Read the Book

Part 2: Chapters 6 - 8

Wed, 17 Jun 2015 11:16:52 -0700

You know it was created for war, right? The merry-go-round? Garosello, or carosella; the 'little battle.' That magical ride which children enjoy today, was one of the earliest mechanical fighting simulators; designed to give someone the illusion that you were a knight on horseback, defending his country. Early versions had replicant horses, chained to the roof of the spinning apparatus, swinging out from the center, like a sideways pinwheel. The flying knights-to-be would train on them. Every little boy wants to be a knight, right? And every girl a princes?
But ask one of the knights to piss without assistance, or remove his helmet, and he is nothing without his squire. Or the horse; that desired vessel of war and power. One man on horse equals twenty trained men. And give them a reign and a woman can drive any one of them. Dress them up so pretty, and watch them dance the deadly deception, and then undress them, naked and pale, and they retire to the estates they were given to make them knights in the first place, to keep someone far away, who couldn’t be bothered with the badlands, safe in power. Meanwhile, everyone who is not playing the game squalors away like rats-always surviving, but never truly living, never knowing the luxury of taking a day off or enjoying a walk without wondering what was going to kill you behind the next bush.”
Young wild things play-fight to establish social bonds and mimic the future fights they hope to win. I suspect humans are not so far removed.
- Mariposa

Chapter 6--What the Owl Saw

The little girl walked along the mountain creek, made deep with fresh snowmelt. The morning springtime air was chilling and the girl’s breath hung in front of the dark brown curls that covered the turquoise shoe box she cradled in her arms. Tears clung, frozen to the girl’s cheeks.
Luna The Owl ruffled her feathers and watched the girl from her tree. Luna was tired after hunting all night, and the mouse that filled her belly was satisfying with its usual sedation affect – but she watched the girl and wondered, with mild interest, where the girl was going. It had been a long time since Luna had seen a human, but then again, Luna did not have a very good understanding of time; like most owls. To Luna, a day could be anywhere from an hour to a decade, and she generally avoided interaction with other creatures, except mice, which she considered often, as they were delicious.
The girl stopped, knelt, and produced a small spade from the box. She looked at the spade for a moment and then began digging in a fresh patch of grass. She stopped after a time and smudged a line of dirt across her cheek as she tried to wipe away her tears.
“Good bye Charlie,” she said. She pulled back the lid of the shoebox to reveal a small black dog with a white face. The dog did not breathe and as the girl gently stroked his forehead for the last time. “You lived a good, long life,” she said. “I will miss you.” The girl replaced the lid and lowered the box into the earth. She then stood up, wiped the dirt from her dress and folded her hands. “I’m sorry you couldn’t be here longer,” said the girl.
At this time, Coyote was walking toward the creek for a drink of water but he stopped short when he smelled a mix of lavender, sage, and sorrow on the wind. The smell triggered a memory of wandering, under an endless sky and a blazing sun, but he did not know why.
What is this combination of smells, he thought to himself. Coyote was immediately curious. He hunched down low and crept through the thick bushes that grew along the creek, until he was within sight of the girl. Coyote’s amber-colored eyes grew wide – the girl was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen; this sad creature in the turquoise dress, her face smudged with dirt. He wanted, instantly to help her, to make her smile. She would be even more beautiful if she smiled, he was sure of it. His heart began racing. Her spell on him was more powerful than anything he had ever felt, but he was sure that she was not like him; she was not immortal; she had no special powers. Then what was this power she held over him?
At this time Phelan was also walking toward the creek, parched with thirst, when he stopped short. Coyote, thought Phelan as the wind brought him the familiar scent. What is that scoundrel up to? Phelan had grown more bitter with every passing year, at Coyote’s continued fascination with mortals, and he had since become quite skilled in finding creative ways to make Coyote’s friends disappear, but Coyote never seemed to notice Phelan’s involvement as he went from one life to the next. So naturally, if Phelan had the chance, he would do everything possible to make Coyote realize that his place was with immortals.
But Coyote did not see Phelan that day, and the girl did not see either of them, both of whom watched her from across the creek. Only Luna saw them all and said nothing.
The girl looked up from Charlie’s grave to see a barefooted boy, dressed in a white suit, standing across the creek. She gasped and took a step back as the boy crossed the creek and approached her. His eyes amber-colored eyes never left her gaze as his feet swiftly found their way over the moss-covered rocks in the clear mountain stream. For a moment, the girl felt as if she could not breathe.
“Who are you,” the girl asked when she caught the air in her throat, for she had thought herself alone and was alarmed that someone had been watching her. Her grip on the spade tightened.
“It’s all right,” said the boy with a smile. His voice was smooth and his smile had a calming affect that the girl did not expect. “I’m a friend. Tell me, why are you crying?”
The girl looked down at the grave, which was now between them, as another tear ran down her cheek. “Charlie,” she said in a whisper. “My dog. He died last night, and I’ll never see him again. He was my only friend.”
Sophia, Coyote suddenly knew – her name was Sophia. In that moment, Coyote wanted to stay in the form of this boy, even if it meant being mortal – as long as he could be with her; with Sophia. Truly, he thought, I have never felt magic like this.
The girl began shoveling the pile of dirt back into the grave, covering the shoebox.
“What are you doing,” asked the boy.
“I’m saying goodbye,” said Sophia. “Charlie is dead.”
Coyote did not understand. “Why do you burry him in the ground? Is it a game?”
“It’s no game. It’s serious,” said Sophia. She looked up at the boy for a moment. His auburn hair held the light of the sun, which was just coming up over the distant mountains. He was beautiful. She looked back at the grave and placed a dried bundle of lavender and sage atop the freshly turned dirt. “This is what we do when we care about someone who will no longer be with us,” Sophia said.
The boy dropped to his knees and gently took her hands, which trembled ever so slightly. “I’ll be your friend,” he said, “that is, if you’d like to be friends.”
Sophia’s face hinted at a smile, mixed with surprise. “All right,” she said. “What is your name?”
Coyote’s heart soared. Friends, he thought. I have another friend. “Cody,” he said, as that was the only human name, aside from hers, that came to mind. “I live in the valley down the stream.” This was only partially true, as his den was downstream, on a hill overlooking a bend in the river. He had lived there now for many seasons, but Coyote did not know how many.
“Well,” Sophia said as she exhaled. “I should be going home now. Mom and Dad will wonder where I’ve gone. I didn’t want them to see Charlie like this. He was my dog. I wanted to be the one to say goodbye.” She squeezed Coyote’s hand and smiled. The tears in her eyes were starting to dry and the scent of sadness was lifting. “Thank you for being here Cody,” Sophia said. “I think Charlie would have liked you.”
She stood and turned to walk away, but Coyote couldn’t help himself. “Wait,” he called. Sophia stopped and looked at him. “What if it didn’t have to end?”
Sophia shook her head as her beautiful dark curls bounced around her face. “Everything ends Cody,” she said.
But Coyote had already started removing the dirt from the grave.
“Hey, don’t do that,” Sophia said, rushing to stop him, but Coyote was faster. He tore the lid off the box and before Sophia could stop him. He stood, holding Charlie’s body.
New tears formed in Sophia’s eyes, but they were hot with anger. Coyote was almost afraid, for a moment. “I can bring him back,” Coyote announced, and this stopped Sophia’s breath. For a moment, the forest seemed to lean in.
“What do you mean? You’re just a boy,” said Sophia.
“Here,” said Coyote, as he handed Charlie’s body to Sophia. “You have to hold him and I can bring him back to life.” Then the he bent down and, with his finger, drew a line in the earth, all the way around Sophia. Then he straightened himself. “Take my hand,” he whispered. Sophia did so and Coyote’s amber eyes closed as began to cast his magic.
No Coyote, thought Phelan as he watched Sophia and Coyote from the bushes across the river. Phelan whispered his magic as quiet as the beating wings of a butterfly and the words flowed from him with all the malice he felt for the creature who would never understand his place: “For every day she lives, you will worship her, yet you shall never have her and she will never want you. You will try to help her, but whenever you do, it will bring her darkness. Her greatest joy shall be a mystery to you and if you ever solve it, it will be her undoing. This is my curse for you and you will be bound to these things, though you will not know why. In this, you are held together, so the good that may have been, will someday destroy itself.”
Luna was the only one who saw this, and said nothing.
When Coyote had cast his magic, he grinned and opened his eyes, expecting to see Charlie happy and alive, but something was wrong. The dog in Sophia’s arms twisted and breathed rapidly. The dog’s mouth opened as black saliva began dripping from its tiny teeth, and a low rumbling sound crawled from its gut.
Sophia looked afraid, but she did not drop the animal. “Cody, what have you done,” she asked, trembling. “What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know,” said Coyote. “This has never happened before.”
Charlie’s eyes opened suddenly but they were deep red, with pale glowing orbs in their centers. The dog looked up at Sophia and then at Coyote. The dog’s skin began to expand as it grew larger and larger until Sophia fell back and could no longer hold him. The dog was growling and shaking violently. It jumped on its hind legs, which made him as tall as Coyote and before Coyote knew what to do, the dog lunged at him and threw him to the ground.
Sophia screamed, “Charlie, stop it! Cody, don’t hurt him!” But the two were fighting and rolling on the ground, both making guttural sounds, the likes of which Sophia had never heard. Whatever Cody had brought back from death, it wasn’t Charlie. Sophia lunged for the spade that stood in the dirt, next to the upturned grave, but when she looked up, Cody and Charlie were not in sight, though she could hear them, upstream, fighting and tearing each other apart. A torrent of blood turned the river red and Sophia felt a chill, as if the winter wind had breathed into her soul.
An orange shadow moved silently across the river. It was calm and when it materialized in front of her, Sophia could see it was another boy, though this one wore a pale orange suit and had silver grey hair. His eyes were sharper than Cody’s though they could have been related. Before she could say anything, the boy was in front of her, drying her tears with a cloth handkerchief. His face wore an expression of concern. “What has Cody done to you,” he purred.
Sophia couldn’t help herself. “He tried to bring my dog back to life, but somehow, he turned it into a monster.” She could feel her breath trembling. She was more afraid than she had ever been.
“Of course he did,” said the grey-haired boy. “Cody is a cruel creature, and I’m sorry you had to learn that the hard way. You see, he enjoys tormenting the innocent. He takes a sick pleasure in leading them on, with empty promises.” The boy smoothed the ruffled curls on Sophia’s head and she did not move.
“You mean, he meant for this to happen? He wanted to make Charlie a monster?” Sophia’s cheeks flushed red. What kind of person would do such a horrible thing?
“You can’t trust him,” said the grey-haired boy. “He only wants to bring you pain. He can’t help anyone, least of all himself.” Sophia looked in the direction Cody and Charlie had gone. “When he comes back, I suggest you either disappear or…”
“Or what,” Sophia whispered.
“Or be ready, to end him, the boy said. “He brings nothing but pain, and he enjoys it,” said the grey-haired boy as he lifted Sophia’s hand to her heart, the hand that clutched the spade.
Sophia looked down at the spade. “You think I should kill him,” she said. But when she looked up the grey-haired boy had vanished.
There was a rustling in the bushes and Cody appeared, blood poring from his chest. In his arms he cradled the small lifeless body of Charlie. He placed the body on top of the overturned grave. “I can do this,” Cody whispered. “I can bring him back this time. Just watch,” he said looking up at Sophia with a half smile on his face. “I’ll bring him back for you. That’s what friends do. They make each other happy.”
“We’re not friends,” Sophia said in a low tone. “I could never be friends with anyone who enjoys doing such a thing. Leave us.”
Coyote felt hurt. “But, don’t you want my help? I’ll bring him back. It’ll be fun.”
“I’m warning you. We don’t want your kind here. I said go!” Sophia pushed Coyote away and the blood on his suit covered her hands where she pushed him.
“No, I can do this,” said Coyote, trying to move her aside. “I’ve done this before.”
Sophia was outraged. “Leave Charlie alone!” She lunged at Cody. Her arm flying, stabbing at him repeatedly with the spade, which wasn’t sharp enough to slice his skin like a knife, like she had hoped, but worked more as a blunt object that she was sure were making dents – but his chest was too strong. Aim for his face, a voice came to her, and she did. Her spade plunged toward one of his amber-eyes, but Cody twisted past her reach and sprang for the bank of the river. He leapt across the moss-covered stones and into the thick brush, until she could see him no longer. Sophia stood, feet apart, throwing all the sharp stones she could find, in the direction he had gone, until she was out of breath. The end of her spade was red with blood and dirt.
“And I never saw him again,” Sophia told her tow granddaughters, a lifetime later, when she recounted the story to the small dark-haired girls, tucked in by patchwork quilts from the safety their mountain home. She had not expected to tell Maggie and Mari this story, but something compelled her to share it with them. Maybe it was because Mari, the youngest, was the same age she had been when she met Cody. Maybe it was because she had received strange “gifts” every year, on the anniversary of Charlie’s death – little things on her doorstep that magically appeared; a bundle of dried sage, a small stone carving of a coyote, and even a spade. She always threw the gifts away with the trash but not this year. This year, a beautiful set of acrylic paints and brushes were left for her, tied in a turquoise ribbon. She had found it when she stepped out to get the mail. This was her eighty-first gift, and the only one she could not throw out with the garbage. The girls would like to paint, she had thought, so she had given the paints to Maggie and Mari to share, but she had not the heart to say where the paints had come from.
And now she had told them the story of the strange magic boy who had played a horrible trick on her. Hopefully the girls would learn that not everyone is to be trusted, and if they ever saw an amber-eyed boy, they would do their best to stay far away from him, for he was a cruel creature who only brought pain. They will be safe, she thought. Even some day when I am gone. They will always have each other.
Sophia turned off the nightstand light and stepped into the hall. She could hear Maggie softly snoring, but a small voice came to her. “Grandma,” whispered Mari who had climbed out from under the covers and was perched on the side of the bed looking out the window. “I’ll keep watch for him tonight.”
Sophia shook her head. Mariposa was the optimistic one; only six years old, and every bit like Sophia had been so many years ago. I hope she stays this way, Sophia thought to herself. But I hope she is more cautious than I was.
“What makes you think he’s still out there?”
“He sounds lonely,” Mari said. “What if he’s trying to say he’s sorry?” Mari held her stuffed bear close to her chest. “I would give him a second chance.”
Sophie shuddered to herself. You weren’t there, she thought. You didn’t see Charlie’s pale, half-dead face when he came back to life. You didn’t see Cody’s smile at the thought of doing it again, and again, and again. Someone like that did not deserve a second chance, or any chance at all. But she held her tongue and did not say these things.
“What would you do if you saw him again,” Mariposa asked, still gazing out the window.
“I would kill him,” Sophia said, so quietly, she knew Mari couldn’t hear it. “Get some sleep Mari. Good night,” she said louder this time. Maggie snored as if in agreement. Sophia shut the door and walked down the hall.
Mari sat at the window, staring out at the field that was their yard. Dark trees danced with the wind on the edge of the field and for a moment, Mari was sure she saw a wolf-like creature step out into the clearing and look at her. She rubbed her eyes, but the creature was gone.
An owl hooted somewhere in the distance as Mariposa drifted into a deep sleep, unencumbered by the worries of stranger, more ancient creatures.

