I stared at the notched gash on my forearm, a piece of an arrowhead had pierced through my clothes. I had been wandering near an old trail that had once been historically Lakota tribal territory, hiking against the base of the mountains when I lost my footing on a loose pebble and tumbled down a set of grassy verges until the ground had given way to a small drop onto hard gravel. I collected my glasses, which had landed beside me and rubbed them against my turned-out pocket before putting them on to inspect the damage. The fall had grazed my skin and several pieces of flinty gravel and rock debris had torn right through my shirt sleeve, exposing my bare arm. I looked at my arm and noticed that one of the sharpest pieces of rock embedded in my flesh, by far the most painful, looked different. It looked like the shape looked like an arrowhead and was about halfway in my forearm, the head planted askew. I pulled it out carefully, wiggling it out the wound, I winced and took out my first aid kit to tend to it.
Once I had bandaged my arm up, I cleaned off the blood on the arrowhead and put it in my pocket, intrigued by its origin. I hoped it wasn’t a modern one, but judging by how unmarked it was I sadly suspected so. There was almost no way this was a Sioux arrowhead, it looked untouched by time. Still, I kept it, unsure why I suddenly felt strongly compelled about taking it back to the cabin with me. It was at this point the light was fading and I had decided to abandon the hike and doubleback to the cabin further down the trail. It was near the end of the autumn and I would be the sole occupant, besides, it was on the way into the forest and I could get some uninterrupted rest.
On the way, I started to feel feverish, my muscles ached and the wound was now itchy and hot. I swore I could hear faint indistinct voices, but that was probably just my imagination or sounds reverberating around the valley from miles away. I shifted my rucksack on my sore shoulders and kept my pace going but it seemed the voices were not getting less audible as I hiked on, in fact they seemed to be louder as time went by. It piqued my curiosity and slightly unnerved me but ultimately all I cared about was getting back, so I ignored them. As I trekked further down the valley path my rucksack seemed heavier and heavier as I pressed on with nightfall finally approaching as I caught sight of the cabin. I was relieved to be able to rest by the fireplace and take stronger painkillers with potable water from the mains. I opened the door and dumped my rucksack next to the sofa and sat down to rest my eyes for a moment...
I woke up, my arm was unbearably itchy under the bandages so I got up and unwound the wrappings, that’s when I noticed my arm was unblemished, the wound had disappeared, not so much as even a scar. I couldn’t have imagined or misremembered falling -no, my torn sleeves were evidence of that. I slowly ran my thumb over where I thought the wound had been, the skin was supple and smooth. I didn’t know what to think, I recalled all the last few hours, the arrowhead, of course, I would check to see if I still had it. I reached into my pocket and sure enough, it was there, but it felt warm in my hand and it was getting uncomfortably hot in my palm like an ember from a fire. I recoiled and dropped it on the floor.
My head started pounding, the voices were even louder now but I couldn’t source the location it was coming from and it was clearly not in english. It was coming from inside my head, and it was some strange language I had never heard spoken and yet it seemed familiar, comprehensible even. The voices were becoming more audible, more intense and I could even hear sound of percussion; a beat, it sounded like drums were joining the shouting. I was feeling so anxious, resting had done nothing for the fever and my body was aching more than ever. The voices were intimidating; ominous chanting in anticipation of something, rising from a quiet rumble to a metered chorus. I looked at the arrowhead on the ground, It must be Native American; the voices sounded like something I had heard in a historical documentary but I had no idea which local language it could be. That arrowhead couldn’t be that old, it looked like it had crafted by a fletcher yesterday, the head sharpened to a fine point, metal undulled. Was it cursed, did such things as curses even exist? I was scared, I just wanted the voices to stop, and I desperately hoped that this was was all just some fever dream of mine.
The walls were closing, I had to get out into the Forest or fear this curse would take hold. I could hear the sound of tribal chanting and drums in my head. My head and heart was pounding in rhythm with the beat, my eyes burning; muscles and joints aching as if I were standing too close to a great bonfire fresh from the freezing night air. I could feel the vibrations in my bones, each chant followed by choruses of whoops and hollers. I looked at my bare arm, rolling up my left sleeve...
It was too late.
