Phillips Harbour
A dozen or so yards from the hollow log where St. John made her den, an unusual number of bugs stir around a small mound of leaves. Flies crawl in and out from between the dry, yellow-brown leaves. Other than that, the forest is still. And quiet.
And very, very boring.
Now and again, something happens to interrupts the stillness and enliven the boredom. Intense bouts of pain, for example. Delirium dreams of gates locking and unlocking, swinging open and shut, open and shut. Voices like the buzzing of the insects, irritating and teasing, a reminder of ... something.
-- you argue with her about, shiny lady? a crow caws.
"We're at odds about how she intends to go about it," a human voice replies, a woman's voice. "For my part, I don't believe slaughtering my forest brothers and sisters and ripping open a hole into the next world will accomplish that." They talk on. Why is a crow talking to a human? How can the human answer?
Ugh, this place stinks. Those words belongs to a horse.
"What do you smell?" the woman asks. Does she talk to all animals? She sounds familiar. Miss Pau? No. Different human.
A funny odor. Not really a wolf. Not really like anything I've smelled before. I don't know what it is, except strong and musky, the horse tells her.
The distractions are more like an irritant and Yotee finds himself wishing for the boredom again. He wants that heavy, encompassing weight that feels so much like a wet leather blanket surrounding him, covering him. It's a struggle to move, in fact he can't. Nothing hurts, there's just a fuzzy sensation around the edges that's so much like fever, with all the lethargy and none of the discomfort. Sinking, into tar, unable to pull free with the ropey strands attaching to each thought, attempting to drag his mind back to the darkness.
The conversation continues regardless of their unknown eavesdropper's wishes. It sounds like the three are investigating the area where some poor animal got killed. The horse says that is smells Kinda doggy -- and then she falls silent.
"Slate? What.. could it have been that coyote?" the woman asks.
I don't know for sure. My nose isn't so good. But it smells more like that than anything else, the mare -- Slate? replies.
"Crow brother, are you sure that it was dead?"the woman
Pretty sure. Lotta blood. Ooo, and look. Fur and bone. Anyway, if it had dragged itself off it'd've left a trail. Something took it away to eat, the crow pronounces.
The coyote remembers eating! Now, that is worth fighting for. He identifies a strange sensation, really a lack of one. A 'not hungry' feeling. He can't recall ever not wanting to eat. It's not satiation, it's something else. Disturbing.
The human sounds morose. "I was angry he bit you, Slate, but I never would have wished that on him. I'll see if I can't find him... there doesn't seem to be much else here. We'll see what we can turn up, and then rejoin the men. They might have made a good deal of progress by now. May the woods guide me."
But the woods, it appears, opt not to guide her, as he hears the human pacing back and forth through the leaves without getting very far. Finally, the woman gives up, saying to her horse, "Let's see if we can't catch up to the lads, shall we?" She bids farewell to the crow.
All the talk of food has gripped Yotee's consciousness. Perhaps that is the important thing he can't remember. Those dreams of doors, opening and closing. Important things are sometimes kept behind doors. He didn't know there was another coyote around, and it sounds like it got itself killed in a stupid way. Of course he was the one that bit Slate, if that's the horse, unless it was a very unlucky horse to get bitten by two coyotes.
The crow hangs around for a while, too, but somewhat more surprisingly, it doesn't find the dead coyote either. Or Yotee. Maybe that other dead coyote got carried farther away. Yotee can hear the crow scratching at leaves and pecking, doubtless sharing Yotee's opinion on the importance of food. At length, frustrated, the crow goes away. Boredom returns.
After a stretch in which boredom is accompanied by a miserable cold wind, he slips back into fever dreams. A great white figure, shouting Wrong answer, and a thousand teeth and claws and knives stabbing through him. Pain, everywhere, a river of pain washing over him. A white flower glows above the surface, surrounded by shadows. He swims upwards against the current and the undertow that are trying to hold him down. Drowning. Drowning. A terrible weight is holding him back, a weight that he's holding onto although he can't remember why. If he let it go -- let it sink -- surely it would be easier to reach the surface. Why is he holding on?
