Desert Blanket
           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
by Shuunka Tanka and Remus Shepherd

     Phillip Latrans, the artist, unpacked the watercolors and easel
last.  The essentials of life in the desert, he told himself, must come
first.  And so first the tent was pulled out and set, the coolers firmly
secured underneath the RV's bumper.  Every minor detail, down to his
toothbrush and slippers, were handled before he could touch the black
canvas portfolio.  He opened it, and did nothing else.
     Near dark, past dinnertime, he realized that he had no hunger.  His
hands itched to keep busy, but cooking now would serve no purpose.
Finally, out of frustration and boredom, he set up the easel and paints.
     The colours seemed muddy in the water he had brought.  His lighting
was poor; he could not seem to match the hues of the desert or
landscape, and the sky itself darkened faster than he could mix.  At the
end, when all he had left was a propane lantern to see by, the canvas
looked splattered with desert-tinted filth and runny streaks of sky.
His art patrons would be disappointed.  Georgia O'Keefe would be
disgusted.  Sitting there, watching the rest of the sky blend into the
landscape, Phillip clenched his brushes and tried not to scream.
     But out of the night, something lonely screamed for him, howling
out pain and frustration.  He began to check his nighttime preparations,
making sure the camp was secure for the night against invaders.  As he
prepared for bed that strange thing, in pain and frighteningly nearby,
engulfed his nightly routine.  It covered him when he slept, making it a
fitful night.  Thankfully the morning was silent.
     The camera, he decided the next day, should come first.  Pictures
first, then paintings.  Latrans began to wander the rolling tundra with
canteen and camera soon after lunch.  The paints and easel had sat,
covered with burlap, over the night.  Nothing would happen if he
abandoned them, he assured himself.
     A few hills (and few photographs) later he spied movement beside a
stand of yucca plants.  A large, tan animal shifted away as he came
near.  Soon Phil saw the feral, dog like creature in the full sunlight,
with a glint of steel wrapped around its paw.  The coyote stared back at
him, wary and strained.  Its eyes were dark and its growl coarse.
     Poor animal, he thought, but there was no way to free it.  He took
photographs instead.  Maybe with a photo he could show that suffering,
trapped in metal jaws and under the sierra sun burning, was not worth
any bounty.  "Seventy-five dollars." he spat.  The camera clicked as he
circled the coyote.
     "I would free you." he said, wishing he had brought a gun.
     The coyote watched him as he walked around her.  She glared at him.
Latrans felt her accusation.  He heard her pain as the trap clinked
against a rock.  Suddenly she feared him and tried to retreat, tried to
pull her paw from the trap.  Her yelps made him run away.  He could not
bear her sight or sound.
     He found other, more pleasing vistas to capture with his camera.
Then by early evening, when he had exhausted his canteen, Latrans
returned to camp.  The sweat from his forehead left a stain on the white
towel he wiped it on. After a quick sponge bath, he attempted to paint
yesterday's scene again.  He mixed colours to match the sand and dusty
mesas like a professional and soon captured the landscape.  He tried to
admire his work, comparing it to yesterdays attempt. Except for brighter
blue, browns and oranges, it was the same -- and it said nothing.
     Latrans decided that it was excellent by its technical merit.  He
had captured every line, every crack and shift in the sand. "I have left
out nothing." he boasted.  Then the howling began again, weaker than the
night before but still there and still in pain.  Latrans ate cold beans
and went to sleep, the watercolors still on his hands.
     Again sleep held no rest.  His night had been filled full of
nightmares.  He imagined the coyote's ghost haunting him.  Her spirit
traveled in her lonely howl.  Her spirit suffered.  She cried out to him
and he had fled.  He picked up a roll of film.  "I will make sure
everyone sees these.", he promised.  "I know you'll be dead soon."  Her
spirit had looked at him, through him, then deep inside -- deep enough
to make him want to run again.  Her howl called him back.
     He awoke in the afternoon.  Daylight had chased her ghost away and
let him sleep in peace.   You are dead, he thought.  God, I hope you are
dead.
     Latrans hiked the mile back to where the coyote had been trapped.
As he rounded a small rock formation, he noticed that she was gone.
Maybe you were a ghost, he thought, wondering what pictures would appear
on his first roll of film.  Then the glint of metal caught his eye.  She
had managed to break the chain that held the trap and crawl about forty
yards before falling.  She hadn't gotten up.
