By M. Elizabeth Ticknor
Originally published in Inner Workings: A Calendar of Fools Anthology.
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Coyote poured his soul into Sheriff Mallory’s skin as they traversed Devil’s Creek. Mallory’s body welcomed him at an instinctual level, as familiar and comfortable as a well-fitted suit, and he reveled in the sudden onslaught of sensation. Wind sang through tangled catclaw bushes, carrying the honeyed scent of acacia blossoms through the Texas air. Boots squelched through russet-red clay accumulated in the arroyo from recent rains.
Coyote whispered in Mallory’s inner ear. Holding out on me, Nantan? This is the perfect night for a run. It had been weeks since their last venture. Coyote craved the adrenaline of the hunt, the weight of the leather duster on Mallory’s shoulders, the kiss of cool night air on the sheriff’s skin.
Mallory shuddered as Coyote’s voice echoed through his mind. “Don’t call me Nantan.” He scowled and tugged at the rim of his battered Stetson. “You’re supposed to ask before entering.”
And you’re supposed to invite me on every hunt, but here we are. Coyote reveled in Mallory’s discomfort. The sheriff might use his title and surname as a shield to protect him from society at large, but Coyote refused to let him forget the name imparted by his Apache mother.
Mallory grunted. “Didn’t see the point in calling you until I know what I’m after.”
You didn’t call last time, either–or the time before that.
“And you showed up both times anyhow. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re stalking me.”
Stalking? Of course not. I just follow you everywhere. Stalking implied hunting, and Coyote made it a point never to hunt his friends. To be fair, he didn’t have many friends. Humans tended to fear things they didn’t understand–rightly so, but that was hardly the point. Spirits, on the other hand, had a nasty habit of consuming each other for power; it was difficult to form a lasting bond with someone when the only thing Coyote could trust was their appetite.
Mallory sighed, shook his head, and knelt down to study the creek bed. “Something’s been eating Harmon Ellis’s cattle. Damn near ate him when he tried to chase it off. It tracks like a bear, but it’s bigger than any I’ve seen. Less black bear, more grizzly–and grizzlies aren’t native to these parts.” He traced two fingers over a massive paw-print embedded in the earth. The sensation of mud against bare fingertips sent a shiver of delight to Coyote’s core.
All the more reason you should have called. If you don’t know what you’re up against, how are you going to prepare?
“By studying the thing. How would you prepare?” Mallory’s question carried the weight of challenge.
I don’t prepare. I improvise.
“And when it was time to improvise, I would have called you.”
They caught up with the beast in a scrubby ditch at the base of an escarpment. It must have been a black bear once, little bigger than a Shetland pony; now it stood twenty hands tall, with shoulders broad as a carriage. Patches of fur clung to cancerous knots of bloated flesh; spurs of bone jutted from every joint. Eyes burned like red-hot ingots in a face twisted by perpetual agony. One hind leg ended in a ruined stump.
Coyote let out a mad cackle. Oh, this will be fun. That bear is being consumed by a pain spirit.
“You have a twisted sense of fun.” Mallory studied the creature from a distance, a frown rooted on his features. “That poor animal.”
Coyote sighed. The body is too far gone to survive on its own. Our best bet is to put it out of its misery, but bullets won’t be enough to take it down. We need to send the spirit home. Coyote hated to suggest such a thing–exorcisms made him deeply uncomfortable–but Mallory wouldn’t let well enough alone, and he saw no benefit to sending Mallory in unprepared.
The color drained from Mallory’s face. “You want me to exorcise a bear the size of a Clydesdale?”
Well, you’ll need to incapacitate it first–
“How?!”
You’re clever, you’ll think of something.
The wind shifted. The beast flared its nostrils, sniffed the air, and snapped its head in Mallory’s direction.
Mallory ducked into the brush and hissed, “Clever isn’t the only key to survival.”
It’s always been enough for me.
“I’m not you.”