Wrong Answer. A hailstorm of agony tearing pieces from him. He struggles against a force of darkness stronger than any tornado or blizzard he's ever been caught in. It'd be easier to let go, why is he still holding on? A good question, he should let go. Wrong Answer! He shouldn't let go! Whatever it is, he had a reason for holding tight and he isn't going to let his thing be taken. Must fight. He focuses on the flower, remembering how the dark tried to take that also. Whatever he's got, he has to get it back from the tar pit, pull it free from the rending waves of pain. He gave that flower Marseilles; she was almost caught in a trap. He's in another trap, one of shearing pain.
So the coyote hangs on. Grim. Determined. Desperate. The struggle goes on forever, and he's only sinking lower. Into darker places, far away from the light. He thinks he hears Mother's voice. Don't let go, baby, she tells him.
I'm really tired Mother. I think I made a mistake, and I'm not hungry anymore. How can he talk while holding onto something? Well he's not letting go. Mother needs his help, he remembers that! She was so big, and now not so big. Sleeping more. Has the same heavy consciousness gotten him also? Drag, like they said, take the bait. Paws flail, he tries to swim, tries to fly, tries to get some purchase and crawl back. Must not let go.
Too many waves. Too much too handle. But he doesn't let go.
He goes under.
From the midst of a mound of fallen leaves, a coyote surges to his feet. Bits of brown and orange leaves scatter around him. His fur is matted with dirt, dust, and blood. Dried rivulets run down his sides. He staggers on step to the side; his hindlegs twist and fall to one side. His right eye is swollen shut and more blood matts the top and right side of his head. His right ear is bent back and won't straighten. His left hindleg screamed when he put weight on it. His ribs ache with every breath.
But Yotee is breathing.
He wants to howl, so much agony. It comes out as a huff, a tiny whimper. Yotee doesn't move again for a minute. He concentrates on breathing, small sips of air, trying to sneak them in without complaint from his ribs. He fails, fire grips his chest, as if he ate coals. Pain everywhere, even his snarl hurts, but he's got to stand. He tries to push up again as he dizzily stares at the world out one working eye.
The world is much too peaceful. If he's hurting this much, surely the world should be ending or on fire or something. Instead, it's cold, foggy, and quiet. Trees grow. A leaf wafts down from one of the branches.
It must be some personal torture to get back at him for all the tricks he's played. Randall is probably to blame. The coyote whimpers again, the plaintiff noise containing a hint of anger at his world of hurt. Stop it! Stop it! He growls at no one, at his body which is a county fair of abuse.
After some time of sitting, breathing shallowly, and whimpering, the ache in his ribs has eased somewhat. His skull still feels like its trying to split in half and dump his brains across the leaf-covered ground, though. Also, he's hungry.
You need to stay in the skull, brains Yotee thinks, wishing he didn't. Thinking hurts. His ear, eye, they don't feel right. A lot of things aren't Oll Korrect, best not to ponder those either. He takes it slow, trying to paw at his ear to make it less out of place. His jaw works, chewing phantom food.
His stomach rumbles. Ribs definitely hurting less. If only there were food. He manages to paw his ear upright for a moment, but doing so pulls at the fur and skin on his head and makes his head hurt a little bit more. His ear lays right back down as soon as he drops his paw, whining.
Yotee sniffs, blowing out first to clear his nose. Unpleasant clogs of mucus and bugs spray free. He remembers a den, people... talking about dead things and has no idea where he is now though he's determined to get a meal. Standing didn't work, he should crawl, slowly. The first order of business being to pick a direction most likely to have something to eat.