     Latrans approached her body.  He coiled around her, wondering if
she was still breathing.  His steps were cautious.  He still feared her.
As he neared her, he could see glazed eyes and a tongue puffed and
lolling.  Did it move?
     "You are dead now," he said, taking the lens cap off his camera.
"Your pain is over... but I'll make sure everyone sees it."  he
whispered, kneeling close to her face.  The viewfinder magnified her.
She died of thirst, he thought.  The camera clicked.  Her jaw snapped
shut.  Latrans scrambled backwards.
     "Not dead."
     The coyote's breathing became visible.  He blinked, feeling bad for
somehow disturbing her death.  Her tongue fell out of her dry mouth and
she looked at him with accusing eyes.  Latrans had no choice now.  He
opened his canteen and wet her parched tongue.  She responded, feebly
lapping at the water in the sand.
     Putting away his camera, Latrans attended to the poor creature.
The trap was removed, gently, and her paw washed clean.  He wetted the
fur around her head and over her eyes.  The last of the canteen was
given to her to drink.  Then, with some hesitation, Latrans lifted the
coyote in his arms and carried her off to his camp.
     She lay upon the tarpaulin the rest of that day, in the shade of
his RV.  Phil tried to take advantage of the uncovered easel, attempting
another landscape.  But bringing her water interrupted him frequently,
and eventually he abandoned his paints to tend to her.  He spent most of
the day stroking her fur, watching her slowly recover.  After dinner,
when the desert had begun to cool, Phil spent the evening sitting with
her.  Ladylike, she licked water from his cupped palms.  He fell asleep
that night sitting beside her.
     Just before dawn LaTrans awoke to the sound of mournful howling.
Lady Coyote was gone.  He wandered in the darkness to his tent, and did
not wake until late in the day.
     It was dinnertime when he saw her again.  The scent of the
hamburgers frying in his campfire had enticed her, and she appeared at
the edge of his vision, eyes sparkling.  He laid out two patties, one
cooked and one raw to see which she would prefer, and sat on the ground
well away from the gift.  Lady Coyote walked hesitantly to the offerings
and ate them both.  Then to his surprise, she padded over to where he
sat, and started to clean herself.
     Phil watched closely as this animal lay in front of him, her coat
turned into glowing gold by the flickering light of the fire.  At first
he was embarrassed, staring at her in what seemed to be a private
moment.  But the coyote obviously felt no shame, as she licked cooking
grease off her forepaws, and desert silt from her hindquarters and
groin.  In the dim light she twisted herself into a glowing ball.  For a
moment, LaTrans thought he was witnessing some fiery angel trying to be
born.
     After cleaning herself, Lady Coyote leaned over and licked his
exposed leg, sending strange shivers throughout his torso.  He petted
her gently, unsure what to do with this creature of the desert.  She
made her intentions clear by setting her forelegs on his shoulder and
pulling at him with quick, impatient motions.
     He brushed the big animal away and fought waves of arousal and
terror.  The thought of being alone with a wild carnivore suddenly felt
frightening and strange.  He started to move further away when the
coyote turned to face away from him, pulling her tail across her flank,
and staring back at him with golden, pleading eyes.
     The sight of her, motionless and staring, was more than Phil could
bear.  The firelight gave her body an indistinct outline, and once again
he saw the glowing spirit that she was, the elemental life that he had
saved.  And within those motionless eyes he saw the intent to repay a
spiritual debt.  Not human, but no longer an animal, Lady Coyote stood
as a symbol before him.  It was a reason to doubt, a reason to do.
LaTrans caught his breath at her offering.
     He moved towards her with passion reigned in by fear. Trembling, he
reached out, brushing his fingertips across her flank.  She did not bite
but with her deep brown eyes.  The firelight danced in them.  Phil ran
his fingers down her back.  She arched her back to meet his caress.  He
slid out of his chair and down to his knees, kneeling beside her, hands
on her golden fur.  He leaned his head on her hind quarters, still
afraid of her jaws.
     Soon as his cheek touched her a chill went down his spine.  Against
his face her fur was soft and warm.  Her scent crept in his nostrils --
a dusty musk.  He inhaled deeply, trying to take in all of her.  In his
mind her smell became colour -- shades of sienna and tawny chocolate
browns, cinnamons and shades of coral.  Not coral, he corrected himself,
but a stronger, hotter colour.  Phil closed his eyes a moment, searching
the palettes in his head.
