A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 9
The Compassionate Snow Raider
Rude awakening! My covers were ripped off! "Wakey, wakey, hands off snakey!"
"Bloody hell! What the fuck, Hank?" I protested, trying desperately to find my warm, stolen blanket.
"Wakey, wakey, hands off snakey!" he repeated, way too cheerily.
It wasn't even light out. "Snakey? What does that even mean?" I grumbled as I tried to squirm deeper into my bottom sheet for warmth. Failing miserably, I punted and instead went for the teen full-body stretch —arms over my head, toes seeking the footboard, everything in between twisting, arching, and trembling.
"Snakey...that's another word for your cock," his voice dropped an octave as he wrapped his hand around my morning wood.
"Umm, no. Don't like snakey. I like schlong much better," I giggled, channeling my emerging Texas drawl, now much more awake and thrusting up into his fist.
"Come on," he urged, still fondling me. "Time to get up. We need to get moving."
"You're not here to ravage me?" I pouted.
"I wish. The Sweat Lodge calls," the regret in his voice was palpable. "But I am here to shower you!"
Now I was wide awake. "You? Shower me? Like, naked-together-shower?"
"Exactly. Not that kind of shower, though. This shower is the first part of the ritual—it symbolizes the washing away of the old and the new beginning within the Clan."
"Wah, no fun," I grumbled, not really pulling it off. After all, a naked shower with Hank was a naked shower with Hank—another first!
I let Hank pull me out of bed and lead me to the bathroom; his hand still wrapped gently around my cock. He dropped his boxer-briefs and leaned in to get the warm water going. Me? I snuggled up against him, warming my cock on the soft skin of his firm bum.
He pulled me in; we hunkered down under the cascading water. My back tucked in against his chest, his morning wood firmly planted along my crack—life was good.
He was serious about it being a real shower, though—not that I was complaining. He squirted shampoo into his hand and began gently washing my hair, talking to me the whole time about the history of the ritual. Then we traded places and I got to do the same—tucking my cock into his cleft and running my fingers through that glorious black mane.
"I could do this job for life," I whispered into his ear.
Then it was on to the soap. Hank washed me everywhere, and I mean everywhere . I trembled and whimpered as he gently soaped my rampant cock, then lost it when his slippery fingers ritually cleaned my pucker. I wasn't sure if he intended to put me over the top or if it was just my hair trigger, but my swim team painted the shower door.
As soon as Hank recovered from my returning the favor, he was turning off the water and toweling me dry. "Get dressed," he directed. "Shorts and a t-shirt."
A few minutes later, we were stepping from the side porch. Hank took my hand in his and led me toward the copse of cedar from which the Navajo War Party had emerged yesterday. I turned a Scout's eye to the sky—still nautical twilight, and a good thirty minutes if not more until sunrise.
Our fingers gently caressed each other as we walked in silence. As we approached the táchééh in the predawn light, I was starting to feel the weight of the importance of what was about to occur. The scholar in me tried to catalog the scene—the sight of ghost-white mist clinging to the rough cedar branches and the sharp scent of damp earth.
I could even taste the air now; a thin, bitter ribbon of cedar smoke drifted through the dampness, coating my tongue with the flavor of the ancient fire already working at the stones. Suddenly, a low, rhythmic hoo-h'hooo echoed from the darkness of the trees. It was deep enough to vibrate in my chest.
Hank stopped for a heartbeat, his eyes tracking upward into the canopy. " Néʼéshjaa," he whispered, the Navajo word sounding like a breath of wind. He leaned in close, his voice barely audible. " The Great Horned Owl . He's a messenger, Lachlan. He stands between the physical world we're walking in and the spirit world we're about to enter."
Hank clearly sensed the sudden chill that ran down my spine; he squeezed my hand firmly, giving me that steadying, encouraging look. The silence that followed was no longer empty. It was expectant.
We rounded the edge of the copse. First, I spied two low structures, half-buried in the ground. The world wasn't black anymore; it had transitioned to a deep indigo. I could see the ghost-white mist becoming more defined, swirling around the base of the buildings like a living thing.
The space was small and intimate. Just a circular floor of swept earth; a small, cast-iron wood stove in the center already chasing away the chilly Texas November night; and a single, large sheepskin-lined bedroll. Hank smiled. "This is for us. From the end of the ceremony today until Sunday morning. A gift from Amá Sání ."
My eyes went wide. "Us? Just us? Together?" A shudder went through my entire body as I understood what he was saying. "No interruptions?"
"No interruptions," he giggled, wiggling his eyebrows.
