by Bobbie Pyron
“Go,” Father said to Twist, “and stay with him.”
Slowly, oh so slowly, five pairs of ears rose above the grass. Five pointed noses worked the air for scents.
Three pair of blue eyes widened in fear and astonishment at the sight before them: a huge, growling beast with green skin that shone in the sun lumbered slowly in the field. Its round feet rolled over and over through the dirt. And atop that huge beast perched a much smaller creature.
“What, what is that?” stammered Swift.
“And why does it allow that small creature to ride on its back?” Star wondered.
Trouble for once was speechless. Not only was this creature huge and shiny, with feet as round and big as the sun, its tail was wide and clawed. And those claws ripped into the earth.
“The beast was made by that creature,” Father explained. “So it must do its bidding.”
The young coyotes watched as the beast slowly turned and came back the way it had come.
“The creature who made that beast must be very clever,” Trouble said with admiration. “And it must be brave and mighty to command this thing.”
“The beast is very slow, though,” Swift pointed out disdainfully. “It could never run down a rabbit.”
“Oh, they are indeed clever,” Father allowed. “But their cleverness is also a source of danger to the Furred and the Feathered.”
“To what clan does the small creature belong?” Star asked.
“That,” their mother said, pointing her nose, “is a member of the Maker Clan, the most fearsome clan to walk the earth. A clan to be avoided at all costs.”
The Maker and its Beast moved closer to the edge of the field where the coyotes hid. The sun was above the trees now. A cloud of dust trailed the Beast’s clawed tail.
“I don’t think the Makers are so terrible,” Trouble said, not taking his eyes from the small creature guiding the Beast.
Trouble had never in his short life seen anything so fascinating and confusing. The Maker was small and did not have large teeth or claws of its own. And its smell was not menacing, just salty and a little bit fishy.
“They are worse than terrible,” their mother snapped in such a harsh voice that the pups flinched. Trouble tucked his tail. “They are the enemy of the Coyote Clan.”
“Come,” Mother commanded. She wheeled and slipped back through the tall grass and into the wild woods, her pack following close behind.
All except Trouble. He took one last look at the wonders in the field, then hurried to catch up with his family.
That night, the pack watched the great, round moon rise above the trees. Even though it was the fourth full moon the pups had seen, they watched it in wonder.
Trouble lay curled against Twist. He felt his brother’s heart beat against his back, steady and true. His warm musk surrounded the pup and comforted him.
He thought about all the astonishing things they had seen that day—the old apple orchard; the rusted bucket; the giant, gleaming Beast and the Maker perched on top. What more was out there to see, beyond Singing Creek and their meadow? His whiskers twitched with possibilities. His paws danced with barely contained excitement.
“Mother,” Trouble asked, “are there more Makers than the one we saw today?”
“Yes,” she replied. “There are many, many Makers. There are possibly more Makers in their clan than coyotes in the Coyote Clan.”
Trouble leaped to his feet. He raced in circles of excitement. “Can we go see more tomorrow?”
“No,” she snapped. “Nothing good comes from Makers.”
Swift shivered with fright. Pounce moved closer to his father, and Star trembled.
Trouble’s eyes glowed with dreamy curiosity.
All the pup had heard was the word “more.”
And that was just what he wanted. He wanted to see more beyond his home along Singing Creek.
5
The Plan
Summer marched along as summers do. The days grew longer, the air wet and hot. Berries ripened in the sun.
The pups grew as all youngsters do. Stubby legs stretched long as the tall grass, blue eyes turned amber yellow, and baby fluff gave way to rich, tawny coats and bushy tails.
Each day Trouble wandered farther and farther from the den under the old oak tree to see what there was to see.
Beyond the meadow.
Beyond the apple orchard.
Beyond the Maker’s field where the giant, shining Beast had lumbered.
Until one day he discovered where the Maker lived.
“Moon and stars,” he murmured as his eyes took in all the things the Maker had made: a big aboveground den, a little aboveground den, and all manner and size of shining Beasts scattered, sleeping, in the yard.
He watched with an abundance of curiosity as the Maker came and went from his cave. He wondered at how strangely yet easily the Maker moved about on two legs.
And following the Maker everywhere was a four-legged who looked and smelled in some ways like a coyote but not quite. This animal smelled too sweet, moved too slow to be a coyote. Trouble watched, puzzled, as this creature—clearly an adult—begged like a pup at the Maker’s feet.
The afternoon slipped by as Trouble watched and listened and smelled everything he could from his hiding spot. Before he knew it, the sun was slipping behind the forest to the west. He heard a faint yip yip yowwwwwl!!!
“Uh-oh,” Trouble said, twisting his ears in the direction of the apple orchard.
With one last look at the Maker’s den, Trouble slunk through the hedges and past the vegetable garden and toolshed and hightailed it across the field to the old apple orchard.
Twist waited for him in the shade. “Where have you been?” he barked. “Mother has been calling and calling for you.”
“Oh, Twist,” Trouble panted with excitement, “I have found more Makers! Did you know there is more than just one Maker?”
“Of course I know there is more than just one Maker,” Twist huffed. “There are lots of Makers, just like our mother said.”