Chapter 7--The Abandoned Amusement Park

Two long shadows, in the shape of girls, moved along the lonely mountain road as the late summer sun crept toward the purple hills that hovered above the small town of Mariposa California. On one side of the road, a thick patch of evergreens stretched as far as the eye could see and on other side, a hill plummeted toward a riverbed where the last of the Sierra snowmelt slithered toward what would eventually become the Pacific Ocean as a narrow turquoise ribbon of water.
“Chew on this Mari,” said Maggie, the taller girl, as she pulled a stick of gum from her backpack. “It’ll save us from dehydration.”
The smaller girl popped the gum in her mouth. “Grape,” Mariposa said, as she looked up at her sister. “Maggie, you could go to jail if they catch you. Where did you get it?”
“I stole it from the witch just as we were escaping,” said Maggie as she brushed a long dark strand of hair away from her brown eyes.
Mariposa smiled and chewed the tangy purple gum, which had exploded in her mouth. She knew Maggie had purchased the gum at the gas station that morning on their way to school. She knew the only witch was the white-haired yard duty, who eyed the schoolchildren at recess, but it was fun for the sisters to pretend that there was another side to the world, and more to the tiny mountain town they lived in.
“Guess what I heard at school today,” Maggie said through a mouth full of gum. “You know the old Wilson property?”
Mariposa nodded. The Wilson property was on their way home. She even could see the overgrown shrubs and trees that hid the large gate emblazoned with a “W” as they rounded the corner.
“The ranch is really an abandoned amusement park,” said Maggie with a mischievous smile. “Simone Tyler was bragging about it during history class. She said, years ago it belonged to an old man and it was shut down when someone died there. Simone said it’s haunted. You want to go see it?”
Mariposa felt a rush of both panic and elation. They had only pretended to be outlaws before now. “Are we allowed to?”
“I don’t think so,” said Maggie, “but that doesn’t mean we aren’t going to check it out.”
Tree-sized Juniper bushes arched over the hurricane fence that followed the length of the property. If they had been in a proper city, Mariposa thought, the fence would go on for several city blocks. The girls trailed the fence, ignoring the faded red and white, “no trespassing,” signs, until they came to a child-sized gap between the wires. “This is the opening Simone was talking about,” Maggie said, taking a deep breath. “This is it Mari. If we get caught, we could be in serious trouble. Are you sure you’re you ready?”
Mariposa considered Maggie’s words. She knew it was wrong but she would follow Maggie to the ends of the Earth. She and Maggie were not like other sisters who fought over boys and talked about petty things like nail polish or tea parties. Mariposa knew that, as long as she had her sister, she could do anything. “I’m ready,” she said at last.
The girls removed their backpacks and slid them on the ground, in front of them, as they had seen cliff divers do with their scuba tanks, in cave diving television specials. “Hurry,” said Maggie, “if a car goes by, they could see us.”
Once on the other side of the fence, Mariposa grabbed her backpack and darted after Maggie, across a parking lot and toward a row of old ticket booths, surrounded by tall Pine Trees, which grew so thick, it was impossible to see the park beyond. The girls approached the ticket booths with caution, though the layer of dust on the ticket counter showed no sign of disturbance.
“Two tickets please,” Maggie announced to no one behind the glass partition. She slid two dollar bills through the small opening used for transactions. Then, she pushed through the turnstile wheel, which rotated and spit out a ticket on the other side. Mariposa did the same and took the tickets, which were printed with the words, Fairy Tale Wonder-Park – Where Stories Come To Life.
“They still work,” said Maggie as she took her ticket from Mariposa.
“There’s no one here,” Mariposa said. “Why did you pay for us?”
“Because you never know,” said Maggie, glancing back at the ticket booth, “and dad’s always reminding us that nothing is free. It doesn’t seem right otherwise.”
“Well, shouldn’t it cost more than two bucks,” Mariposa asked.
“It should,” Maggie agreed, “but that’s all we have until we do more chores. When you think about it, proportionately, I just gave the park more than probably anyone else ever did. What does your ticket say on the back?”
Mariposa turned the long, fortune-cookie-like ticket over. “It says, Welcome friend. May your journey through this wonderland be as enchanted as life itself,” then her breath caught in her throat, “my ticket has today’s date on it!”
Maggie looked up from the grey cobblestone trail that wound its way into the park and gazed at her ticket. “So does mine,” she said. “Maybe it’s an old clockwork system that doesn’t know when to quit – some sort of ghost in the machine. Simone said the place is haunted, but I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I don’t either,” said Mariposa in the same fierce tone as her sister, though her voice waivered slightly. “Still, I’ve heard some things are good at holding memories… like the smell of pine needles after the rain, or that empty feeling you get when you walk into the basement at night, just before turning on the light. It’s like something is watching you, but you can’t see it.”
“Do you want to go back,” Maggie asked quietly.
It was a simple question and Maggie asked it as gently as a loving mother, concerned for an infant. But Mariposa shook her head. To the ends of the earth, the small girl reminded herself, the ends of the earth, and beyond.
Maggie reached out for Mariposa’s hand. Mariposa grabbed it instinctively as the hairs on her arm stood on end. “Come on,” said Maggie. “Let’s see what’s hiding in here.”
The cobblestone trail wound around trees, dotted with short, cement toadstools painted in bright colors. The toadstools were as tall as Mariposa, and she was sure children, years ago, must have climbed on them, as they were accompanied by the occasional slide or abandoned swing set. Little picnic tables peeked out through overgrown bushes and long yellow wild grass.
Within minutes the girls arrived at the first round of cottages that stood in a circular clearing of trees. “Look at that,” Maggie whispered, “They still seem so new.”
Mariposa’s eyes widened as she took in the small buildings around her. To her left was a brown house with white trim, neatly kept with fresh geraniums peeking out from the window boxes. Other houses had little herb gardens, birdbaths, and miniature willow trees neatly accenting their exteriors. There was a wood smith cottage, complete with a workbench and several unfinished woodcarvings out front. There was a blue building with a “bakery” sign over the top, with clean, sparkling windows. There was even a little candy-maker house, the largest in the village, with pink trim and a red and white pole in front, bearing a sign that read, “Mrs. Klaus’ Kitchen.” In the center of the village was a large circular fountain.
“It’s almost like people still live here,” Mariposa whispered. “Do you smell bread?”
Maggie shook her head. “No, but my allergies are acting up, so I can’t really tell.”
“I don’t want to walk through this part,” Mariposa said. “It’s too much like walking through someone’s house when they’re not home.”
“I agree,” said Maggie. “Let’s take the trail on the left.”
The girls continued left and came to a large tree, with a stone coyote statue sitting at the base, his head looking upward, toward the sky. In the trees behind the coyote, and almost as if it had been watching but wanting to stay hidden, sat a stone fox statue, facing the coyote. “Mari,” said Maggie as she trotted toward the stone coyote, “do you know what this is?”
Mariposa’s face lit up. “That’s Coyote,” she said as she caught up to her sister. This is from the story when he was playing a game with birds when he lost his eyes. The bird agreed to give him a new set of eyes made from yellow tree pitch. That’s why he can’t go near a fire to this day. His eyes will melt.”
“Very good,” said Maggie. “I see you remember something from class.” Mariposa had a knack for remembering stories and even making her own. She quickly forgot anything to do with math or spelling, but she could recite stories and fairy tales as if she had lived them. That was partly why Maggie had wanted to show Mari this place, because it was something she knew her sister would enjoy.
Mariposa smiled as she ran her hands over Coyote’s stone shoulders and up to his nose along his surprisingly sharp teeth. He seemed to be smiling at the girls. “Loki,” she said quietly. “He’s the same type of personality you see in Norse mythology. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was related to Anubis, from the ancient Egyptian tales. A keeper of life and death. Maybe that’s why he’s always getting into trouble, because he’s always pushing the limits of what he knows is real, and what he wants to be real.”
“We must treat him with respect and kindness then,” said Maggie.
“Yes,” Mariposa said, as if through a haze. “But from a safe distance. Fire runs hot, and burns those who stand too close.” A bright ray of sunlight suddenly hit Mariposa’s eyes and she stepped back so it was blocked by a tree branch. “But he doesn’t belong here Maggie. He’s not a fairytale like Snow White or Rose Red, like the others. Maybe a folktale, but not a fairytale.”