He pushed his hand to the center of my chest, fending off my adolescent attack! "Not yet. We will have to hurry." He picked up two pieces of deerskin. "This one is for you. You need to put it on."
I looked at the soft deerskin in my hands—maybe four feet in length at best, not even a foot across. "Put it on how? Is this a blindfold?" I asked, seriously confused.
Hank snorted. "Blindfold? No. It's a breechcloth—it goes between your legs. This strap keeps everything together."
My eyes went wide again. "I'm guessing you don't want me to put this on over my shorts."
He shook his head, a small grin twitching his mouth.
"My boxer-briefs?"
He shook his head again, now grinning from ear to ear.
"I suppose my t-shirt is out of the question," I giggled, already knowing the answer.
Hank took pity and helped me into my completely immodest outfit for the ceremony. The bad news was that he kept stroking the pale side of my exposed thighs, his fingers drawn like a moth to the flame—making me rock hard.
I felt very naked. My kilt was an overcoat compared to this; it felt like a fortress, whereas this was just a strip of skin. Not to mention, I was missing my gear—no dirk, no sgian-dubh tucked into my hose. I felt functionally defenseless. While Hank donned his own deerskin, I willed my cock to relax so it wouldn't poke out the side anymore, focusing intensely on the rough, smoked texture of the leather against my skin to ground myself.
"Ready?" he asked.
"As I'll ever be," I laughed quietly.
Taking my hand, he led me back outside, and we took our places alongside the rest of the family. By now, the nautical twilight was lifting, and I could make out actual faces through the mist— Amá Sání and several of the cousins, aunts, and uncles I had met already. They sat like silent sentries, their presence a fortress of tradition waiting for the sun.
As the first sliver of gold cut through the indigo mist, the silence didn't break—it deepened. Amá Sání stood, her silhouette sharp against the light. She reached into a small pouch and held out her hand. No one spoke exactly, but a low, rhythmic thrum began to rise from the men and women beside me. It wasn't a song; it was a vibration.
Hank nudged my arm, handing me a pinch of the powdery white cornmeal. Following his lead, I raised it toward the sun. I felt the ancient grace of the moment pressing down on me. I didn't have a prayer in Navajo, so as the light hit my bare skin, I raised my hand just as Hank did. I closed my eyes and whispered the only oath that went all the way to my marrow: "On my honor, to do my best...to help other people at all times...to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight."
With a nod from Amá Sání, Hank stood and took me by the hand, leading me into the sweat lodge itself. I'd expected it to be like the gym steam room—I was wrong. This wasn't a soft, managed humidity. As I crawled through the low entrance, the heat hit me like a physical weight—a dry, searing force that smelled of toasted earth and ancient stone.
The others filed in behind us, I noticed the women to the south, the men to the north. Then the deerskin flap dropped, and the world vanished in the dark. The radio silence was absolute. I couldn't even see Hank, but I could feel his shoulder just touching mine—a grounding wire in the dark. When the first splash of water hit the rocks, the hiss was like a predatory warning, and a wave of scalding, cedar-scented steam rolled over us. It didn't just sit on my skin; it felt like it was trying to reach inside my chest—more of the cleansing.
I felt more comfortable in the darkness—no one could see almost naked me anymore.
Well, no one but Hank, apparently.
Even in the pitch black, his fingers kept unerringly finding the pale, exposed skin of my thigh. It wasn't a grab; it was a light, wandering caress, like he was checking my 'vitals' to make sure I was still there, still just in my breechcloth, still his. Each touch sent a spark through me that the searing heat of the stones couldn't match.
The next hours were grueling—both mentally and physically. There were four rounds, each separated by a short recovery period outside in the cool November air where the mist felt like a benediction on our scorched skin.
Amá Sání led each of the rounds, her voice a steady anchor in the scalding dark. In the first round, the focus was all about origin. When the talking stick reached me, I had to summon the ghosts of Scotland. I spoke of the MacKenzie Clan, of the wind-swept Highlands, and the parents and grandparents whose blood I carried into this Texas earth. As I spoke, I felt Hank's hand on my thigh—a silent bridge between the history I was describing and the family I was joining.
In the second round, the heat intensified, but the discussion was easy. We spoke of the Warrior —not as a soldier, but as a protector who endures. This was natural for the Scout and the runner in me. I spoke of the discipline of pursuing the Duke of Edinburgh and King's Scout awards; I spoke of the training and execution of our expeditions in the wild. I spoke of the miles I'd run across the Scottish fells until my lungs burned, and the discipline of the trail. I talked about the endurance it took to keep moving when the path vanished. I could feel the silent nods of the uncles in the dark; the Diné understood the language of the long-distance runner.
