In the Prairie: A Dirge

The biting keen of the coyote's howl is the most terrifying sound you can hear out on the high grassland on a moonlight night. The coyote song is far scarier than the raspy shiver of a rattlesnake, yet an experienced trailhand can overcome his apprehension and cope with the threat. Also, do not equate it to the howl of a wolf. The wolfpack's song is this powerful, hulking cry, a frightening noise that reflects the animal's primal drive to mark its territory. While the coyote song is a sound of grief, it is a terrifying sound. If you're in the wrong spot when you hear it, it may be what happens. It is discordant and haunting and cries out for the dead to rise and dance to its strange song.

Exactly the right night for a coyote sonata was out there, one of those gorgeous evenings with that large, dazzling moon hanging heavily over the calm air. My friend, Carlos, was there. When he returned to camp, sweating through his gear and gushing about an epiphany, he was about halfway a man. His mind apparently couldn't tolerate the howling coyotes since he had apparently chewed on the devil's trumpet outside. However, he didn't hear howling; instead, he heard the voices of the dead, largely long-deceased family members but also someone he knew who had perished on the route. Carlos spoke extensively about that incident, mumbling a name that nobody entirely understood and discussing sinister actions. Carlos said, in the depths of his insanity, that the man had been killed after a quarrel over a woman, that it had begun as a little altercation before Carlos picked up a stone and hit the other guy over the head with it. Of course, at the time, we didn't believe him, not given his mental state. Despite how sincere his cries for mercy appeared to be, we saw them as the devil's trumpet working its vile power. The thing is, though, even after he recovered his composure and his senses, he continued to swear that the coyotes had the capacity to awaken the dead and that he had genuinely heard from their spirits. He was adamant that what he had witnessed on the prairie was true.

Now that I've seen certain things I can't explain for the life of me, I still didn't think Carlos was telling the truth, despite his insistence. That I could easily explain: He ate some nasty plants and had a really awful night; ghosts weren't necessary to account for it. But even though I was aware of his extreme insanity that evening, it still caused me to reflect and worry. Maybe it's only that, even before Carlos had his head flipped upside down, those coyotes always gave me the shivers. No one in the camp liked to go out alone when the moon was full, and it wasn't just me. The majority of them would rather risk seeing rattlesnakes on a dark night than venture out in the full moonlight and run the possibility of hearing that coyote song, especially if they were traveling alone. Carlos never entirely recovered to his pre-accident state, and many of us believed that we would prefer a fast death from a snakebite than slowly deteriorating within the skull. I mean, I wasn't any different from the others.

But fate, well, she's a terrible old gal, and I wound up being by myself under the full moon's light. I don't know what happened; perhaps I had too many whiskey shots and started to stumble, or perhaps I was possessed by a demon. I'm very sure I wouldn't have left camp on my own alone, so either the alcohol or the magic was to blame for that decision. I just remember arriving on the wide grassland, where the moonlight was kissing the grass and coyotes were hiding in the shadows at the edge of my field of view. They weren't furious enough, afraid enough, or hungry enough to assault a man. They resembled elderly, inquisitive dogs who kept a keen eye on anything strange that ventured into their domain. The thing about coyotes is that, at least at first brush, they aren't as ferocious as wolves.

And then they got into it and started singing that eerie old tune, the one that still shakes my spirit now and haunts my nightmares. They sung that song, their voices blending and separating until they were actual human voices, including men, women, and little children. Although they were voices, they were not communicating in terms that you or I could comprehend. These were the sounds of lost souls, who were unable to communicate since words had no meaning to them and were instead giving out dreadful wails of sorrow and grief. I almost missed the fact that I was no longer able to see the coyotes because the sound was so agonizing. Instead, there were eerie, stretched-out silhouettes of humans that resembled the ghosts in a trick mirror: pale, silvery-gray in the moonlight. If there was any compassion in heaven and earth, this would have flown out of my memory and never come back to taunt me. Some of them I couldn't place, but the most were people I'd met previously.