Maggie didn’t know what to say. Her sister was right. Why was his statue in an amusement park? “It doesn’t make sense,” she said. “I don’t think anyone ever believed that Snow White was a real person, or a god, but the same can’t be said about Coyote. So why is he here?”
“Maybe he’s pretending,” said Mariposa as she picked a nearby daisy and placed it behind Coyote’s ear. “Maybe it’s a game and Coyote is playing hide-and-seek with the fox. Then Mariposa froze, her eyes wide with imagination. “Or maybe,” she said quietly, “maybe he’s stuck. What if he was cursed? Maybe Fox got the better of him or won a bet, but the curse backfired and they were both frozen. Oooh, that’s a good one. I bet it’s that one.”
Maggie laughed and handed another daisy to her sister.
Mariposa took the daisy and tapped Coyote’s nose three times, as if it were a wand. “Hear me oh spirit,” she said. “I release you from this form of stone. You are free to go.”
Mariposa laughed and the girls then turned and continued down the trail and eventually came to a large cement wall that wound over the rolling hills of the park and up to a curvy arched gate, which signified the entrance to an overgrown hedge marked, Alice in Wonderland’s Garden Maze.
Maggie stepped up to the cement wall and pulled at one of the last flecks of faded paint. “It’s missing something,” she said as she set her backpack on the ground and unzipped the large pocket. Pulling out a wooden box, Maggie took two slender paintbrushes out and handed one to Mariposa. “Gran gave this to me for my birthday,” she smiled. Maggie opened the box, revealing a set of colorful tube-paints and a large mixing tray. She squirted a few colors onto the tray, mixed a warm orange-red together and began to paint a brilliant sun, directly on the stone-grey wall. Mariposa helped herself to a dab of green and began painting a Chinese dragon, which wound its way along the wall, as high as she could reach.
The girls continued to paint magical creatures along the wall for what must have been hours, working their way away from each other, till they were a good twenty-feet apart. When they had covered this much of the wall, Maggie came back to the center, under the sun and motioned for Mariposa to join her. “Gran said these paints are special,” she said, bending over, so Mariposa could look her directly in the eye. Mariposa nodded solemnly. “She said whatever we paint will bring magic to the world. So, I thought we should paint ourselves in the center, because we are the tellers of this story now.”
Maggie and Mariposa then painted two girls, standing under the sun, in dazzling blue and green dresses. Golden beams shot out from their hair and their eyes sparkled as black gems from the mural.
Suddenly the color began to fade from the wall and the surrounding world as the golden sun over the mountains dipped behind them. Maggie glanced at her watch and promptly began cleaning the brushes with a bottle of water and packing the paints in their box. “It’s time to go,” she said, as she took Mariposa’s brush and cleaned it. “We’ll come back here again soon,” she said. “Dad and Mom will be worried about us.”
Mariposa sighed. “You mean Mom will worry. I think Dad understands.”
Maggie scraped the dirt from her backpack, shouldered it and took Mariposa’s hand as they started down the trail. “If Mom worries,” she said, “Dad will worry that Mom’s worried. Even though he knows we’re fine. It’s not like we’ll turn into a pumpkin or anything.”
The girls passed the pedestal where the stone coyote and fox had been and rounded their way across the village and toward the cobblestone trail that lead to the turnstiles. “Why do grownups worry so much,” Mariposa asked after a brief silence.
“I don’t know,” said Maggie, who was herself, many years away from even being even close to a grownup. “I think maybe, it’s because they’re afraid of something. Afraid of failure maybe.”
Mariposa shrugged. “So? I failed my math test last week. You don’t see me worrying.”
Maggie stopped for a moment and stared at her sister, who glanced over her shoulder to meet her gaze momentarily. “Mari,” Maggie said in her big-sister tone. “What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s just stupid division,” said Mariposa. “I can’t help it if Ms. Bean hates me,” she added under her breath. She felt her heart speed up a little as she remembered her teacher’s face when she was called on, in front of the class to give the answer to 32, divided by 4. She had had no idea, and had been looking at her fingers, trying to devise a system of counting, when Ms. Bean had suggested she talk with her mother about it and wrote a note with extra homework assignments. Mariposa still hadn’t shown their mother the note and she was beginning to wish she hadn’t told Maggie either. “It’s fine,” Mariposa said, wiping her eye, which she attributed to the dust in the air. “Lots of people get through life without math. Maybe I’m just number stupid.”
“You’re not,” said Maggie, matter-of-factly. “Ms. Bean just doesn’t know how to teach you because your approach to logic and hers are completely different. Numbers are just ways of expressing logic. You can do this and I can prove it. Here, let’s say you have two horses. How many legs would I count if I counted both of their legs together?”
“Eight,” Mariposa sighed as they approached the turnstiles.
“And what if I add two more horses? How many total legs then?”
“Eight and eight is sixteen,” said Mariposa. “So what?”
“That’s four horses, times four legs. Four times four is sixteen. And two sixteen’s is thirty-two,” said Maggie. “So if four horses is sixteen, how many horses is thirty-two?”
Mariposa thought for a moment. If she doubled sixteen to get thirty-two, then she should double four to get… “eight,” she said finally.
“So thirty-two divided by four is?”
“Eight,” Mariposa said again, this time with a smile. “But what do I do when the numbers get too big for horses?”
“Get bigger horses,” said Maggie.
Mariposa turned and swatted playfully at Maggie. “I’d need a horse with more legs.”
“Like Sleipnir then,” said Maggie. “Doesn’t he have something like eight legs?”
Mariposa let out a giggle as they ducked under the turnstiles and made their way across the long, empty parking lot.
“Really though,” Mariposa said solemnly. “Some day problems will be too big for horses or counting on fingers and what happens then? It’s like this whole thing’s a puzzle and I’m missing the piece I need to understand it.”
As they walked Maggie tucked a thick column of dark hair behind her ear. “I know,” she said after a moment of thoughtful silence. “You approach numbers differently than other kids. But I’ve been reading about it, about people who have trouble with numbers. It’s a real thing and I think it just means that you have to think more creatively about it.” Mariposa wiped a speck of dust out from under her eyelid. “While other kids memorize formulas to figure out problems, you need to understand why the numbers do what they do. You have to understand why the rules work.”
“Can’t the rules just be broken though,” asked Mariposa.
“They’re there for a reason,” said Maggie patently. “But yes, once you understand why rules work then you can deconstruct them and create and test your own logical framework.”
“See, with you, it’s easy,” said Mariposa. “With Ms. Bean, it’s like she’s mad at me. She thinks I’m purposely not saying the answer, and she thinks picking on me will make me try harder.”
“Then prove her wrong,” said Maggie. “You’re going to have to try harder than the other kids, but I can help you if you just tell me that you need it. Okay?”
Mariposa nodded, but stopped suddenly as they neared the overgrown shrubs that hid the hole in the hurricane fence. Maggie stiffened as they both listened to the soft padding sounds far behind them.
Then, without hesitation, Maggie dropped to her knees at the fence and shoved Mari and her backpack through the hole, following closely behind. From the other side of the fence, they stared back between the green fluffy branches, across the long parking lot. “Did you see that?” Maggie whispered? “It was like a grey shadow.”
“With yellow eyes,” Mariposa answered, for she had seen it to, following them. It had stopped near the turnstiles. Through the bushes they could see the ticket booth, where the grey shadow seemed to stand. “Maggie, he’s taking the money.”
The shadow, or at least he looked like a shadow, stood on his hind legs, took the two dollars in his mouth and scampered back into the park. “I told you he was clever,” said Mariposa quietly. But it was dusk and the edge of the turnstiles faded into the same purple grey until neither Mariposa or Maggie were sure they had actually seen anything at all.
Beyond the tops of the trees, Mariposa thought she saw a glint of green scaly wings stretch and flutter for a moment. A puffy ring of smoke quickly rose into the sky and settled with the late summer clouds. Mariposa yawned and blinked. It had been a long day and her eyelids felt heavy. She took Maggie’s hand and followed her down the lonely mountain road, toward their house.
The following week, when the girls were walking home from school, they found a newer, taller fence around the park, topped with barbed wire and dug into the ground. The hedges had grown so thick that neither girl could see through to the parking lot to the park entrance.
As the years passed, Mariposa was sure she had imagined the grey shadow. She was sure she and Maggie had been in the park, she remembered painting on the wall, but there was no way to be certain of the grey shadow. It could have been a trick of the light. Either way, neither Mariposa nor her sister ever tried breaching the fence again.