The third round was a blur of heat, I was laid bare, exposed. When the talking stick reached me, I finally let go of the secret I'd been carrying like a heavy pack for four years. I spoke about being gay. I spoke of the hiding, my fears. And then I spoke of Hank. My abandonment of Rule Number One . I spoke about my love for Hank. His love for me. I told the dark room that were it not for him, I would not be here in the heart of the Kinyaa'áanii, Towering House Clan.
Throughout it all, Hank's hand never left me. His grip was a grounding wire, reminding me that even in the scalding steam, I wasn't alone.
When the flap finally opened for the third recovery period, I crawled out into the cool November air feeling strangely light—almost buoyant. I had laid down my burden, and the world hadn't imploded. Hank, my Fierce Wolf protector, was still firmly at my side.
As I stood there, my skin steaming in the morning light, I caught Amá Sání 's eye. She didn't say a word, but she gave me a slow, knowing smile—the kind of smile that said she had known the truth in me long before I'd found the breath to say it.
The final round was dedicated to the future—to healing, growth, and the path yet to be walked. The air in the táchééh was now thick with a collective, forward-looking energy.
When the stick came to me one last time, I didn't talk about my Scottish past or my hidden fears. I spoke about being a member of the Towering House Clan. I promised to be the eyes that watched the horizon for this family and the heart that stayed steady when the Texas storms eventually came. I spoke of our future life together—Hank and I—as a fortress we were building stone by stone.
When the final blast of steam subsided and the flap was pulled back for the last time, we emerged into the full light of the morning.
The sun was burning off the last of the indigo mist, turning the Texas brush into a sea of gold. I stood tall, the deerskin breechcloth no longer feeling like an embarrassing exposure, but like a second skin. As we stood there, steaming in the cold November air, I didn't just lightly touch shoulders with Hank. I reached down and found his hand, our fingers interlacing. No more hiding. I wasn't just a Scottish Scout anymore; I was a young man who had declared his heart in the heat of the táchééh . Standing there in our breechcloths, our pale and bronzed skin still flushed from the ceremony, we weren't just two boys—we were an unbroken line.
I looked at the uncles, the aunts, and finally at Amá Sání . I expected to feel the adolescent attack of embarrassment, but it never came. Instead, I felt a strange, quiet Warrior's pride. By holding his hand openly, I wasn't just claiming Hank; I was claiming my right to be firmly in his land.
The clan remained in a silent, golden row, the steam still rising from our bodies like ghosts. Amá Sání stood in the center. She beckoned us forward. Hank didn't let go of my hand; our interlaced fingers were a bold, unbroken line in the light. We walked toward her, our bare feet pressing into the red earth, our deerskin breechcloths swaying against our thighs. I felt a Warrior's pride swelling in my chest, replacing the last of my adolescent nerves.
She placed her hands on my shoulders. Her touch was surprisingly strong, grounded—the touch of the Towering House matriarch. She looked into my eyes, searching for the spirit I had bared in the dark.
"You have spoken well in the deep heat," she said, her voice carrying across the quiet morning. "The boy has looked into the past, and the Warrior has claimed his future. You are no longer just a Scout from across the salt water."
She turned to the family, her voice rising with formal ancient grace. "He came to us from the white lands of the north, a traveler with the eyes of a scholar and the hands of a worker. He is now Nabaahí Yas Joobaʼí . He is the Raider who came through the snow, not to take, but to give of his spirit."
The name hung in the air— Compassionate Snow Raider .
I felt the weight of it settle over me like a heavy wool mantle. Raider —it acknowledged the Viking blood of the MacKenzies and the Warrior who had the reckless surge of boldness to follow his heart. Snow —it acknowledged my homeland, my origins, the far north compared to Texas; plus my complexion and hair color I suppose. Compassion —it acknowledged my Gentle Spirit, my gayness, that drove me to heal and to love.
Hank's grip on my hand tightened, his thumb tracing a celebratory circle on my skin. I wasn't just firmly in his land anymore. I had a name that belonged to the red Diné dirt beneath my feet.
We stood there in the raw, late-morning sunlight, our hands locked—the Compassionate Snow Raider and the Fierce Wolf . The steam from the sweat lodge was still evaporating off our skin, a fading ghost of the grueling morning. Amá Sání watched us for a heartbeat, her gaze still examining and studying us one last time.
Then, she gave us a final, permissive nod and turned away. We watched in silence as she disappeared around the edge of the cedar copse, the rest of the Clan following in her trail like a retreating tide. The cedar grove was silent. As the last of the clan vanished, the world felt like it had been emptied of everyone but the two of us.
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