Reversed

In most stories we grow up with, parents are the ones holding everything together. In media, they are often portrayed as protectors, guides, and the steady figures who rarely appear to fall apart in front of their children. From The Lion King, where Mufasa stands as an almost mythic figure of strength and guidance for Simba, to Finding Nemo, where Marlin’s entire identity becomes defined by protecting Nemo, we are used to seeing parenthood as something constant, reliable, and powerful. But what happens when that structure collapses? When the parent is no longer the protector, but the one who needs protecting?

In Medicine Walk, Richard Wagamese quietly challenges that expectation by reversing the parent-child dynamic we have seen and been trained to accept. Instead, Wagamese exposes the fragility of parenthood, reconsidering how strength, responsibility, and care actually look.

Medicine Walk follows Franklin “Frank” Starlight, a 16-year-old Indigenous boy raised in relative isolation on a rural farm under the care of a tough, but deeply principled guardian known as “the old man.” Frank has grown up shaped by discipline, survival, and emotional restraint—learning to keep his emotions tightly controlled. However, that careful balance is disrupted when he is asked to accompany his estranged, dying father, Eldon Starlight, into the wilderness for his traditional burial. Eldon is an alcoholic and absent figure, a man Frank barely knows and has every reason to resent and reject. Yet the story places them side by side in a setting where escape is impossible, making conversation and the process of learning each other inevitable.

Wagamese writes in a reflective, meditative way that mirrors the long and tiring journey Frank and Eldon are on. Despite conflicting feelings between both characters, Medicine Walk does not have dramatic confrontation or emotion, but rather constant, quiet dialogue. The pacing is slow, but intentionally so: there is a sort of silence and a discomfort with what is left unsaid between two people who share blood, but not history. Moreover, the real conflict exists within each character rather than between them. Frank is caught between duty and resentment, accompanying a father he never truly knew. Eldon is forced to confront a life of absence, addiction, and regret. Their communication is indirect, with emotions only peeking through memory and storytelling rather than direct confession. As a result, the novel feels fragmented without clean answers or neat resolutions, where understanding instead comes in pieces of memories that are shaped by Eldon and Frank’s incomplete and biased perspectives.

However, the most intriguing aspect of the novel is that it challenges one of the most familiar relationships in storytelling: the parent as the protector and the child as the one being protected. During their journey, Frank prepares for survival: gathering supplies, setting up camp, and carrying all responsibilities to move forward. Meanwhile, Eldon contributes something different: stories. Immediately, Eldon becomes the one opening up, speaking about his past, his mistakes, his losses, and the life Frank never got to witness. Frank remains quiet, listening and quickly acting as an emotional anchor for his father and assuming the “protector” role. Their relationship is built through an unusual exchange, where Eldon exchanges his vulnerability for Frank’s care.

In a way, Eldon’s vulnerability becomes his form of responsibility. Eldon cannot give Frank protection, guidance, or years of fatherhood back, but he can give him honesty. For me, this role reversal is what gives the novel its impact. Medicine Walk is not really about repairing a broken relationship or creating a perfect version of family. It is about removing our idealized images of parenthood and replacing them with something more human. Wagamese does not present parents as untouchable figures of strength and reliability, but as people capable of failure, vulnerability, and complexity. That perspective is what makes the novel feel so different from common portrayals of parent-child relationships.

Medicine Walk is not a fast-paced novel, nor is it one that relies on dramatic twists and storytelling to keep us invested. Instead, Wagamese asks us to slow down, sit with discomfort and awkwardness, and recognize the complicated realities beneath familial relationships. Those willing to move at the novel’s pace will find a story that is thoughtful, emotionally layered, and different. Wagamese does not ask us to admire his characters; he asks us to understand them—and that’s what makes Medicine Walk memorable.