Chapter 8—The Memory of the Singed Bear

In the chrome-covered, mid-century-modern, Melmac years after the Second World War, American families took to the highways in droves. In search of summertime adventure, they piled their oversized cars high with 2.5 children, the family dog, grumpy grandparents, beat-up suitcases, straw-thatch picnic baskets, 8mm film cameras that were as heavy as a cannonball, and enough petrol in the tank to run a small country-or get them to the next filling station-whichever came first. It was from this optimistic post-war haze, that the hallowed phenomenon, known as the All-American roadside attraction, was born.
Spurred by unprecedented automotive freedom, traveling families, couples, and teenage nomads alike, had insatiable appetites for affordable, or better yet-free entertainment, and they stopped at any and every drive-in, Tiki lounge, roadside attraction, or kitsch amusement park a town had to offer. The town of Mariposa California, gateway to Yosemite National Park, was no exception, and neither was Fairytale Wonderland Theme Park.
The heydays of this particular park, are some of the most notable in all of amusement park history, for they involve, not only, cherished memories, and nostalgia, but also mystery, scandal, and even rumors of disappearances, insanity, and murder-if the stories are to be believed.
Despite the rumors and scandal, Fairytale Wonderland Theme Park stayed open for business for many decades, with its shiny rollercoasters, enchanted fairytale adventure town, and rows of carnival games that stretched as far as the eye could see, where the most wonderful stuffed animals and trinkets could be won, simply by throwing a ball, or filling a balloon with a water pistol.
The park seemed, by most accounts, normal. On hot days, the aroma of buttered popcorn on pavement filled the air. Pink cotton candy stuck on the lips of many a fat child, and the gift shop till almost never stopped ringing.
There was a sky-tram suspended across the park, with 2-seater coaches shaped like oversized pumpkins. The sky-tram shuttled tourists over the park, letting them gently float, high above the other rides, so they could look down on the enchanted world. As could be expected, many a child dropped their sodas on unsuspecting patrons, and many a parent of these children insisted it was an accident, despite the deadly accuracy of the every soda that fell. Sky Sodas, the park workers came to call the incidents.
The Goblin Cave Ride let visitors whirl through a miner’s tunnel, in authentic looking ore carts that followed a track, through a spooky cave of wonder and mystery, where twinkling diamonds of every color hung from the ceiling and stuck out from the walls. Many a school-aged sweetheart tried to take a diamond for their date. One boy was rumored to have lost a finger when an automated goblin figurine on the cave ride used its pickaxe to swipe the boy, causing him to drop the diamond, and his finger. But this was just a rumor, likely told by park staff and parents to keep kids out of trouble.
The main building at the entrance of the park was known as the Reception House, which was topped with a tall, alpine-chalet style roof that featured two triangular arches on each side, complete with white fluffy plastic mold-form-made fake snow, lining the peaks. Inside the Reception House, guests could buy an array of souvenirs, from carved wooden magic wands, to hand-sewn hats, and outfits that seemed to belong on fairytale creatures.

