By L.W. Oakley
Posted 8 days ago
It was the coyote that gave him life, although he did not know it then or now.
The coyote had followed his mother for days knowing that she would soon give birth. The coyote did not know there would be two deer this time - one for the coyote and one for the mother.
But the mother knew. When she dropped the first fawn she turned and bounded away without looking back. The coyote arrived seconds later. Within minutes all trace of the fawn was gone except for a dark stain on the ground and a bulge in the belly of the coyote that was once a bulge in the belly of the doe.
She gave birth to the second fawn after swimming across a cedar swamp to an island near the centre covered with soft moss, granite rock and the shade of tall trees. She needed rest and knew the coyote would rest too after pursuing its meal for so long and devouring it so fast.
His mother had been dead now for many years. She had abandoned him after one winter like she had left all the others before him. One day he turned around and she was gone. He searched frantically and called for her often but she never returned. He was six months old and an orphan now but she had taught him to survive. He knew what to eat and where to find it and when to be there to eat before it was eaten by others.
It would soon be his time to die. He was back on that same island now. He had returned there many times during his life. It was the only place he felt safe. The old blood that came from a long continuous line of big bucks felt cold inside him now as it finally began to slow in his veins. He had passed it on with some of his own during his time in the woods and it beat strong and hot in the hearts of many other deer.
He was a big buck that had survived seven long winters that seemed like seven long years. It was February and he had no antlers now. They had fallen off weeks ago as they did each winter. Nature was cruel that way. He needed them most in winter when the coyotes had the advantage in the deep snow and over the hard ice. He was very tired and had walked out to the island over the snow crusted ice where they could easily follow. He knew they were coming. He knew that they would soon be there.
His life had been hard. The woods and the wind and the cold and the coyotes made him strong and tough and fast and able to survive his life of hardship. The woods were his home. He did not need a nest, or cave, or hole to hide or rest or take shelter in like the other animals. He was even wilder than the black bear that ruled over these woods. It needed warmth and shelter from the cold and fury of winter. He stood outside all winter long rarely sleeping and chewing bark off of trees just to stay alive another day.
The coyotes had helped make him strong and he would not run this time. He would make it easy for them. He would give back. His flesh would be their flesh and his blood would run in their veins. He would help make them strong. He would become the coyote.
He had lived a life of solitude except for a few weeks each November during the peak of the rut. Then he was overwhelmed by an uncontrollable urge to mate and if necessary he would fight for that privilege. He had even killed another buck during a struggle over a doe in heat. He did it by driving his long pointed antler tine through the eye socket and into the brain of his opponent.
Now he could see the coyotes coming over the ridge and down the wooded slope at the edge of the swamp. There were five coyotes and the one in the lead was wagging his tail. They did not run with their noses to the ground to follow his scent. They could see his tracks and small red drops of fresh blood in the white snow where the hard crust had scrapped the hair and hide from his front legs.
They saw him from thirty yards away standing near the edge of the island. They came together now and approached slowly shoulder to shoulder as a pack. He did not lower his head to fight but held it high, offering them his neck. They would tear into him together and one would pull him down by the throat and hold it closed.
When they were within a few feet he turned his head and waited. The only part of him moving now was his last breath. It drifted slowly away from him across the frozen swamp towards the open ridge and the big woods beyond until it too was gone.
L.W. Oakley lives in Kingston and is the author of Inside The Wild.
