The Indian Warrior and Her Shaman
He shouldered the Winchester rifle and started walking to the top of the hill. This was as good a place as any to start a war. More
She was born on the reservation, some 26 plus years ago, the firstborn of a Tribal Chief.
Her father, they said, had been killed in an auto accident when she was young.
She remembered clearly the night the Tribal Council brought a new husband over for her mother, it was a law of the tribe.
When the molestation started, she didn't like it at all. The beatings and the rape sessions, she had been told, were all her fault; she was evil she was told. She believed it.
“I can’t lie to you, it was tough, you don’t know how many times I thought of suicide.”
They met at the truck stop, he had saved the small Raven. She knew that meant a change was coming, it was an omen.
He was wild and dangerous, a killer. He had killed before and would again, she knew that, but she also knew he would never hurt her.
He was to be her healer, her protector; Her Shaman.
He could help her with her past. He had a good idea of what was coming up; this was his specialty, this was what he did, this was his job.
They claimed she was The Chosen One, but she wasn't. It was being shoved down her throat, they were going to make her this person whether she liked it or not. She didn't like it, and he was going to make sure she didn't have to accept it; no matter who had to die.
There were tears in her eyes when she talked about his proposing; the wedding ring he had made for her, and the special meaning it had. She told of his family and friends, and of the wedding that same day.
She did pretty good telling the details of the battle, including her part in it, he had taught her well.
She was, after all, The Indian Warrior.
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