The skin on my arm began to turn; my pasty caucasian pallor darkening into a rich caramel as the complexion flowed down to my fingertips, my hands changing from stubby fingers and palms to long well-worn hands of a seasoned archer. I could feel the pigment change across my arm as it accompanied a muscle growth, my flabby arm tautened into a wiry athletic physique, as the fat was sewn up by waves of firm tan skin. I flexed my left bicep, the chanting cheering as if in encouragement of the changes. The rest of my body was now turning an attractive golden brown; the healthy vigour flushing the milky gooseflesh skin away. My hair was turning into a rich deep black, follicles darkening down the roots to the tips.
I gasped as pressure pushed down my fat gut, the unhealthy bulge being smoothed down as if by a pair of gentle hands, the honey coloured skin tightening and firming up with muscle as it flowed down my body; a lean swimmer's build rippling down my abdomen. As the changes progressed downwards it replaced my gluttonous shame with a trim six pack befitting a nomadic life. My belted waistline started to sag on my jeans, I could feel my lumpy ass and thighs being squeezed, the pressure forcing them into a pair of enviable pert cheeks and a set of bronze snake hips. My boxers began to feel more comfortable despite sensing myself become more endowed, the material felt strange like it was changing into another garment, becoming softer and looser. My shirt was dripping off my slender frame, my collar catching my shoulder and the plunging neckline exposing the top of my firm pecs. I massaged my stomach, partly lifting up my shirt and patting my smooth toned abs, giddy with excitement. “holy-fuuuu”. I was ecstatic, feeling my body undergo an orgasm; grasping the bottom of my baggy shirt, rubbing it over my groin, huffing lusty ministrations. The drums were beating faster and faster now, the chants drowning in cries of joyous exaltations as my hair started to flourish and blossom, rich raven-haired follicles erupted out my scalp like magma flows down my shoulders.
My shoes were hemming my feet as the material crushed my toes, finally bursting open as they wiggled out the shredded remains of my socks. My jeans were so tight against my thighs they split down the side, my marathoner legs showing through the ripped denim. The cotton shirt pulled across my svelte chest, the tails of the shirt barely covering my belly button as the shirt burst up the back from doubling over in my throes of pleasure, the shirt peeling off my bare chest like an apron as it still futilely clung to my upper arms by a few stitches. The denim was continuing to tear as my now contoured ass, firm from years of riding bareback squeezed the material beyond its integrity. My mane of hair tickled my back as it grew down to my shoulder blades, the torn shirt exposing my upper body now merely clinging to my abdomen by two strained buttons.
The other limbs were catching up with a lifetime of tribal living, becoming lean and strong. I could feel myself getting taller, my spine stretching out my stout body into a tall and slim warrior; one who could run down a pack of buffalo with and climb a redwood with ease. Nerves pinched at my back, it felt so invigorating as I grew an extra two feet in height, my clothes tautening against my taller, stronger body; straining against my bronze flesh I saw my watch strap burst and fall off my wrist and grinned. I could feel my skull being pulled in every direction as my sullen cheeks, button nose and weak chin filled out into a commanding youthful visage; strong cheekbones and an angular chin, lips fuller and smile wider, nose aquiline and prominent. My scratchy beard receded as the follicles went in full retreat, leaving me with supple clean-shaven tawny skin. My face couldn't keep my glasses on my brow anymore as they burst apart, my eyesight sharper without them now after a moment of painful pressure on my eyes corrected my vision.
The drums were pounding furiously now, the tribal cries rapturous with cheering and chanting, It was time.
I ripped off my shirt, enthusiastically tearing it away with both hands, grabbing the tattered remains as it tore free from my bicep to reveal a beaded tribal bracelet. I smiled, the voices, the Ancestor Spirits were adopting me; blessing me with invocations of strength and courage. I kicked off the remains of my old trainers in disgust after I sheared off the tongue and top of the destroyed shoes, letting my feet be one with the earth. I pulled at my jeans, at the waistline, frustrated that it wasn't coming off as easily, the fly already forced open from my growth spurt. I gingerly began tugging at the side hem at my calves as more denim gradually ripped, as buckskin leggings were revealed, finishing up just above my knees meeting my toned caramel thighs underneath. Desperate to relieve myself of these useless clothes, I had had enough, I just grabbed my jeans furiously at the waist and fly and pulled. Pulled until it relented, the whole garment split apart and a beautiful woven tan loincloth unfurled from underneath my shorn trousers, falling free over my bare groin and ass as I arched my back. “Mmmmm...Hmmph. So much better”, exclaiming in an accented tenor. I paused, my arms akimbo with fistfuls of denim and the rest of the remains littered at my feet.