“More than our pack and the Stoney Ridge Pack put together?” Trouble knew about the Stoney Ridge Pack because his aunt Tip lived with them, and sometimes when the moon was especially full and bright, they all joined together to sing and share stories.
The older coyote gazed beyond the wide field. “Yes, more than the two packs put together. That place you saw, that is just the beginning.”
“And brother,” Trouble asked as questions tumbled around his mind, “what is that four-legged creature who lives with the Maker?”
Twist snorted. “That,” he said with disdain, “is a dog. It is hardly worthy of the Furred Clan.”
Before Trouble could ask his next question, Twist shoved him with his shoulder. “Enough of this,” he snapped. “We need to get home. Mother is very worried.”
“But,” Trouble whined.
“Now, puplett,” his brother growled. “And don’t go back to that Maker’s home again. No good can come of it.”
But of course he did. How could he not? Twist had said this Maker’s home was only the beginning.
Day after day, Trouble returned to the Maker’s house. Soon, he noticed a pattern: early most mornings, either the male Maker or female Maker carried boxes and bundles right into the belly of a large silver Beast. Then they would crawl inside the head of the Beast; the Beast would rumble to life and dash away down a long road and out of sight. Then, just before the moon rose above the trees, the Beast and the Makers returned.
Trouble, of course, found this all very curious. Where did the Beast and the Makers go? What were they putting in the belly of the Beast? And why did they always come back the same day?
The next morning, Trouble tried his best to follow the Beast, keeping always to the woods. But the Beast was too fast and went too far.
He returned home exhausted.
But still very curious.
Three mornings later, he and his family woke to a steady, cold r
ain.
“A good day to tidy up the den,” his father said.
“Good day to hunt rabbits,” his mother said. Pounce, Swift, Star, and Twist agreed.
Trouble decided it was a good day to make a plan. He thought and he thought as the rain poured down. He thought some more as he helped his father widen the den.
By the time the pack gathered that night to serenade the moon, Trouble knew exactly what he was going to do.
6
Stowaway
The next morning, Trouble crawled from the den earlier than usual. The rain from the day before was gone, replaced by thick fog. Barely visible in the southern sky rested the full moon.
He could just make out the sleeping forms of his mother and father lying close together beneath the wide branches of an evergreen tree. And there, beneath a rock outcropping, slept Twist. His chin rested on the strip of deer hide he and Trouble had played with the night before.
For one heartbeat Trouble questioned what he was about to do. Oh, how he loved his family and the den and the ancient oak and the meadow and the creek.
But yet. And yet . . .
Trouble wheeled and slipped away into the fog.
“It’s no big deal,” Trouble told himself for the tenth time as he made his way to the Maker’s house. “I’ll see what there is to see and be home by moonrise.”
His stomach quivered with excitement and trepidation as he reached the edge of the Maker’s field. “They won’t even know I’ve been gone,” he assured himself.
Although fog lay thick and low across the field, Trouble knew as soon as the sun came up, the fog would burn off. He fairly flew across the field, then slunk past the vegetable garden, chicken coop, and toolshed.
There it stood: the silver Beast. Trouble’s pulse quickened. He raised his nose and sniffed for any scent of Makers or the dog.
None.
He swiveled his large ears and listened for sounds coming from the house.
None.
The back of the Beast was open. The fog was lifting.
A chicken clucked. A crow called out in the field. Somewhere, the Maker’s dog barked.
“It’s now or never,” Trouble said.
With one last look at the house and the wild forest beyond the fields, Trouble leaped into the Beast.
His heart pounded. His feet skittered and scrambled on the metal floor. He shivered just a bit with the enormity of it all.
Trouble’s nose explored his surroundings. He smelled dirt and plants very similar to what grew in the meadow beside Singing Creek. He smelled plump berries and green beans still warm from the sun. His stomach growled. He tipped over a carton of each and gobbled them up.
He heard a door slam. Voices coming toward him.
Trouble scrambled to the back and burrowed beneath a pile of burlap sacks.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive into the city today?” a male voice asked. “That fog’s thick as pea soup out there.”
“Nah,” a female voice said. “It’ll burn off before you know it. Just help me load the last of the eggs and onions. Our eggs are a big seller at the farmers’ market.”
Trouble felt the Beast bounce. He heard footsteps walking to the back where he was hidden. He tried his best not to tremble.
A voice right next to him said, “Dang it, how did these cartons get knocked over?”
“Raccoons probably,” the other voice answered.
Something thumped down onto the floor, right beside Trouble’s head. The smell was sharp and sweet. Thump, thump, thump. More sacks of onions piled around Trouble.
“I think that’s it,” the female voice said. “I’m going to hit the road.”
Trouble heard the Makers walk away, felt the truck bounce again.
Just as the coyote inched his head from beneath the cover of the burlap sacks, a deafening rattle and clang took away the light.
All the light. Every bit of it.
Then a loud, low growl rumbled to life beneath Trouble’s feet. It grew louder and louder, shaking the floor and the walls and the ceiling of the shelter. Then, to Trouble’s horror, the Beast lurched to life. It swung one way, then another, tossing the pup off his feet. He felt the whole of his being vibrating and swaying. He heard the growling and groaning beneath him.