The park also featured a walk through museum of fairytales, which outlined the importance of storytelling and folktales in cultures around the world. This was the least visited section of the park, as it offered no moving rides, no food, and no punchy park music; only little plaques with small-print paragraphs, next to large reproductions of wood carvings, paintings, and ink drawings. Guests didn’t come for the history lesson; they came for the rides, the junk food, and the prizes. And many a tired parent often came, just to have some worry-free time with their children.
In the beginning, Brown Bear Inspected By Number 29,874 was truly fabulous; brown synthetic fur, blue button eyes, a shiny little derby hat, and a bright red velvet bow tie. As carnival bears went, he was talk of the town. The only thing he didn’t have was a sleek pair of tap-dancing shoes to really impress the other bears, at night, when the lights in the park dimmed, and the guests left, and the magic happened. Nighttime was when all of the carnival game prizes dreamed they were real, and they danced together, and rode the carousel, and had wonderful adventures with the other patrons of the park. But it could only happen after the sun had set, after the guests were gone, and within the confines of the park itself, for amusement park magic is a strange magic, rarely seen by outsiders, or anyone over the age of six.
Every morning, a thin, pimply-faced youth, wearing a blue, red, and yellow vest and a nametag with, “Josh,” written on it, would come to Brown Bear’s booth. It was Josh’s job to make sure park guests paid for the darts they threw at the many colored balloons that hung on the wall inside Brown Bear’s booth. “Three darts for a dime,” Josh would call to passersby. “Win a bear. Win a bear for your little girl.” Or, if the crowd was a group of other teenagers, “win a bear for your best gal,” or “test your manhood and kill a balloon.” The last one was only said whenever management wasn’t around.
Of course, Brown Bear Inspected By Number 29,874, looked just like all the other bears around him, but that didn’t matter to him. He knew he was special. He could feel it. At night, he dreamed of something more; maybe he could get that new pair of tap dancing shoes. Maybe he could be a real bear and walk through the forest. Maybe, just maybe, someone would pick him as their prize. It has to happen eventually, he thought.
During the long days of summer, when the air was dry and the park was full, Brown Bear would talk to Josh about his dreams. Of course, Josh was a good listener, and never interrupted, or said anything contrary to what Brown Bear said. Every day, Josh tended to the customers and every day, Josh handed all the other bears away to prize-winners. As the months went by, however, Brown Bear began to suspect that maybe Josh didn’t think that much of him, for Josh never said anything at all, and this upset Brown Bear very much.
“I feel like we don’t connect anymore,” Brown Bear said to Josh one evening, as the sky turned a sunset-shade of pink and the sun dipped behind the mountains. “We were pals once, right?” But Josh did not answer. Brown Bear held back a tear. Had Josh just been pretending all summer? “Did I ever mean anything to you Josh? Was it just a game to you? Because to me, it was real. We were friends Josh.” But Josh still did not answer. It was as if he hadn’t even heard Brown Bear at all.
That night, when the park closed, and Josh left his shift for the evening, Brown Bear felt a great sadness. He did not want to dance with the other bears or share in the park magic anymore. He simply wanted to be forgotten.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you want to dance with the other bears,” asked the multi-colored plush snake that hung above a ball-toss game in the stall next to Brown Bear. “The other bears are having a good time, but you look sad.”
“Leave me alone,” said Brown Bear. “I don’t wish to be rude, but really, I don’t feel like talking right now.”
“But you talk all the time,” said Snake. “I’ve heard you talking to that boy that works in the stall. What’s his name?”
“Josh,” sniffed Brown Bear as he tried not to let his sadness show. “And he doesn’t want to be my friend. I don’t even think he was listening to me.”
Snake laughed and his eyes smiled. “Of course Josh wasn’t listening,” he said.
Brown Bear was now, very confused. “But why would he be so mean? It isn’t right to ignore someone. Especially when they… I mean when I… Well, it just isn’t fair that’s all.”
Snake nodded. “You really liked him didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Brown Bear said as a soft sob escaped him.
“Heck,” said Snake. “Josh doesn’t deserve someone like you. You have real feelings, and real dreams. You prater on all day about all the things you’d like to do someday, and I believe you’ll do all those things.”
“Really,” asked Brown Bear, “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”
“Josh can’t hear you. You’re not even on the same planet,” said Snake. “Carnival prizes, and most toys like us, exist on a different plane-we resonate on a whole nother’ frequency.”
“I don’t understand,” said Brown Bear. “I can hear Josh when he talks. Why can’t he hear me?”
“Don’t know,” said Snake. “One of life’s great mysteries. But someday, someone will hear you. I’ve seen it happen. Carnival magic, they call it. I just hope one day it happens to me. And I hope it happens to you as well. Keep your chin up and your buttons polished little bear. Your turn will come along.”
The next day, the snake was gone-won to a little girl and her father. Brown Bear never saw him again, but he never forgot what he said, and for the years that followed, as Brown Bear became faded and dusty, he kept his chin up and his buttons polished. One day, he told himself, someone will win me and they will hear me, and it will be magical.

Part 1: Chapters 1 - 5

Tue, 16 Jun 2015 10:46:22 -0700

INTRODUCTION
There is magic in the world, but sometimes it hides itself, so it is not easy to find. You must search for what pulls at the corners of the mind. Unwind the fabric of what you think you remember. Search for the shadows that your eyes can’t focus on–that are gone too quickly, as if seen in a fog before waking. Do not give up, for you are a searcher. You answer the highest calling, for life is not about what you hope to find – as much as it is, the person you become along the way. Everyone has the potential for magic, but few learn how to use it, and many are destroyed by its power.

Chapter 1--The Great Forest

Long ago, a canopy of trees stretched across the earth. They were of every shape and color, and they were known as the Great Forest. The trees overtook the land, save for a few planes, fields, and high mountain passes, and they only stopped at the sea.
In the forest lived the Great Animals, who were magnificent and terrifying. The animals were very old, though they still looked and moved as they had when they were young, for they were magic and among the first inhabitants the world had ever known.
In the forest lived a family of wolf-like creatures who had thick fur coats and piercing eyes, which could see through the deepest of darkness. The first of these creatures was Hantaywee, the faithful. She was loving and kind, and spent much of her time offering wisdom to the forest animals and listening to what they had to say. All of the wolf and dog-like animals that we know today consider Hantaywee their great ancestor and mother.
Hantaywee had two pups; Phelan and Coyote. The brothers were very different from one another, but enjoyed each other’s company and spent all of their time together. Phelan inherited his mother’s cleverness and desire observe, while Coyote was more interested in having adventures and making things. Hantaywee’s sons traveled together, each seeing the world in their own way, and each discovering the forest’s secrets as they explored.
One day the brothers were playing in a field of bright orange and black butterflies. The butterflies swarmed, high into the air, and formed a cloud that cast ghost-like shadows over the dry grass. Phelan sat still, focusing his attention on a single flower, which he knew a butterfly would eventually land on. Coyote, however, bounded to and fro, chancing the butterflies as fast as he could. But there were so many butterflies to chase that Coyote became disoriented and wandered a great distance from Phelan.
For the first time the brothers were separated from each other.
Far away, Hantaywee’s tail bristled, and she listened to the sounds of the forest–for anything that would explain her sudden unrest–but there was no foreign scent, no startling sound, and seemingly nothing she could see that would indicate that anything had changed–except for the feeling that something terrible was following her.
What is this feeling, she wondered. “What is this haunting shadow that has come to the forest?
She decided to walk, but the feeling followed. She began to run, and the feeling followed. Before she knew it, she was running faster than she had ever ran before. Her chest heaved, and her heart pounded with terror. The forest was a blur. The trees reached out to her and snagged her beautiful coat, leaving tatters of fur in their clutches as she tore past them, a ghostly white shadow that struck the earth like lightning.

