“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 Flying Coyote and he loves
you.”
The old woman stirred the fire and
continued her story.
“When he was younger than you he 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 was cold and still and
fresh, unlike the smoky interior of the tipi.
Little Brother squirmed out of the
robes. Little Coyote grabbed the struggling whelp and held him tight by one
hind foot.
“No. You must let him go.” The old woman
gently opened the boy’s fist.
They watched the cub 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.
“Flying Coyote 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?” he 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.”
He could not take his eyes away from the
changing moon.
“Soon the shadow will move on, and you
will see your old friend the rabbit on the moon.” She helped Little Brother
back under the robes.
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 with his outstretched
arms.” She held out her own arms as far as she could. “And he was a big man.”
Little Coyote’s eyes grew to twice their
normal size.
“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. Something dropped from that shadow in the sky. A
ball of fur.”
Swallowing hard, Little Coyote held the
wiggly cub close under his chin.
“It was like Little Brother – a baby
coyote. And its only wound was a broken leg.”
“What did he do with it?”
“The father took it home to his son and
told him the Owl Spirit had sent it to him as a gift. And now he must care for
the little flying coyote.”
“What happened?”
“Since you’re here, and your father, and your grandfather
then of course he got well and that’s how he got his name.”
