Phillips Harbour
Thursday, October 8, 1868. Morning.
Yotee has been feeling aimless for the last couple of days. He's spent much of them sleeping, curled around his mother-rock. Mother has been quiet, too. Her presence remains inside the rock, full of warmth and comfort, but she hasn't spoken to him for several days. Hasn't even woken up.
The sense that things are happening -- big, important things, things he doesn't understand -- nips at him like a flea. On the one hand, the coyote doesn't like anyone telling him what to do -- so maybe he should ignore it entirely.
On the other, Yotee is awfully curious ...
This morning, curiosity wins out, at least long enough for him to climb out of the cellar and look around. It's an unpromising day: cold and grey, with a wind that bites through his coat of fur. Clouds hunch on the horizon, threatening rain.
Hunched against the wind, his fur thick and ruffled with his lips bared in a snarl against the weather, the coyote slinks forth to sieze the ragged scraps of the day. The distant thunderheads promise a bath, but if he's lucky he can avoid it. He cuts along the foundations of the barn, across the farm property towards the edge of the woods.
Stray leaves from the woods crunch under foot: autumn is definetly here. Yellows and reds mix with the green leaves still on the trees, although today everything seems touched by grey, washed-out and faded. It's like the inverse of the day he ate the mushrooms, when everything was crisp and detailed, shadows as black as an underground cave and highlights as brilliant as the noon sun. By contrast, everything looks fuzzier and less clear today.
Yotee paws at the leaves, scraping a small pile, listening to their crunch. Bleak, colourless, like the future Randall described. At least, that's the impression the coyote was left with. He paws another time, in case something should catch his interest. A rodent fleeing from the sudden noise, or another track. The memories of the other incident suggest a purpose to him. He should check on the flower and the ghost he gave it to.
Pawing at the leaves yields up not a rodent, but a few thick pale earthworms. They squirm against the moist ground, writhing and burrowing back beneath leaves or into the dirt.
He is not interested in worms today. He leaves them to their burrowing and lopes off towards town. His path is not as straight as the crow flies, he'd never give that reverence; instead, he wanders purposely through the woods. He'll get there sooner or later, depending how interesting the forest is today.
As the coyote lopes through the woods, he comes upon a russet fox gnawing at the body of a hare. The fox notices him and meets Yotee's gaze with a wary look. His jaws clamp around his prey, and he tenses, ready to run if Yotee looks like he's going to try to take his kill.
The raw scent of rabbit meat tickles the coyote's nose. He's been in his cellar for several days and Randall was irratic with meals. Even the fox smells pretty good, enough for drool to trickle around his teeth, although he's not that starved... yet. I'm hungry. Yotee says, because it's obvious, and I'm curious. Tell me something interesting or I'll take your food.
The fox is motionless, watching Yotee with an appraising eye, clearly considering his chances -- of successfully escaping, or of losing more than his meal if he fails. His jaws work around his kill for a moment, then he slowly lifts his head away from it. The Hill plays its game and lost, not-dog, he says.
The coyote's grin spreads, though it is not exactly comforting. His eyes are a pale yellow, washed out like everything else this day, only a slight contrast to the dullness surrounding him. He licks his lips, chewing as if he is tasting the information. Meaty, but not enough. How did the man escape?
The fox licks blood off his own lips. The Hill gambled with its prey, two for one, and lost them all. I do not believe in risking what I have, myself.
Wise. Yotee agrees, settling down and stretching his paws out. He watches the fox carefully, gaze flicking from his mouth to his kill. You have less time for games than a hill does. Anything else?
I have not seen a grey fox for many days, the russet fox says, nervous. I cannot help you with that. What interests you, not-dog? You play games like a hill.
Be wary of meat lying on the ground, it is how the grey foxes are trapped. Yotee gnaws at a patch of darker fur on his foreleg, chasing a nagging itch. He looks up. Other places like the hill, where dark shadows lie. Places with light where it shouldn't be. Secrets. I aim to win my game.
I only eat what I kill myself. Safer that way. The fox watches Yotee, his head low over the dead hare. I recommend it to you. I am not one to dig into secrets, either. The Hill can keep its. But it kept its last one badly. Not like the usual. Hills have lots of time, as you say. Why would it be impatient now?
The corner's of the coyote's mouth quirk up, a sly smile, as if to say he's never been one to play it safe. The Hill is racing the Moon. Its game may end by her next full glory, and it wants to be satisfied by then. You saw how the two escaped?
No. The fox risks tearing another strip of meat from its quarry. But I saw how they emerged. Three at once, with the hill's darkness tearing when they were freed. The world is brighter since. I would root for the Moon to win her race.
I'm helping Mother. Yotee states simply. She came back for the others swallowed by darkness. She's resting now, and I do not have two friends, so I will have to find another way. There is something in the forest near a strange tree, that others search for. Have you seen what they do?