I can help with that. Coyote poured himself into every crack and crevice of Mallory’s being. Raw energy burned through the man’s body and re-forged it, surging through muscle and bone alike. His senses became Coyote’s, and Coyote strengthened them in turn. In that moment, Coyote felt truly alive.
Perhaps too alive.
He searched Mallory’s mind. No sign of conscious thought. He’d pushed too hard, too quickly, and knocked the sheriff out cold. That was problematic. Coyote preferred that his rides buck a bit; the resistance helped guard against temptation.
He ran his tongue along suddenly-sharp teeth and assessed his options. No point in hiding. The beast already had his scent. He walked into the open, arms spread wide, and stretched his mouth into a face-splitting grin. In situations like this, bravado was everything.
“Noble spirit! Call me Cousin Coyote.” His proper title was Old Man, but he preferred to understate his capabilities rather than flaunt them. It was survival instinct, more than anything else.
The bear gave a respectful nod. “I am Mother Torment.”
Coyote scowled. Only the most brazen spirits introduced themselves as Mother or Father to spirits they didn’t know. He gestured at the bear’s bloated form. “Why have you claimed this sorry creature? I doubt it’s done anything to deserve such torture.”
“She called on my strength to escape a hunter’s trap. I’ve grown fond of this body. It suits me well.”
“It won’t suit you for long, Mother. You’ve run your host ragged–already burned it half away.”
“Consumption of flesh prevents decay.”
“Slows, yes. Prevents, no. You’ve got a week at best, even if you devour every animal in the county.”
Mother Torment tilted her head and studied Coyote more closely, eyes narrowed. “How do you keep your body so pristine?”
“What, this old thing?” Coyote tipped Mallory’s hat, spun on his heel, and took a bow. “I take a gentler approach. Shared consciousness with a touch of light possession.”
Mother Torment growled. “A simple haunt. Not the same. This body, it feels things. Reminds me of when I was human.”
Coyote shivered, unprepared for the pangs of longing evoked by Mother Torment’s words. He’d been human himself once, long ago, but his memories of that life were ancient and weather-worn. All that remained was the thrill of the hunt, the word games that taught him how to lie, the first time he’d seen the world through an animal’s eyes…
Gods, he wanted to live again.
Mother Torment circled him, eyes blazing. “You miss it, too. I can taste your pain.” She licked her lips. “Join me. We can burn together. Short lives, but powerful ones.”
Coyote shook his head. He couldn’t trust an offer like that. It might be a trick. “I’ve seen others go down that road.” He’d done it himself, more than once, if he was being honest. Which he wasn’t. It was never wise to be honest with strangers. “It’s like an addiction. You’ll want another body, and another, leaving bits of your soul behind every time. If you’re not careful, you’ll burn yourself away in the end. No one deserves to die like that. Let us send you home.”
“I am home.” Mother Torment lunged forward. Her teeth closed inches from his chest.
Coyote’s small hairs bristled at the near miss. He poured false calm into his voice and backed away, arms raised in a show of supplication. “Come now, Mother, there’s no need to squabble. I’m offering you the chance to part amicably. If we’d met on the other side of the veil, I’m sure we’d be fast friends.”
Mother Torment stalked toward him, eyes narrowed, ears flat against her head. “I’ve met your kind before. Liars, all. You’re no mere Cousin. You smell old. Powerful. Eating you and your pet human will keep me here for months.”
Coyote winced. Her words were truer than she knew. “You’re not thinking of the long game. Going home could give you centuries–millennia, even.” Even with his strength bolstering Mallory’s body, he doubted he’d be able to stand toe to toe with Mother Torment in a fight. The battle would have been more balanced in the spirit realm, but here Coyote was only as strong as his host. Perhaps if he pushed all his power into Mallory–
No. That would leave the sheriff permanently maimed, assuming it didn’t kill him outright.
Mother Torment lunged again, cavernous jaw opened wide. So much for negotiations. Coyote reshaped Mallory’s bones, dropped to all fours, and ran.