His nose is working a bit better than the rest of his body, but the closest thing to food he can smell is squirrel. At the moment, he doubts he can move fast enough to catch a squirrel. He's not sure he can move fast enough to catch a fly, quite a few of which are congregating around him. Especially around the right side of his head and the dried blood on his ribs. Flies are ... crunchy. But not very filling. Memories of warm chicken blood and splintery bones rise unbidden in his mind.
Chicken is a happy, salivating thought and he drools as he remembers its delicious taste. He rocks his head, disturbing the flies once more, trying to stretch from side to side and get rid of that horrible kinked feeling. There's got to be something to eat. He isn't going to beg a squirrel for food, is he? Why not. Hey partner, a small whine escapes, drop a nut down here will ya?
In unkinking his neck (that's a little better) he lolls his head back far enough to eyeball the branches of the tree above him. The squirrel in it leans over, looking at him suspiciously. Aren't you dead? it asks.
Yotee shakes his head. THAT! Was a bad idea. He immediately stops after the crack and the bolt of pain through his skull. I'm dying for something to eat. His collection of flies is a powerfully convincing argument that he's already passed on. More than an argument, more proof.
Find your own food, the squirrel says unhelpfully. Why should I share mine with you? It turns to scamper towards the tree trunk.
Failing to think of a good reason, the coyote settles for a growling inarticulate curse directed at the squirrel, its descendants and all other tree-dwelling varmints. He tries to stand again, testing that bad hind leg first. His whole back feels weird, and now that he can look around a bit he glances down his flank.
His side is exceptionally dirty, even by Yotee's standards. He's not entirely sure what all the components of the gunk matted in his fur are, but they've combined to turn most of his flank into one solid, slightly crinkly, sheet of ick. On the bright side, his right hindleg will hold his weight now, and when he puts the left one down very gingerly it only protests a little. Hardly noticeable against the background of killer headache.
The coyote abstains from shaking off the ick. He sways, his balance deranged by his ear and headache. It's blinding, and he's momentarily glad he's seeing out of only one eye. Two stabbing pains would be a bit much. Tentatively, he takes a step, not knowing which limb to limp with and wanting to do so with all. Thank you flower, he prays, though he can't see it now. Thank you leaves for covering me. Mother, I held on.
His legs are all stiff but only the left hindleg really hurts. It doesn't want to bend at the knee or support its share of his weight. For a moment, he feels an echo of Mother's warmth suffuse him, washing away th aches. You're a good boy. Then he inhales the scents on the air: stale scents of the stag, of wolf and human, all days old but ingrained in this area from the days they spent living near here. Their smells bring less pleasant memories, chasing away the recollection of Mother.
Three legs will do for now. Yotee walks like an ancient, arthritic dog, his lungs working overtime as if panting would push the pain out of his body. He shakes his head, trying to chase away the unpleasant memories, but the resulting pain only brings them on strong. Wrong ANSWER! The voice slams through him, solid and unyielding. His teeth grind, bringing even more distracting jolts. I messed up Mother. Messed up bad. I'm sorry. One step at a time. Baby steps; broken steps. It's agony but Yotee won't give up.
The area of the wolf-woman's den smells of fear and bad memories; no food that way. The coyote staggers away from it. Limping through the forest, he move on instinct to the last place he can remember getting a meal: Randall's.
It's like fighting the river, fighting the tar-pit, a constant gauntlet of screaming injury with the seductive call to lapse back into the oppressive boredom that absorbs all sensation. It gets easier, slowly, things pop into place, locked muscles loosen, tightness disappears. The sensations switch from overwhelming waves of agony to unpleasant discomfort. It's fortunate that pain isn't really remembered, though the events are haunting enough. Accusations well up from deep dreams and strike at the coyote's soul. He's worthless, he's useless, he's stupid, he can't do anything right. They may all be true, but he's hungry and that carries him back to Randall, and mother still thinks he's a good boy, and that will do. It's enough to keep him going despite everything else saying he should lay down and die. Step by step, he comes home.