My father's shadow could be seen in the center. He was a sight as he stood there, somewhat blending into the prairie darkness, but I could make him out. Pa...he appeared exactly as he had on the day of his accident, the day he had passed away. If this experience hadn't made me realize that I was already doomed from the beginning, I would be willing to part up a small portion of my eternal soul in order to ensure that I never had to endure anything like again. Pa turned his back on me, and as soon as he moved, I started to run. I tore off without waiting for him to answer because I couldn't bear the notion of hearing that coyote song coming from his mouth. Instead, I clasped my hands as hard as I could over my ears. Nor to a town, not to a campsite, simply someplace else that doesn't have those mooncast items.

The following morning, shortly after sunrise, the crew saw me dozing off in the thick grass near camp. I was a bit more cunning than Carlos; I pretended I was having one of those awful nights without actually telling them anything. However, it wasn't much of a help because dread and rumors were already running rampant throughout the camp. Even though they were unwilling to admit it, everyone assumed that the coyotes were where I had encountered them. I didn't mind; I'd let them think whatever they wanted so long as they weren't talkative.

I really didn't give it much thought since I didn't want to. As far as I was concerned, the awful whiskey plus the thought of what had happened to Carlos caused me to go slightly insane. A coyote is basically a large dog; they are not particularly mystical creatures. I kept what I witnessed a secret from the majority of the people, although I did occasionally let my guard down. About a month later, Anse, an old scout, and I were having a conversation. Anse loves to see himself as some sort of wilderness philosopher, spending his time alone contemplating the wonder and terror of the natural world, reciting all the local knowledge he had learned, and generally acting in a way that made him appear smart. I told Anse over the remainder of our coffee that I thought Carlos had seen the ghosts, and he gave me this look as if he knew I had as well. He then said something that, in my opinion, confirmed it to me since no one would ever say something like that to a nonbeliever. He said that although the grassland lacks memory, coyotes have it. He claimed that because the coyotes don't belong here, even the locals are a little wary of them. They are time-traveling monsters, and the soul-stirring music they create is them penetrating our world just a tiny bit. The ghosts are our thoughts attempting to deny what our emotions are feeling since we were never intended to hear that music.

Despite my lack of intelligence and potential for superstition, I refused to accept Anse's claim that magical coyotes roam the earth. I was convincing myself that everything was just a horrible dream and that I only needed to get some rest, spend some time in town, and get away from the animals. I was telling myself that before I saw my Pa again, at least. The coyotes made their racket again, and this time it took me off guard because the moon was only a sliver and I was in camp. You could hardly hear them, just a few ghostly notes above the evening air, but it was enough to awaken the dead.

This time the night was darker, but there was still enough light for me to see him, standing outside by the cooking fire and simply looking in my direction. This time I was close enough to see him exactly as he had been that day. My father wasn't a huge man, but he was undoubtedly tough, with skin like tree bark, gristly muscles, and stiff beard hairs that could almost cut you if you got too near. Call it the misfortune of living on the periphery of the civilized world and scrounging about for fresh opportunities. He was really only an impression that night, just a shadow on the edge of the moon, but I could make out the wound that ultimately killed him because I could see him well. While we were out hunting, he had fallen into a ravine and cut his skull in half on a nasty, sharp rock. Making him presentable for the burial was a huge challenge for the undertaker, but he did a great job since I never wanted to see him split open like that again. But when that song started playing, he suddenly appeared there, exactly as I had discovered him in the ravine: with a bloody rift running from his brow to his neck and gray squish oozing out onto the ground.

He was a walking dead who had no business being alive when the coyotes first revealed him to me. He didn't appear to be happy, angry, or sad to see me. Most of the time, he appeared surprised—yeah, surprised—just like he did in his final seconds before slipping into the ravine. He appeared shocked to see his kid again while standing in the plains beneath the waning moon. Then the shock faded away, his expression hardened, and he spoke to me. This time, I was unable to quickly conceal my ears, so all I heard was the word YOU. That was it, yet it seemed to last for a very long time, like a rusty knife was being torn from my gut. YOU. That word, those three letters meant to slash and maim, were covered in blood.