Mother Torment moved like a steam engine–slow to start, but strong and enduring. Her footfalls shook the earth as she charged. Her ruined hind leg showed no signs of hindering her.
Coyote scoured Mallory’s memories in search of ways to return Mother Torment to the spirit realm. It wasn’t easy information to find; Coyote didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. He preferred not to involve himself in the cleansing of spirits, and had actively avoided paying attention when Mallory enacted such rituals in the past. Even when an exorcism was for the best, witnessing it shook his faith in Mallory’s friendship. If he crossed too many lines, might Mallory grow to resent him and send him away?
The search through Mallory’s memories revealed knowledge–too much of it. Mallory had studied rites from numerous cultures, native and otherwise; Coyote couldn’t tell which held true power and which were balderdash. He rummaged through the sheriff’s mind for embers of consciousness to kindle. “Nantan?” Still nothing. “Mallory! Wake up in there!”
Claws the size of butcher knives tore through Mallory’s leather duster. They didn’t just pierce Coyote’s flesh–they snagged his spirit. He yelped and put on an extra burst of speed, desperate to keep those claws from finding further purchase.
There! A spark of awareness in Mallory’s mind. The initial shock of the blow faded; the mote of consciousness dimmed in turn.
Pain was the key.
Coyote scrambled across the plains, Mother Torment on his tail, retracing their steps until he found the arroyo. He stripped off Mallory’s hat and duster, threw them in Mother Torment’s face, and leapt over Devil’s Creek–straight into the catclaw bushes.
Thorns latched onto clothing and exposed flesh alike, biting deeper with every movement. Coyote shielded his eyes and pushed through the brush. Broken branches trailed behind him.
The sheriff’s consciousness stirred again. Coyote ground a snapped-off thorn into the back of his hand. It might not do the same kind of damage as Mother Torment’s claws, but Coyote had often found small agonies more difficult to ignore than large ones.
Mallory yelped as he came to, trying to struggle despite Coyote’s hold on his flesh. What the Sam Hill is going on?
Coyote whooped with delight. “Good morning, Nantan! You picked a terrible time to doze off.”
I didn’t– Mallory cut himself off mid-sentence, sighed, and started over. Why are we running? What’s going on?
“Mother Torment is trying to eat us.”
Who?
Mother Torment bellowed behind them. Coyote glanced over his shoulder. The bear burst through the cat-claw bushes, wreathed in thorns, fur caked with mud.
“What did you call her? The Clydesdale bear. She’s literally power-hungry. We need to send her home before she devours us body and soul.”
Less talking, more running! We need to burn sage, tobacco, and rosemary. Ceremonial bowls are ideal, but we can make do with a cigarette–the smoke is the important thing. The herbs are in my medicine bag. Left jacket pocket. Rolling papers and matches are on the right.
Coyote winced. “I may have used your coat as a distraction tactic.”
You threw away my coat?
“And your hat.”
This is why I never give you the reins! We need to find it so I can exorcise that thing.
Coyote cringed. Mallory had said ‘I’, not ‘we’. That meant he planned to do the deed himself, and he couldn’t do that without full bodily autonomy. Coyote had never before held this much control in their relationship; the idea of surrendering it so quickly made his stomach turn. “Just tell me how to perform the ritual.”
No. If you bungle this, you’ll kick yourself out instead and Mother Torment will tear me to pieces.
Coyote shifted his trajectory to a slow-sloping curve rather than a straight line. “We’ll burn that bridge when we cross it.”
That’s not how the saying goes! That’s not how the saying goes at all!
Mother Torment altered her course, moving to intercept Coyote. That wouldn’t do. Unless–
Coyote ran straight at her, a manic grin plastered on his face. “Watch this.”
Wait, wait, wait, no, no, no–
Coyote leapt at the last moment, planted one foot atop Mother Torment’s head, and vaulted over her back. Teeth grazed his leg, but didn’t latch. He hit the ground rolling, tumbled to his feet, and resumed running without missing a beat.
