang up on me but not when I hit them back?” John stared out the window at the field opposite of the trees on Jeff's side.

“Who threw the first punch, John?” Jeff glanced over at him periodically, eagerly awaiting the answer. He knew that he had his brother cornered. There was no escaping the truth of how it had unfolded.

“They call us names,” John whined. “I'm sick of being called Little John and Brown Feather. They call you the Chief.” John was close to tears, though he stubbornly wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Why can't I go live with dad at the reservation?”

Jeff had clenched his teeth at being called the Chief. He understood that the times were changing and that the prejudice would only get worse as the white people became further separated from the truth and dived further into their trend of ignorant bliss. “Because of Grandma,” he reminded, “and everything your Great Grandfather did for us to stay here.”

John nodded wordlessly, staring out past the sea of amber hues towards the puffy clouds in a pale blue sky. He remained silent for an elongated moment before he looked back towards his brother, staring at the USMC visible on the outside of his bicep, below the cut-off sleeve. “Didn't you have to fight?”

Jeff tugged at the frayed edge of the sleeve self-consciously, eyes shutting for a second though he maintained his ability to drive. Upon reopening his eyes, he shook his head and murmured simply. “That was different.”

= = =

The boy picked at his food, mostly. It was well beyond its warmth and despite all of the labor that Jeff put into preparing dinner, he was ready to threaten feeding it to the dogs. As he finished his own plate, Jeff sat back and stared across the table as his brother. Turning the beer bottle in a circular motion over the surface of the table, the former Marine glanced over at his Grandmother.

“John got into another fight at school today,” he revealed, lifting the beverage to take a swig as he sat back in his seat. “He said that the other kids were calling him names.”

“Jeff!” Young Lightfeather cried out, slamming his small fist on the table. For a child the age of eleven he was quite strong or the table, more than twice his age, was quite brittle. Perhaps a little bit of both. The force caused the plates and utensils to chime and shake with his outrage at being told on.

“It's true,” Jeff set the bottle down. “He punched that Stiller kid in the mouth and drew blood. You need to learn some self-control, otherwise they're going to expel you from school.”

“They called Jeff names. They called us Brown Feathers,” John touched the side of his face for emphasis, index finger tracing his own cheek in shame – though it was pride, not shame, that he defended in his own mind.

“Did they hurt you?” Grandmother asked in her crackling voice of concern. She spoke with a certain amount of grog. Despite her age she wore a head still full of mostly black locks. One could only see the strands of gray upon careful inspection during a better lighted hour. Grandmother Woodchuck, the matriarch of their household, watched over the two boys since their mother's death and her son's retreat away from his children. In turn Jeff Lightfeather watched over his little brother and their grandmother, the source of the family's wisdom.

“No,” came John's simple answer. He could not lie from Grandma. She always knew the truth, whether he told it or not. His correspondence with her had reached a point where he could not stray, even if he tried, from admitting to her when he was wrong – or when he was hiding something.

“If they hurt you here,” she touched her hand over her heart, “you will get better.” She smiled faintly, a few vacancies in her upper and lower rows of teeth alike. Her sagging face and twinkling eyes were sincere when she made a fist and feigned a striking motion at her own jaw. “When they hurt you here,” she paused, “you do what you have to. But do not take it lightly. Malsum will find your violent heart.”

As Jeff proceeded to pick up the dinnerware, stacking the plates together, he scowled at the contents of John's and three-quarters of it that he had not touched. “Grandma,” Jeff stepped around the table and towards the kitchen, “that story is not real.”

Grandmother Woodchuck frowned at her older grandson's comment, though she kept facing her younger one. “Fairy-tales to others maybe,” she murmured, “but Malsum is very real.”

“Very real,” Jeff scoffed and hollered from the kitchen, dropping plates into the sink before returning. “It's the story of the devil, John. It's a story that came with the white men.”

“Who is he? Who is Malsum?” John anticipated being told. He wanted to hear of this monster who would take his violent heart. It sounded like a challenge, much better than those presented by television and video games – things that his family could not afford either way. It was a real treat when Grandmother spoke of spirits and totems.

“Malsum,” Grandmother turned somber, “is the Wolf Who Hunts Men.”

Description
Tick-tock. Little John was fuming even as he stayed seated. Raven tresses streaked his vision as his slate-blue eyes traveled around the principal's office, though his ears were ever mindful of each and every notch the seconds hand counted. He counted together with it. Tick-tock, tick-tock. He knew he would be in trouble as soon as Jeff arrived. This was not the first time he had been in trouble, though his brother hardly took his side any of the other times. Tick-tock.

The door slowly creaked open, John's rich dark eyes shifting up towards the scowling face of his brother. Jeff always felt it was necessary for the Lightfeathers to keep to themselves, especially since they dealt with a deal of silent racial tension as it was – passive, but felt nonetheless. John's big brother poked his head fully into the room. It was not the first time he'd been called to pick his sibling up from school and as such the secretary immediately recognized him. With a mild wave of acknowledgment, Ms. Harper remotely dismissed Jeff with a warm greeting and John with a sneer.