Chapter 2--The Talking Rock in the Field

In his corner of the filed, the cloud of butterflies parted and a great rock appeared in front of Coyote. The rock was smooth on the top, and rounded toward itself on the bottom, coming almost, to a point in the ground. “Hello,” said the rock. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Coyote had never seen a talking rock, but he decided to answer. “Hello,” Coyote replied. “What are you doing?”
“Right now,” said the rock. “I am looking at the clouds. They are very beautiful. That one looks like a white flame, dancing across the sky. And the one next to it looks like a great circle, spinning around and around, with tiny people, sting on the edges. Have you ever seen anything like that before?” The rock exhaled slowly. His voice sounded like gravel stones rattling together, but it was also a deep voice, and Coyote found it both hypnotic and comforting to listen to. “So many shapes in the sky today. I wonder what it all means.”
Coyote raised his eyes to the sky, but did not see the clouds-only an endless blue ocean above him, and a flock of geese, calling to each other, far in the distance.
“Would you be kind enough to turn me over,” the rock asked.
“I didn’t know rocks cared whether they were upside down, or downside-up,” said Coyote as he sniffed the rock. A warm earth-like smell rolled into his nostrils. “You smell like worms.”
Coyote pushed the rock with his shoulder and rolled it over. The rock stood up on four legs, the size of small tree trunks.

“Thank you,” said the rock. “If I had stayed upside down much longer, I fear my head might have fallen off. My name is Tortoise. What is yours?”
“My name is Coyote. And this is my brother, Phelan.” But as Coyote turned around, Phelan was nowhere in sight.
“I see,” Tortoise said with a smile. “You have an invisible brother and I am a rock.”
Coyote smiled. “Phelan would like you,” he said. “He likes listening to people.”
“And what about you,” asked Tortoise. “Do you like listening to people?”
Coyote shrugged. “Not really.” Just then, a butterfly landed on his ear. Coyote turned his head quickly to examine the butterfly, which flew away before he could get a closer look. “Most of the time, people just want to talk about themselves and how much they’re in love with someone, or how they are sick, or how they’re worried about their children, or how they don’t want to get eaten.”
“I don’t know anyone who wants to get eaten,” said Tortoise. “I would imagine that being eaten is rather painful, and when it is over, you are dead.” He leaned his great head to the side, plucked a patch of daisies with his mouth, and began chewing. Through a mouth of flowers, he said, “I suppose death is something that many people are afraid of.”
Coyote thought about the cloud of butterflies, and how it had consumed Tortoise when he had found him upside down. It had looked as if Tortoise was being eaten by a great monster. “What about you,” Coyote asked. “Are you afraid of being eaten?”
“I suppose I am,” Tortoise said after a swallowing the daisies. “But then I try and think of more pleasant things.”
“I don’t know of anything with a mouth big enough to eat you. You’re enormous,” said Coyote.

Tortoise laughed and his voice rumbled until it shook the earth below. “Being big has its advantages. And I wouldn’t go down without a fight. But,” he paused and looked thoughtful, “there are all sorts of things that can devour someone. Darkness. Grief. Jealousy.”
“Whales,” said Coyote with a smile.
Tortoise nodded. “Yes, whales, and sharks, and other things that swim in the sea and even in the skies above. The world is a dangerous place and wondrous place to be. It is filled with joy and sorrow, good spirits, and demons, and things that devour even someone as big as me. One of them comes for each of us in the end.”
Coyote shook his head. “Not me. My mother told me and my brother that we would live forever. She said we will inherit the world, the forest, the sea, and that everything in it is ours to look after.”
“I hope you and your brother get along then,” tortoise laughed. “That’s fine for a bedtime story I suppose, but it doesn’t’ work that way.” Then Tortoise’s face became more serious and his brown eyes widened. “You should know that nothing lives forever, little one. Not even Coyote and Phelan.”
Of course we do, thought Coyote. Hot tears, which he had never felt, suddenly burned in his eyes. How could Tortoise know this? Of course they would live forever. Coyote never wanted to be without Phelan. “But that’s not true,” Coyote said, unable to control his shaking voice. “Hantaywee said Phelan and I will live forever.”
Tortoise’s great brown eyes widened and he raised his head as if he were seeing Coyote for the first time. “Hantaywee, The Faithful Spirit? Hantaywee, The Listening Spirit? She is your mother?”
Coyote nodded.
“I see,” said Tortoise. “Well, in that case, you are right, and it is very nice to meet you Coyote. However,” he lowered his head with a marked seriousness, “you should know that someday, you and I will still part ways.”
Coyote could not imagine a reason for ever parting ways. He wanted to keep talking with Tortoise, and he thought Tortoise had felt the same way. Was he wrong? “Don’t you want to stay here and talk and look at butterflies,” Coyote asked, now unsure of his new companion. “Why would we stop?”
“Because,” said Tortoise, “while I may be very old, and likely to live for a long time, I am not an immortal, and eventually, time will catch up with me. But you Coyote–your kind knows how to outrun time, and you will outlive every creature that will ever wander the earth.”
Coyote thought about wandering the earth alone, under the bright sunlight. Would the trees still be there? Would Phelan be there? What did it mean to be alone? He wondered.
“In the ages to come,” continued Tortoise, his voice growing deeper, “I foresee that you will bring great change to the world. You will wander great distances, and meet strange people. And you will not understand them. And they will not understand you. There will be many who will envy you. Some will even try to kill you to steal your power. And you will make choices that are beyond your understanding. Some of this, you will remember. Some of this, you will forget, for that is the curse of a long life–the ability to forget and start over–and that is also its greatest gift.”

A cold wind touched Coyote’s whiskers and he shivered. For the first time in his life, he felt something like sorrow, but he had no word for the feeling. “I’ve never had a friend before,” said Coyote. Then he remembered his brother. “Except Phelan. Maybe you and I can also be friends?”
Tortoise lowered his great head so his eyes were at the height of Coyote’s, and Coyote smelled the earth on his breath. “I would like that very much he said.”
And Coyote felt happiness in his heart, like a warm ray of sun.
Maybe, Coyote thought, I can find a way to help Tortoise outrun time. Maybe, if we stayed friends, Tortoise, and Phelan, and I can all live forever.
Coyote looked up at the sky, and for the first time, he could see the clouds, and they were indeed, beautiful.