I hate you.
“That seems harsh. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s running. From things, toward things–running in general, really.”
Coyote jumped over the catclaw bushes, slid down the creek bed, and opened his nostrils wide. The earthy scent of mud assailed him. More than a dozen yards away, little more than a whisper on the wind, he picked up the mixture of sweet, bitter, and grassy herbs Mallory kept in his medicine bag.
Coyote scrambled and slid through the arroyo. The muck-filled creek bed sucked at his boots, slowing him down. He almost missed the coat, now little more than a pile of shredded leather covered in blood-red clay. He snatched it up and fumbled through the pockets; thankfully, they hadn’t torn or spilled.
Mother Torment landed in front of him, hackles raised, lips pulled back in a snarl.
Coyote hurled a swath of mud in her face and scrambled up the creek’s bank, holding the duster close. He wiped his hands clean on a tuft of buffalo grass, then pulled out the medicine bag and rolling papers.
Mother Torment cleared the mud from her eyes and lunged at Coyote, mouth open, aiming for his throat. Coyote tumbled backward and kicked at her lower jaw. Teeth clattered. Mother Torment roared.
Coyote rolled to his feet and forced another burst of speed into burning legs. “Let’s bring this chase to an end, shall we?”
We can’t do that if she’s constantly at your heels. We need time to prepare.
“How long?”
At least half a minute.
“I can buy us that.” Coyote shoved rolling papers and matches into the medicine bag, dropped the coat, and charged toward the tallest live oak on the horizon. The tree sprawled wide, choking out all other growth that surrounded it. Coyote leapt into low-hanging branches, lengthened Mallory’s fingernails into black-tipped claws, and scaled the trunk with a strength borne of fear. The climb would slow Mother Torment, not stop her. Coyote had never liked trees. Once you climbed one, you were stuck–no way out but down, no room to run.
Still, being cornered had its uses. If nothing else, it was motivational; cornered animals always fought the hardest.
Coyote rooted himself in the tree’s crown and opened the medicine bag. He sifted through damp, muddy rolling papers until he found a clean sheet, then blended pinches of sage, tobacco, and rosemary. He rolled the cigarette with deft fingers and licked it closed with a flourish.
Once we’ve got her incapacitated, light that and blow smoke in Mother Torment’s face. The smoke focuses the ritual’s targets, so breathe in as little as possible.
The tree shivered with every shift of Mother Torment’s weight. She was close.
Coyote struck a match against a clawed thumbnail, placed the cigarette between his lips, and took a deep pull. The tip glowed like a miniature sun. He held his breath and closed his throat, but little wisps still tickled the edges of Mallory’s lungs.
Wait! It’s too soon. Why are you doing it now?
Coyote muttered through clenched teeth. “Trust me.”
Just before Mother Torment got within striking range, Coyote swung down and wrapped his legs around her neck. He blew the smoke into her open maw and spat the still-burning cigarette down her throat for good measure. Mother Torment jerked back out of reflex, coughing and gagging.
The branch beneath her snapped. She plummeted through the canopy, claws scrabbling in a futile search for purchase.
Coyote unwound his legs and snagged onto a branch with his claws. The branch cracked under his weight, but slowed his fall enough to grab a larger limb. He swung down, landed next to Mother Torment’s prone form.
That was impressive, Mallory admitted. Now let me finish her off.
Coyote’s stomach knotted. Fond though he was of the sheriff, the idea of surrendering control when he’d melded with Mallory’s body so thoroughly made his soul ache. He yearned to claim it with every fiber of his being. It would be so easy. One little bite. Human souls were edible, just like any other.
No. The long game. Think of the long game. To throw away decades of friendship, however rocky, for nothing more than a few days of selfish pleasure would destroy the final remnants of his humanity.
Coyote closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let the sheriff rise to the fore.