John simultaneously pulled himself from the seat and hefted his backpack over shoulder. Trudging angrily pass his brother, the boy was rather aggravated that it would be the same old lecture. He could hear it already...

“You know better,” Jeff grunted as he steered the old pickup truck – re-painted cornflower blue, though it as not auto paint and certainly years beyond its scheduled makeover. “Fighting with those kids is not the answer. You can't expect to solve all of your problems with violence.”

“How come its fair when they gang up on me but not when I hit them back?” John stared out the window at the field opposite of the trees on Jeff's side.

“Who threw the first punch, John?” Jeff glanced over at him periodically, eagerly awaiting the answer. He knew that he had his brother cornered. There was no escaping the truth of how it had unfolded.

“They call us names,” John whined. “I'm sick of being called Little John and Brown Feather. They call you the Chief.” John was close to tears, though he stubbornly wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Why can't I go live with dad at the reservation?”

Jeff had clenched his teeth at being called the Chief. He understood that the times were changing and that the prejudice would only get worse as the white people became further separated from the truth and dived further into their trend of ignorant bliss. “Because of Grandma,” he reminded, “and everything your Great Grandfather did for us to stay here.”

John nodded wordlessly, staring out past the sea of amber hues towards the puffy clouds in a pale blue sky. He remained silent for an elongated moment before he looked back towards his brother, staring at the USMC visible on the outside of his bicep, below the cut-off sleeve. “Didn't you have to fight?”

Jeff tugged at the frayed edge of the sleeve self-consciously, eyes shutting for a second though he maintained his ability to drive. Upon reopening his eyes, he shook his head and murmured simply. “That was different.”

= = =

The boy picked at his food, mostly. It was well beyond its warmth and despite all of the labor that Jeff put into preparing dinner, he was ready to threaten feeding it to the dogs. As he finished his own plate, Jeff sat back and stared across the table as his brother. Turning the beer bottle in a circular motion over the surface of the table, the former Marine glanced over at his Grandmother.

“John got into another fight at school today,” he revealed, lifting the beverage to take a swig as he sat back in his seat. “He said that the other kids were calling him names.”

“Jeff!” Young Lightfeather cried out, slamming his small fist on the table. For a child the age of eleven he was quite strong or the table, more than twice his age, was quite brittle. Perhaps a little bit of both. The force caused the plates and utensils to chime and shake with his outrage at being told on.

“It's true,” Jeff set the bottle down. “He punched that Stiller kid in the mouth and drew blood. You need to learn some self-control, otherwise they're going to expel you from school.”

“They called Jeff names. They called us Brown Feathers,” John touched the side of his face for emphasis, index finger tracing his own cheek in shame – though it was pride, not shame, that he defended in his own mind.

“Did they hurt you?” Grandmother asked in her crackling voice of concern. She spoke with a certain amount of grog. Despite her age she wore a head still full of mostly black locks. One could only see the strands of gray upon careful inspection during a better lighted hour. Grandmother Woodchuck, the matriarch of their household, watched over the two boys since their mother's death and her son's retreat away from his children. In turn Jeff Lightfeather watched over his little brother and their grandmother, the source of the family's wisdom.

“No,” came John's simple answer. He could not lie from Grandma. She always knew the truth, whether he told it or not. His correspondence with her had reached a point where he could not stray, even if he tried, from admitting to her when he was wrong – or when he was hiding something.

“If they hurt you here,” she touched her hand over her heart, “you will get better.” She smiled faintly, a few vacancies in her upper and lower rows of teeth alike. Her sagging face and twinkling eyes were sincere when she made a fist and feigned a striking motion at her own jaw. “When they hurt you here,” she paused, “you do what you have to. But do not take it lightly. Malsum will find your violent heart.”

As Jeff proceeded to pick up the dinnerware, stacking the plates together, he scowled at the contents of John's and three-quarters of it that he had not touched. “Grandma,” Jeff stepped around the table and towards the kitchen, “that story is not real.”

Grandmother Woodchuck frowned at her older grandson's comment, though she kept facing her younger one. “Fairy-tales to others maybe,” she murmured, “but Malsum is very real.”

“Very real,” Jeff scoffed and hollered from the kitchen, dropping plates into the sink before returning. “It's the story of the devil, John. It's a story that came with the white men.”

“Who is he? Who is Malsum?” John anticipated being told. He wanted to hear of this monster who would take his violent heart. It sounded like a challenge, much better than those presented by television and video games – things that his family could not afford either way. It was a real treat when Grandmother spoke of spirits and totems.

“Malsum,” Grandmother turned somber, “is the Wolf Who Hunts Men.”