Chapter 3--The Fast and the Slow

Phelan did not know how much time had actually passed since that day in the field, but he knew it was a long time, and with each moment, he became more and more bitter.
He and Coyote were too large to be pups now, but not large enough to be adults. They could run faster than they used to, and explore farther distances than ever before, but Coyote was loosing interest in such things. It seemed that Coyote wanted to spend every waking moment listening to Tortoise’s stories–and Phelan could not understand why.
When Coyote was apart from Tortoise, he could do nothing but talk about Tortoise and his ridiculous stories about turning circles in the sky and giant colored snakes that slithered along metal roads called tracks, and a spinning cage, where all the animals were stuck together on giant branches. Coyote thought it all sounded wonderful. Phelan thought it sounded awful and he wished Coyote had never met Tortoise. If only there was a way to make Coyote forget Tortoise, Phelan thought. If only I could make Tortoise disappear.
Phelan had tried reason, but reason did not work. He tried exaggerating, but it was lost on Coyote. Once, while hiding behind a bush in the field, Phelan even tried a magic spell to make Tortoise invisible, so Coyote wouldn’t find him-but his magic didn’t work on Tortoise way it worked on other mortals. Instead of turning invisible, Tortoise had turned pink, and Coyote had thought it was funny. “Dear me,” Tortoise had said as he laughed. “I seem to have caught a cold. I wonder what color I shall be tomorrow.” The color only lasted for a day, and Coyote told Phelan all about it and how funny it had been, and how Phelan should have been there. This made Phelan even more bitter.
“You are nothing alike,” Phelan had said, countless times, to his brother. “That giant turtle is so awkward and so slow, while you are so fast and strong.”
Coyote had shrugged. “You really should give him a chance Phelan. You have a lot in common. He likes stories. You like stories. He likes talking. You like talking. It’s like you’re twins, and I’m your brother.”
Phelan cringed at the thought of having the scaly, dirt-smelling Tortoise as a relation. “You and I are brothers. But Tortoise has nothing in common with us,” said Phelan. “You’re immortal. He’s not. He’s just going to live for a few decades and then he’ll die.” Coyote looked down for a moment, no longer smiling.
Phelan stepped toward him, wondering if he’d gone too far. “Coyote, I don’t want you to go through loss like that. Our kind isn’t meant to grieve. We’re so full of life. We can make things, build things that no one has ever seen. We should be looking to the future. Not the things that we see now. Do you even know what it means to die?”
“Sure,” said Coyote. He rolled a small ball of leaves between his paws as he talked. “It’s like going to sleep. You lay down, you shut your eyes, and you sleep. I’ve seen it done. I watched Field Mouse do it. Then I ate him. He tasted like spicy grass and pine bark. It wasn’t bad. I might do it again sometime. I wonder where he is. I haven’t seen him lately.”
“But you don’t wake up,” said Phelan. “When you die, you don’t wake up.”
“Maybe not right away,” said Coyote. “But you can. I think I’ve found a way around it.”
Phelan shook his head. Coyote’s ignorance was infuriating. While Phelan had sat with their mother, at the grave of many a fallen forest creature, and even listened to their final words and goodbyes, Coyote had never shared in the interest of listening. Action was what Coyote wanted to see–not endings.
The ball of leaves between Coyote’s paws had sprouted a tiny set of roots, and a green stalk of leaves was starting to bud from its center.
“You can’t find a way around death. Coyote, it’s the one thing that ties all mortals together. Without limited time, they would never find purpose, or do anything useful.”
Coyote thought about wandering, endlessly under the giant sun and stopped rolling the ball. “And what about us,” he said. “What’s the point of being alive if it ends? We’re immortal Phelan. Don’t we owe it to others to find a way to give them, at least, part of what we have?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Phelan laughed. “Owe them? Coyote, we can never owe anyone anything. Mortals aren’t supposed to mix with our kind.”
“But Mother tends to the dying,” said Coyote. “You’ve seen her. You’ve gone with her. You must feel something for them too. Tortoise says that Hantaywee does a great service, shepherding mortals out of this life. Don’t you find that comforting? Don’t you feel anything for them?”
“You’ve never gone with her, so don’t pretend you know what she does,” snarled Phelan. He had never seen Coyote even lift a paw to help any of the people Hantaywee listened to. How could Coyote possibly understand what it was to exit this world?
“I know she guides them somehow,” says Coyote. “But that’s not what I want to do. I want to make them so they don’t die in the first place.”
A laugh escaped Phelan’s lips. “And what would you eat once you gave life to everyone?” Phelan knew he had outthought his brother, for neither of them could stomach plants very long. But Phelan regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth, for he saw the hurt look on Coyote’s face. How could Coyote know, if he hadn’t been to the gravesides with Hantaywee?
“Look,” said Phelan, more gently, “even if you could do such a thing, they’d have no way of knowing. Even if you gave them a hundred years, Coyote. It would never be enough. I have seen these mortals. They’re sad, and searching, and desperate creatures, and when they possess something, they only want more. Their appetite-it does not cease.”
“Then maybe that’s what we have in common,” Coyote had said. The tiny ball wilted and turned to dust between Coyote’s paws. “Just because you don’t care, doesn’t mean I can’t do something.” It was one of the last things Phelan had remembered his brother saying to him.
At least a season had passed since that conversation. The two brothers hardly saw one another now. Hantaywee grew distressed and begged them to talk again. “You are brothers,” she had counseled. “You must find a way to make peace with each other.”
But there was no peace between them. Coyote spent his days with Tortoise and Phelan was alone, secretly following them whenever he could, for he truly missed his brother, but could not stand to admit it, or bring himself to make peace with a mortal.
One night, the moon hid itself behind a blanket of clouds, and the air was dry and warm. Phelan walked, alone in the forest. It had been a dry year and twigs snapped under his heavy paws as he walked, but Phelan was not thinking about the weather or the dry pine needles-he was thinking about Tortoise and his brother. Why wouldn’t Coyote just come back to him? Wasn’t it good enough to spend time with immortals and not soil one’s self with the long-winded stories of a mortal creature? Of course, Hantaywee could talk with the dying, but the more Phelan thought about it, the more he detested even that idea. What was the point of it?
Phelan’s fur stood on end and suddenly, a bolt of lightning crashed from the sky, striking the top of a nearby tree. The tree cracked and the top-most branch tumbled to the ground, at Phelan’s paws. The dry branch crackled and a small, glittering flame burst into existence.
Phelan watched the flame as it danced–a tiny, orange sphere, shivering on the dry leaves. The fire will spread if I don’t step on it. Coyote and Hantaywee might get hurt if the fire spreads, thought Phelan. He lifted his paw to crush the flame as he had done every season before when such a thing had happened. But this time he paused, for the flame seemed to be dancing, singing to him-and its song was filled with a strange magic;
Let me live,
And let me grow,
For I can spark,
More than you know.

And swift, the summer winds will blow.
The fast survive.
But not the slow.

The flame grew brighter and brighter as it crackled and spread across the forest floor. So many of the forest creatures were slow, Phelan thought. So many.