Mallory gritted teeth still sharp from Coyote’s presence. “Don’t go too far, Old Man.” He bellowed a prayer in Apache. Each syllable tolled like a bell.
Mother Torment’s howls filled the air. Coyote felt the pull in Mallory’s words even though they weren’t meant for him. He burrowed into every crack and crevice of the sheriff’s mind to keep from being evicted.
The bear’s body deflated and shrunk. Smoke poured out of every orifice, dragging the embers of Mother Torment’s soul out with it, spiraling away like burning leaves on the wind. When the vapors dissipated the bear lay broken and bloodied, shuddering and moaning with every breath.
Coyote shivered in the far reaches of Mallory’s mind. Every mote of his being ached, raw and ragged, diminished by the power of the ritual. Still, he’d made it through. That was the important thing. He could recover his strength in time. He heaved a sigh of relief and loosened his hold on Mallory, trembling with elation and disappointment in equal measure.
Mallory’s bones snapped back into place. He gasped as every little agony Coyote had held at bay flooded into him at once–his claw-torn back, thorn-riddled arms, aching legs, and fresh-torn fingernails.
Coyote spoke. Are you all right? The words echoed hollowly through Mallory’s mind. Coyote missed the resonance the sheriff’s vocal cords lent his voice.
“I’ll live.” Mallory caressed the bear’s head. “She won’t. Can you do anything for her?”
I’ll try. Coyote slipped into the dying animal and numbed her nerves to ease her passing. She cycled through wordless memories as her lungs filled with blood: the bite of the trap she’d been so desperate to escape, the helplessness of being a prisoner in her own body while Mother Torment pushed past all her limits.
Cubs. She had cubs. She’d given herself to Mother Torment in hopes that the spirit would continue to care for them.
Coyote waited until the bear breathed her last, then eased back into Mallory. We’re not done yet. He pushed images into Mallory’s mind–a cave worn into a granite cliffside, the trio of cubs that lived within, and the fastest route to get there.
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Three bear cubs huddled deep in the cave tunnel, hungry but not yet emaciated. Under Coyote’s direction, Mallory fed them dried berries and jerky. They pawed and sniffed at him, hoping for more. He ruffled the cubs’ fur, lips pressed into a thin line. “What should we do with them? I can’t just bring them back to town.”
Bears were far from Coyote’s preferred form, but the thought of leaving the cubs to die didn’t sit well on his conscience. Neither did the fact that he had a conscience, come to that–Mallory must be rubbing off on him. I’ll watch over them until they’re old enough to care for themselves. They’re clever little terrors. I doubt they’ll need more than a few gentle nudges here and there.
“It’s been awhile since I could guarantee I’d have my thoughts to myself. Can’t say I won’t mind the quiet.” Mallory rolled a fresh cigarette–just tobacco, this time. He lit a match against a cave wall, took a few languid puffs, and studied the smoke as it drifted into the morning air. “I’ll miss you, though.” A rare admission, that; hearing it warmed Coyote’s soul.
The cubs will be settled by winter, and you know how to summon me in the meantime. Don’t worry, Nantan. I’d never abandon my favorite plaything. Teasing and tormenting Mallory had long been Coyote’s first line of defense against boredom.
Mallory rolled his eyes. A subtle smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Good to know.”
Coyote stayed with Mallory for the duration of the cigarette, basking in the calm that washed over the sheriff’s body as the tobacco took hold. Once Mallory flicked the butt on the ground and stomped out the dying embers, Coyote offered his aid to the largest cub. It accepted his presence eagerly, enticed by the concept of food in abundance.
Coyote rounded up the others and led them toward the plains. As the cubs left the cavern, Mallory scratched them behind the ears. Coyote nuzzled Mallory’s leg in turn. It was dangerous to grow attached to mortals–they died so easily–but Coyote had developed a fondness for the man over the years; he would make a fine animal spirit, one day. In the meantime, Coyote would do everything he could to keep Mallory healthy and whole.
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The End
Ticknor Tales 