The fox paws at the ground. Too many people in the woods now, for reasons that I cannot fathom. Even in the Still Forest, people come, and for years people never come there. But I do not know what they search for. Or what you do. Good hunting to you, not-dog. I have my kill. The fox hefts his prize in his jaws.
You hunt well. The coyote acknowledges, standing up also. Avoid the people. The female that smells of strange spices may be nice, or not, but she can hear you. Good hunting Fox. Yotee turns, his brush sweeping behind him in as much a wave as it is a dismissal. He will not give the fox the satisfaction of walking away first. Pretending to lose interest, Yotee slips off into the forest. While he still has many unanswered questions, the fox satisfied enough that it would be wrong to take his meal.
When Yotee arrives in town it's near midday, and Phillips Harbour is bustling as much as the little town ever does. He slips under a gap to the rear of the manor property. When he trots over to the house, he finds to his surprise that someone has planted his white flower. Despite the cold and dreary day, it still blooms brightly.
Even more surprising than the flower is the ghost who's outside with it. She lies on her stomach, looking much hazier and more translucent than the last time Yotee saw her. With her arms folded, she watches the head of flower bob up and down in the wind.
Yotee makes a quiet yap to announce himself, and comes closer, happy to see both the flower and girl. They both manage to cheer up the day. Hi. You look well. He resists the urge to nose her, it's a bit too familiar of a gesture and besides, it wouldn't work; She's a ghost.
The ghost girl starts at the yap, then beams at him. "Hi there, Yotee! Isn't it a wonderful day?" She pushes herself up on her forearms, watching him.
He grins back at her, his eyes gleaming gold despite the weak light. Yes! I've been playing games in the forest. You got outside! Flower is doing well. Since she's watching, he bounds about, leaping up in the air a few times.
"She is!" The girl says, switching to sit crosslegged on the grass, her skirt draped over her knees. She claps at Yotee's antics encouragingly. "I watched her for a day or two from the mansion, after M -- after she was planted, here. And I saw how brave she was, and thought, well, maybe I could be brave, too. So I came outside." She looks surprised at her own daring.
It is, very brave! Yotee barks and leaps again. He almost tries to backflip, but thinks again and settles for just twisting and snapping at his tail. She was quite brave when the darkness came, she isn't afraid of anything. It's great you came out to join her. It's been a long time since you've been outside, hasn't it?
"Yes, it has." The ghost looks up at the sky. "It feels so different outside. Like ... things happen here. The house never changes, year after year after year. It's always the same, just dustier and dingier and more worn-out. But outside ... " Her translucent skin almost seems to flush. She looks both excited and frightened, as if poised on a precipice.
Change is much better than staying the same! How could he not agree? His tail wags uncontrollably, head bobbing, he bounces and springs up again. Everything is much more vibrant, random, alive. He blunders her over the cliff.
Alive. Her voice fades. She lifts her hands, spreading her fingers, and stares at them. For a moment, the translucent flesh solidifies, becoming opaque. Her eyes glow blue, from edge to edge. Then the colors fade. I should go back.
The sight is enough to make the coyote pause, then he barrels on like a runaway stagecoach; the only way to regain control is to go faster. Do that again! You deserve to be out here. All those years in that house, all that was taken from you, be brave! Don't leave the flower to be alone, she likes you. We can play, if you stay.
The ghost is standing now, wavering. She drifted backwards while Yotee spoke, as if about to pass through the wall and into her house. But at his final words, she hesitates. Play?
Yotee rolls on his back, waving his legs in the air, then flips back onto his belly in a crouch. He looks ready to dash in any direction. You could throw sticks! I'd chase them. Or rub my belly. I'd show you the best puddles to roll in and I know a cat that needs a good chasing!
She drifts towards Yotee again. So ... "You don't think I should go back inside? Isn't that where I belong?" She drops to crouch next to him, one hand hovering over his head.
I think you belong anywhere you can go. If you want to be outside, you should be outside. His ears flick, his head lifting. Yotee wants to touch her, but is careful not too. He's afraid that if he does he'll break the illusion, and he so wants to feel her hands. He strains, as he did that night on the hill, this time to pull the ghost free from her prison. Just grab hold of my fur, I'll take you anywhere you want.
The girl's fingers tremble. She flexes them backwards, just above his head, then curls them down decisively. Her eyes flare blue again, and her opaque hand seems to crackle as the fingers run through Yotee's fur. She grasps a handful of fur at the back of his neck, and laughs suddenly. "Then let's go!" she shouts, defiant, reckless.
The coyote yelps in happy surprise, then lunges forward and feels the secure tug against the back of his neck as he gleefully leads. Okay! Where too? He tussels playfully, dragging her about the yard. I know this Hill, but you don't want to go there, and there's a great place by a stream for frogs. Or we could go to the docks for fish, or tease this dog Mutt I know, or maybe that prim cat. We could look for the Unicorn, a bunch of people are! There's a white Stag you could meet. Oh! And over, here, there's this gnarled tree I tried to make Randall climb. We should go see Randall and...
Yotee's suggestions are nearly endless, but then, she has a lifetime to make up.