Chapter 4--The Trappings of Home

Suddenly awake, Hantaywee lifted her head in the darkness of the cave. The smell of smoke moved through her nostrils and triggered a flight instinct. “Coyote,” she called out-her voice higher than she had hoped, “Something is wrong. We must run. Where is your brother?”
The cave was still, but Coyote had heard her. He was awake, as it was not uncommon for Hantaywee to have night terrors, especially since he and Phelan had not been speaking. Hantaywee had descended to a shadow of her former self. While she had once been regal and majestic, with a glorious white coat that shown in the moonlight, she was now tattered and no longer moved through the forest without being snagged. Coyote had noticed this, and felt sorry for her, but he did not know how to help her.
“You’re dreaming mother,” said Coyote, hoping she would go back to sleep. “I’m sure Phelan is fine… wherever he is.” Coyote wished he could put things back to the way they had been. He wished his brother would accept Tortoise. He wished his mother would not have to worry. He also wished that the stories Tortoise told him about the circle in the sky would come true. He wanted to see the magical people that rode the circle. He wanted to know where they came from and who they were, and have adventures with them. And most of all, he wanted for his brother to share these things with him. He missed his brother and it wore on him like a heavy weight.
Hantaywee appeared at his side and nudged his shoulder. Coyote woke from his thoughts. “Now,” she said, “we must go now.” And Coyote smelled smoke and felt something like fear, for the first time.
“Hantaywee, Coyote,” called Phelan, from outside the cave. Coyote stood and was at the mouth of the cave before Hantaywee. “There’s a fire, and it’s eating the forest. Run with me to the sea. We will be safe there.”
“Then we must go,” said Hantaywee, springing out of the cave. Together, the three ran through the forest, but it didn’t feel like the forest they had known. The earth shook beneath their paws and the air became hot and thick with smoke. Familiar trees became sinister and long shadows danced like angry spirits across the dry pine branch floor. Coyote felt as if he were inhaling foxtails with every breath. He was glad they were going to the sea, where they would be safe.
But then Coyote remembered Tortoise; slow, old Tortoise, with legs like small tree trunks, who could not run fast enough to escape the flames. There was no way that Tortoise could make it to the sea.
Coyote stopped and Phelan stopped behind him. “You must come with us brother,” Phelan panted.
“I have to find Tortoise. I can carry him. I can cast a magic floating charm and bring him to the sea. I can’t go with you Phelan. Take care of mother.”
A ball of anger flared in Phelan’s eyes. “Forget Tortoise! There is nothing you can do for him. Time has caught up with him. That’s how things are meant to be.”
But Coyote had already leapt into the wall of flames that was fast following them. Phelan heard his voice one last time; “I can’t leave him Phelan. He needs me.”
But you abandon me, thought Phelan. He felt hollow, as if someone had removed his heart from his chest. He turned away from the flames and away from Coyote, and followed Hantaywee’s path to the sea. The fire followed him until he reached the beach, but it did not burn him. Instead, the bright orange flames transferred its color to the one who gave it life-the one who let it live, and Phelan’s coat became a deep orange, and stays that way to this day.
When, at last, Hantaywee saw the orange color in Phelan’s coat, a look of horror came over her face. “What have you done,” she pleaded, her eyes searching him.
Phelan felt ashamed, but he could not tell her that the truth. “I got too close to the fire,” he said. “Coyote and Tortoise were trapped and I tried to help and was burned.”
Hantaywee shook her head and her eyes narrowed. “No,” she said. “You only tell part of it, and in not telling, you lie. Do you not trust me? Tell me what happened.”
Phelan was surprised by her anger. He had never seen her like this before and she was terrifying. Her eyes glowed bright blue and her body nearly doubled in size with every breath. An angry spirit, who had been deceived.
“There’s nothing more to tell,” Phelan said, trying to convince himself this was true. Trying to ignore the new color of his coat. “You know how Coyote feels about Tortoise. He tried to save him. I’m sure Coyote will be fine.”
Hantaywee took a mighty step toward Phelan and the earth trembled. She was no more the tattered, worn-out spirit, searching for peace; she was a demon of war.
“There are words you do not speak,” Hantaywee said, her voice growing louder. “This is why the fire marks you. It loves you too much to let you burn, but it won’t let you go without a memory of it-of what you did to betray your brother and Tortoise and all the animals who are not fast enough to outrun the flames. Did you not think of everyone that would be affected by your actions? Were you that consumed by greed?”
“Bu I came back for you,” said Phelan.
“No,” said Hantaywee. “You came back for what you had already turned your back on.”
Phelan’s anger flared. He didn’t turn on his family. He would never do such a thing. “I’m his brother,” he yelled. “Coyote is supposed to be spending time with me. We’re supposed to explore the world together, to find new lands together, to learn together. Him. Me. Together. Not with some craggy old tortoise who’s going to whither up and die.”
A hurt look came over Hantaywee’s face and she seemed to deflate before his eyes. “Have I truly raised such careless pups,” said Hantaywee, “that they would turn on each other when they needed each other most?”
Phelan was sorry for hurting Hantaywee, but anger outweighed his sorrow, and he could not stop his words. “The forest doesn’t need us,” he said. “The forest wouldn’t notice if we disappeared tomorrow, or if we cloaked ourselves with invisibility.”
“Phelan, have you lost your senses,” Hantaywee asked. “Was it not four days ago, we sat at the bedside of the old raccoon? Did we not bring comfort to her family?”
Phelan remembered the old raccoon, her faded fur, and the dank smell of the burrow where her family had crowded in to say their final farewells. He never liked attending these meetings with his mother, but he could not let her go alone-he didn’t trust the mortals-they had a strange magic over her and his brother, that Phelan did not share.
“The old raccoon died,” said Phelan. “She does not remember you. You can not bring her back. She is no more. What is the point of it? Why should you and Coyote interfere? Aren’t we better to seek out others like us and live with them?”
“Is this really how you feel,” asked Hantaywee, in a quiet, wavering voice. “You think we’re too good for them?”
“Come with me,” said Phelan. “We’ll build a better world, where people like us can be happy and never have to say goodbye.”
“No,” said Hantaywee, and there was great sadness in her eyes. “You have made your choice. You let the fire live. You are its father. You sought to understand no one but yourself and until you understand the consequences of your heart, you will know no peace.”
“But Mother,” began Phelan.
“You must go. I can not help you anymore. You brought a hateful curse into the world. It is of your own making, and only you can undo it.”
With that, Hantaywee transformed into a thin, tall cloud that floated away from Phelan.
“Mother,” Phelan cried, tears filling his eyes. “Don’t leave me.”
But Hantaywee’s cloud did not answer. As it floated away, it became a figure that Phelan had never seen before, a tall, thin creature who stood on her hind legs. Her front legs fell to her sides. She grew five tendrils from, what had been, each paw. A long mane of hair cascaded from her head as she floated into a grove of burned trees. A soft howling song of mourning followed her ghostly figure as it disappeared into the once great forest.
Phelan could not tell if she was floating or walking. The tears in his eyes would not let him see-or maybe it was the smoke.
Chapter5--The Unremembering Gift

Coyote ran toward the field, flames lapping at his heels and singeing his white fur, so the tips of it became grey and brown. Coyote did not notice the burnt smell; he was only thinking about Tortoise, in his field, alone, under a sky of burning flames. I must find him, Coyote thought.
But the fire was too fast and closed around Coyote, and Coyote knew he was too late. There was no way Tortoise could still be alive. Suddenly Phelan was at his side and Coyote felt hopeful. “Brother,” he said, “Help me find Tortoise. There may still be a chance for him.”
But the fire hissed and surrounded the brothers. The orange flames swept up a great wind and the brothers stood at its center, engulfed in the orange well. “As your maker, I command you to stop,” Phelan called to the flames. The fire seemed to listen.
A crackling, snake-like voice replied. “You are my life-giver. I live to serve you. You sent me to devour, and so I did. Why stop me now, when I am so close to taking the one thing that is keeping us from being together forever? Let me take your brother. I will absorb his magic and together, we will rule this world!”
“Is it true Phelan,” asked Coyote’s voice in a whisper. “You meant to kill Tortoise? He was my friend. You knew, and you still wanted to kill him?”
Phelan did not know how to answer his brother. Coyote looked hurt and defeated, as Hantaywee had looked. Phelan wondered if he too, would turn into a blue ghost and leave him. “Tortoise was mortal. He would have died anyway. Better he do it now, before you give him too much hope. I did him a service. I did you a service,” said Phelan. He tried to smile, but it felt hollow. “You’re an immortal, remember? We both are.”
“If this is what it means to be immortal, then I don’t want to live anymore.”
“But brother,” Phelan pleaded. “I don’t want to be without you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
But Coyote had laid down, with his head between his paws-no longer the eager friend, looking to save the world. “Leave me alone,” Coyote said. “What use is a brother who kills your friends?”
“You see,” hissed the fire in Phelan’s. “Coyote doesn’t want his power. Let me take it. I will make better use of it.” Before Phelan could respond, the fire swarmed around Coyote, separating the brothers.
“No,” Phelan yelled, and he cast his best protection spell in Coyote’s direction. “You will not harm him!”
But the fire was too fast and a ball of bright orange light erupted from where Coyote lay, like waves, shooting out from all around him. The earth trembled and for a moment and then all was dark, as if it were night. Slowly, tiny blue fireflies appeared around Coyote’s body. The fire had blown itself out and was now reduced to a flickering flame on the end of the last unburned branch.
Coyote seemed to be dead.
After a very long time, Coyote’s still body suddenly inhaled a great breath of air. Phelan sprang to his side.
“Brother,” Phelan said. “You’re alive. I thought I had lost you.”
“Not at all,” said Coyote as he limped to his feet. He looked different with grey tips and brown and white fur. He looked older, and though Phelan did not know why, Coyote seemed to be smiling. “We’re immortal, remember? You could never loose me. I don’t think we’ve ever even been apart. Have we?”
Phelan was stunned. Had his brother forgotten? “But the fire,” said Phelan, “don’t you remember?”
“Sure,” said Coyote, rubbing his head. “We were looking at a field of butterflies and a fire came. I must have hit my head. Thanks for coming back for me.”
Phelan was at loss for words. Could Coyote be serious? Had he forgotten Tortoise? Had he forgotten his betrayal? He knew he had to tread carefully.
“Did you find Tortoise,” Phelan asked.
“Of course not,” answered Coyote. “You know he’s not real. He’s just a story. But sometimes I do see him in my dreams. I know we’re not pups anymore and we’re too old for such stories, but Phelan, I really wish he were real. I’d love to meet him.”
“I bet you two would have gotten along well,” said Phelan, at loss for anything more to say. How could Coyote not remember the last many years? Did he really think Tortoise was a dream?
“But you never know,” said Coyote. “It’s a big world, and we’ve only seen part of it. Maybe there is a tortoise out there in it. Wouldn’t that be an adventure?”
As the two brothers walked out of the burnt field, and into the next many thousand years, they were both blinded in their own way; one in his inability to remember what he had seen, and the other; in his ability to manipulate others with a cruel magic.
The dying flame sang softly after her life-giver, but she was almost to the end of her branch and her voice was too quiet for anyone to hear:
This final gift,
I give to you.
As on you go,
The whole world, through.

His memories,
I’ve burned away,
A curse to wander, wonder, play.

The tattered bond,
Of brothers, bends,
If spirit breaks,
What time won’t mend.

From the edge of the burned forest, a wandering blue shadow moved between the knife-like shards of charred trees, and a sound, like empty wind, followed her.