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“Always
we remember your great grandfather. His name was Flying Coyote, and he was a
very brave man and a fine leader. You are called Little Coyote because your
father loved his father, your grandfather called Flying Coyote.”
The
old woman stirred the fire and continued her story.
“When
he was younger than you your grandfather fell from his father’s pony and hurt
his leg very bad. It made him sick and the old ones feared to lose him.” She
filled the horn spoon and blew softly across the liquid. “Bear With A Sore
Tooth sang prayers for him and his old grandmother boiled willow bark and gave
him the water to drink as I do you.”
“It’s not so bad,” he said swallowing. He
cuddled the small coyote cub, he called Little Brother, close to him under the
robes.
“I
have been told it was this time of year – the time of the Full Pink Moon. The
little pink flowers bloomed in the grass and the snow and the sun argued over
who would have the land. Some mornings The People would wake to a deep blanket
of snow, but by afternoon the sun would have eaten it.”
“Like
yesterday?” he asked.
“Yes.”
She filled the spoon again. “Like yesterday.”
She
and the boy were outside the lodge so the rest of the family could sleep. A
full moon hung in the black sky, so bright that only a few stars shone near it.
The air outside the tipi was cold and still and fresh.
Little
Brother squirmed out of the robes. Little Coyote grabbed the struggling whelp
and held him tight by one hind foot.
“Little
Coyote, you must let him go.” The old woman gently opened the boy’s fist.
They
watched the pup caper and scamper around them.
“He’ll
get cold and come back,” she said. “You’ll see.”
A
red shadow began its slow march across the moon, but the boy did not notice. He
watched the coyote pup.
“Your
grandfather got weaker and weaker. He did not want to live.” She filled the
spoon again and held it to the boy’s lips. “Does your foot still hurt?”
He
stretched his leg, testing it. “Not so much.”
“Flying
Coyote’s father went out onto the prairie to also pray. He played his prayers
on his flute.”
An
ember popped out of the fire and Little Brother stopped to sniff it.
“Will
it burn him, Grandmother?”
She
laughed. “No. His nose can feel the heat. He will be careful.”
She
looked up at the moon, slowly being covered with red shadow. Little Coyote
followed her gaze.
“What
is happening?” Little Coyote asked in alarm.
“I
have seen it before,” she said. “Some stories say that a great mountain lion is
eating it.” Seeing his concern, she hurried on. “But I do not think that is
what is happening. I have seen this before. More than once.”
Little
Coyote could not take his eyes away from the changing moon.
She
helped the cub back under the robes. “Soon the shadow will move on, and
you will see your old friend the rabbit on the moon.”
Satisfied
that his grandmother knew about things like mountain lions eating the moon he
asked, “Did Flying Coyote get better?”
“Flying
Coyote’s father was playing his flute under a moon just like this one. As the
red shadow passed away, a bigger shadow flew across him. It was as big as he
could reach.” She held out her own arms as far as she could. “And he was a big
man.”
Little
Coyote’s eyes grew big and round.
“Flying
Coyote's father ducked so hard that the next thing he knew he was on his hands
and knees. And something landed on the ground right in front of him. A ball of fur dropped from that shadow in the sky.”
Swallowing
hard, Little Coyote held his own wiggly cub close under his chin.
“It
was like Little Brother – a baby coyote. And its only wound was a broken leg.”
“What
did Grandfather's father do with it?”
“His took it home to your grandfather and told him the Owl Spirit had sent it as a gift.
And now he must care for the little flying coyote.”
“What
happened?”
“Since
your father is here and you are here, then of course he got well.
And that is how your Grandfather came to be called Flying Coyote.”
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