"YOU." I pondered what that meant for a while. Perhaps I ought to have just asked Pa what he was thinking. Then again, perhaps I'm not really interested in what he was going to say. Of course, I can always make educated guesses, and given what transpired that day, I believe I may know. We had been arguing before we left the house. It wasn't anything serious; just the usual small-minded arguments between dads and sons. The fact that he wanted to go out with me that day shocked me, but he was excited to have me along. He appeared to be stating that blood always counted for more. We hadn't even gotten to supper when he met with the worst luck a mortal man had ever experienced. Prior to my Pa falling over the cliff, I only had a glimpse of his face, but I noticed something in his eyes. He was shocked to see himself falling, but I believe he was more shocked to find me standing there. Did he believe I shoved him? We fought, yes, but he was my father, and I would never hurt him. But did he realize that, or did he believe that his own blood and flesh had sent him there?

I wish I could have discussed this with someone, but everyone who could have understood was gone. It should have been simple since I wasn't the only one who saw the ghosts that night. When Carlos reached his breaking point, he became very intoxicated and dove into a river. To check whether he knew how to break their influence, I went to see Anse. However, Anse...well, I guess he had a few demons of his own, because he got up and left two days later and no one saw him again. I've heard that he got a work at a saloon up north, but I never went to visit him because, I dunno, I think you should let a person go if he wants to. The remainder, though, either didn't see anything or lied to me and everyone else who was similar to me, and I wasn't going to go seeking for them. I don't need to invite any more ghosts aboard; I already have enough.

I lingered there for a while, but I was aware that it wouldn't be for very long. To replace the men who were driven insane by the ghosts, new men appeared. No one knew or cared why the coyotes were frightening me to death. When everyone else was drinking, I used to sneak out with my rifle and shoot them. I also killed a few of them, but my main goal is to make holes in the prairie because I don't have much to write about. Coyotes are not very popular, so I never got in trouble for it, but people did find me odd. Of course, I never explained why I did it since they would have assumed I had been moontouched and I didn't want to have a reputation as the craziest person in camp. One night, they would witness it firsthand, and the next day, they would be at the same location as the rest of us.

In those days, falling asleep wasn't always simple, and when it was, it just made me want another long night. My dreams were unpleasant and strange, but they had the same sense of reality as the daytime; they were events that had yet to take place. Each one began the same way, with me outside by myself in the tall prairie grass, lit only by a shaky pool of light that didn't really come from anywhere. The coyotes were silent this time; they simply emerged from the grass at the edge of the light and lay there, gazing at me with those rapacious eyes. Pa was also present, laughing uncontrollably and as if he had just ascended from the dead. The coyotes were roused by the sound of that laugh, and they suddenly turned to face me with their stained teeth bared and my legs covered in blood. The coyotes were eating me, and I was unable to flee or defend myself because I was too weak. Over the din of the primeval feast, all I could make out were a few words: "...AND I PAID YOU BACK, BOY."

The final straw was this. Despite the fact that I was extremely fortunate and the coyotes were peaceful for a while, the ghosts were haunting the prairie and may have even entered my head. Of course, for whatever benefit it might have, I made tracks before the following full moon. If the coyotes wanted to get me, they would have to pursue me all the way around the world and back.

The prairie is no longer my home because it is now too hostile and full of unpleasant memories. For a while, I took up odd jobs in the local cities. I felt secure since the fighting and partying drowned out the coyote song, but eventually, it got to be too much, and I was left with the unsettling feeling that Pa may still be there. I traveled west until I reached the sea, at which point I sailed out to sea. My current way of life is jumping aboard any ship that requires my bones in order to transport things to Acapulco, the Orient, or the Spice Islands. Although some people consider it exotic, I never developed a taste for the salt spray and never stopped daydreaming about the prairie. Two years have passed since I first heard the coyote song, and I wish I could say with certainty that I was secure. But the memory of that sound continues to linger and won't go away. I still tilt my head at night and listen for howling on clear, undisturbed evenings. On occasion, I see my father accusing me in my nightmares of deplorable acts. I occasionally ponder whether my father is still out there, chasing after the coyotes and hunting for his son, when the moon is full and the wind is howling.