His heart pounded with terror. He burrowed as far as he could beneath the burlap sacks and prayed to Mother Moon that he would somehow find his way out of the Beast.
7
Forest of Stone
A clatter woke the little coyote nestled beneath a warm bundle. At first he thought he slept safe and sound in a pile with his brother and sisters. He smelled the comforting scent of dirt and the sharp smell of green, growing things. His stomach twisted and complained. He was so hungry!
Just as he started to stand, he felt a bounce and heard footsteps.
Trouble froze. He remembered where he was: in the belly of a Beast.
“Let’s see what we can unload first,” a musical voice said. Hands grabbed boxes of eggs and handed them to another, bigger, Maker.
Trouble burrowed deeper beneath the burlap sacks and tried to make himself as small as possible.
The female Maker handed out crates of green beans, tomatoes, peas, blackberries, and strawberries.
She hefted a bag of yellow onions to her chest. The bottom of the bag split. Onions rolled onto the floor of the truck.
“Dang it,” she muttered. “Hang on while I grab a sack and bag them up.”
A gloved hand reached down, grabbed for a sack, and, instead, got a handful of Trouble.
Yip!
“Yikes!”
The pup froze. His heart hammered against his ribs. The Maker loomed so close, so large above him. Should he warn the Maker away with a growl and flash of teeth, or should he run?
The Maker took one step toward him.
Trouble bolted between the Maker’s legs, leaped past the bigger Maker, and dashed out into the sunlight.
“What is that?” someone cried.
“It’s a wolf!” another someone answered.
“It’s a dog,” someone else said.
Trouble cowered against the stone wall, yellow eyes darting everywhere, looking for a place to escape. Never had he seen so many Makers. Big Makers, small Makers, young and old Makers.
The woman from the truck shook her head. “That,” she said, pointing at Trouble, “is a coyote.”
A clamor rose from the crowd gathered in the street.
“Get it!”
“Take a picture!”
“Call the police!”
Someone grabbed a large onion and threw it at the cowering pup.
Trouble leaped to his feet, spun in circles looking for the cover of forest, trees, bushes, anything where he could hide. Nothing. Everything was hard. Solid. Unforgiving.
There was only one way to go. Makers screamed and scattered as Trouble dashed straight through the crowd.
The coyote raced blindly forward and careened around a corner. Small Beasts squealed and made the most horrible honking sound. The world spun.
Trouble ducked behind a tall stone den. He swiveled his ears, listening for footsteps, shouts, screams, the bleating of those Beasts. He heard them still, but not so close now.
He looked up. Where was the sky he knew so well? This stone forest rose so high it cut the wide blue expanse to wedges and slivers of white.
“This isn’t exactly what I expected,” he whimpered.
He smelled food. His stomach growled.
He sniffed a round, shiny thing. Yes, he was sure it contained food.
Trouble stood on his back legs and nosed the lid. It fell with a clatter to the pavement. Right on top, a hunk of something warm and salty smelling. Trouble lunged for the bread, knocking over the garbage can.
Food! Trouble had never seen so much food, and so many different kinds! Vegetables, chunks of meat, chicken bones, and many things he had not smelled before.
The pup wolfed down the meat and had
just started in on the remains of a fried chicken dinner when a door swung open.
A huge Maker loomed over Trouble. The sharp smell of anger poured from him. In his hand he clutched a large stick.
The Maker looked at the coyote.
Trouble looked at the Maker, a drumstick still clutched in his jaws.
The Maker roared with fury and raised the stick. “Get out of there!”
Trouble dropped the chicken and hightailed it back onto the street, into New York City.
8
Mischief
The crow sat atop a power pole and fluffed his feathers. He wiped his ebony bill against the wooden pole as he watched for something interesting to happen below.
It is the nature of crows to watch for something curious, something to entertain them. This crow in particular, known among the Furred and Feathered of the city as Mischief, had an endless, bottomless fascination with everything below his wings: cars, windows, humans, crooked things, furred things, paper things, shiny things, and most especially things he could tease.
Mischief watched as vendors set up their booths for the Wednesday morning farmers’ market. Some sold meat; others sold breads; others flowers, fresh vegetables and fruit, eggs, cheeses, and goat’s milk. For a crow as curious as Mischief, the farmers’ market provided endless possibilities.
Mischief waited in anticipation as one particular truck pulled up. He knew this truck came from far away, out in the country, and always had interesting, tasty things inside.
The driver hopped down from the cab, yawned, and stretched. She rubbed the small of her back and called out a hello to another driver. She strode to the back of the truck, raised the door, and climbed in.
A yip and a yowl and a scream. Something light brown and furry shot from the back of the truck like a cannonball.
Mischief swooped down and perched on the side mirror of a truck for a closer look.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t a member of the Coyote Clan,” the crow said. “This ought to be rich.”
Mischief watched with delight as the humans shouted and waved their arms and ran about like panic-stricken pigeons, as they were prone to do when faced with something unfamiliar.