The tribal cries finally subsided and the crescendo of drumskins fell silent.
I felt willowy and lightheaded, the transformation was something I wanted to drink in, for the changes to linger, to savour it a little longer. I was a tall, lissome Lakota; clad in a loincloth and standing in a pile of ruined clothes; my mane of thick black hair flicked behind my ears; bronze athletic physique bared as I strutted confidently across the room with my strong hips. Now I had become one of their beautiful hardy people, truly a honour to be so ‘chosen’. I smirked with amusement as I stepped over the shabby coverings, a pitiable reminder of my frumpy origins. Now I needed to find a mirror and witness my gorgeous new body.
Standing in front of the hallway mirror I saw a nearly six and a half foot youthful tribal warrior; slim and nimble with a honeyed complexion and almost no body hair. He had a firm hazel gaze and a proud face with strong features. His body had been honed by tribal life, built for speed and agility with powerful wiry arms and legs and a tight core of muscle for his abdomen. He had an ornate tattoo on his right shoulder, down to his bicep and across his pectoral, a traditional native design inked into his smooth skin. His long raven hair ran wild down his back, flowing back behind his ears, reaching to the middle of his back as it lazily caressed his shoulders in the light breeze from the open window. He wore practically nothing but a pair of leggings and a linen loincloth; patterned with zig-zag design that hung on his strong saddle-sculpted hips down to about his knees, his firm ass and thighs peeking through with casual movement. His leggings were made from buckskin that hugged his physique flatteringly, snug at the beginning of his thighs and bunched at the ankle cuffs with a loose drawstring and a small leather strap suspender fastened to each side of his loincloth at the top.
I moaned wistfully at the reflection of my lovely new self, it was so liberating to be him.
Returning my attention to the mirror I noticed that my left wrist now had a simple native bracelet and I was wearing a beaded bear-tooth necklace over my smooth chest, the three teeth draped over the crook of my flat pectorals. There was a small leather pouch tied to the right flank of my loincloth at the hip and a sheathed bone-carved dagger with a little feathered charm on the hilt, the scabbard fastened to the left side and my feet now sported leather moccasins. My ears now pierced with several small copperish rings along the bottom of the lobes. The Ancestors Spirits had given their blessing, sealing the covenant with adornments, jewelry and my new tattoo. My hair now was woven with beads and braids, twisted into my long sideburns and several tips of my luxurious untamed locks. I let my fingers run through my thick mane, it felt so virile. I turned to my side and inspected my flank; the tight dimples of my cheeks visible on the profile of the loincloth and my leggings flaunting my defined thighs from the knees up. My face beamed confidence, the warm smile and bright eyes boasted self-assuredness. There was a slight resemblance to my original face but it was if a great burden had been lifted off and vitality had returned to my looks; once ashen, tired eyes and a pallid complexion, now full-beamed and honeyed in a healthy glow.
I took a deep breath, now invigorated with the ‘curse’ that I had so dreaded, I laughed, as a smokey voice roared, heartily enjoying the sultry accent I had acquired. My head felt dizzy for a moment with the rush of new memories; my tribe’s mother tongue, hardened survival skills, countless hours of archery, fighting and craftsmanship. I could feel my muscles remember the reflexes and agility acquired by a lifetime of living off the land, the many daggers I had carved from bone and pelts skinned, the kills made with a longbow and poems composed of great battles. I walked over the hallway and picked up the tattered shirt, tearing off two thin strips, tying a small half-ponytail into my long mane and tying other onto the side-hip of my loincloth, a trophy keepsake of my old self.
I cast the rest of the garment aside as I, a proud Lakota Warrior, sauntered into the moonlit forest carefree as the wind in my raven hair. Now I was a powerful, yet graceful native man proudly displaying my body in the silvery moonlight; my near-nakedness a show of raw strength and beauty.
The cabin slowly vanished in the clearing, the forest becoming more overgrown, trees now thick on the horizon as if time had been rewound, leaving only a pristine arrowhead behind.