     He felt her move underneath him.  She bent her body, pressing her
muzzle into his neck.  He felt her nose as an icecube against his throat
and the colours in his head were splashed with cool lines of blue,
bleeding to the warmer colours brushed on his mental canvas with her
pink tongue.  He clung to her, wrapping his arms about her.  Lady Coyote
lapped at his neck then face.  Her tongue lingered about his lips,
catching bits of food that his napkin had not.  He opened his mouth just
slightly, let his tongue touch hers.  Violet.  She pressed further,
pushing his mouth open with her own.  Purples.  Her ivory teeth clicked
against his.  Lady Coyote tasted the back of his throat.
     Phil trembled.  He forced his eyes to open so he could behold this
strange being that he'd let into his camp.  Their eyes met.  Reflecting
in her eyes he saw the fire again, and himself mirrored -- his image no
longer straight.  What does she see, he thought.  Herself in my eyes,
the fire, or me?  Distortion?  His grip turned to caresses.
     Lady Coyote licked his face a little more and turned, pushing her
rump against him.  The softness dragged across his face.  She turned
further.  Soon his cheek slid down the gentle curve of her hind
quarters.  Quickly another musk invaded his nostrils.  Reds, crimsons!
He pressed his face into her rump, struggling to find more of the scent,
the source of this scent, to taste the pink of her scent.
     He buried his face, could feel the sticky wetness of her full lips.
Phil tasted her as he would a woman.  As an artist, he had more than his
share of them.  But this was no woman.  She was Lady Coyote.  He
pleasured Lady Coyote as he would've his last girlfriend.  She rocked
her hips.  Phil slid his body under hers, continuing to lick, pouring
all he had into the effort.  You are no alien, but a goddess, he
thought.
     She dug her claws into the legs beneath her, pulling sharply,
rocking her hips into his face.  LaTrans was lost for half an hour.  The
sensations blinded him to all else.  The only thing on the canvass for
Phil were the colours of coyote and man, her sweet musk mixed with acrid
sweat.  The shades mixed, making for colours no one had seen before.
They darkened the picture with noises yipped by her, moaned and breathed
by him, and howls from the two together.  They made testement under the
moon.
     Eventually he entered her, easier than he thought possible for a
creature such the size of coyote -- but then the artist was not large
himself and together they had produced more than enough waters to mix.
His howls blended with hers for his entrance signaled the end.  He came
quickly, and Lady Coyote cleaned them both.
     Phil took her into his tent that night.  The desert had become
cold, but her fur blanketed him.  And by the time the moon had set, she
was gone from his camp, leaving behind only the stars and her smell on
his body to remember her by.

Epilogue:
~~~~~~~~~
     The artist, Phillip Latrans, waited for her to come back the next
day.  Only clouds came.  The brief rainy season in the desert had begun,
much earlier than usual.  He covered his canvasses and waited for Lady
Coyote to return.  But that night he heard two sets of howls.  Phil went
to sleep that night tense and envious.
     Sunlight woke him up early the next morning.  Finding himself
hungry, Latrans ate breakfast staring pointedly away from the barren
horizon.  He fixed his eyes upon the nearby vegetation, which had
bloomed with the rain, and he forced himself to contemplate the tones
and hues of what he saw.  After breakfast, he went back to the easel and
tried once more to capture the landscape.
     Three canvasses later it was past lunchtime, and he had nothing to
show for his efforts.  The best of his still-lifes lacked depth and
emotion; the worst was an abstract shamble of colour.  Depressed and
feeling the loneliness of the desert, Phil let his mind wander.  He
began to toy with the paints idly, seeking some saving inspiration.
     A curve of red struck him at first.  He made it a shape, and added
shades of sienna and desert gray.  By the time the light began to fail
him, Phillip Latrans was crying, staring at a finished portrait of Lady
Coyote.  The tears were for the sheer magnitude of the work, he told
himself.
     It took a week for Phil to stop crying; a week to translate every
memory he had of her into lasting pigment.  An entire week past of listening
to lonely cries at night and their comforting answer, echoing farther
and farther away from his camp.  After that week, when the night was
finally silent, Phillip Latrans took home a magnificent set of pictures
titled 'Desert Blanket' -- a gift from a lover to him.


Please mail any comments to both the authors below.  Thanks.
Mitkuye Oyasin! (Coyote and all!)
--
Shuunka Tanka    (shuunka@netcom.com)
Remus Shepherd   (remus@netcom.com)