Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience)

by Noordeloos, Chantal

  The chief hung his head and put the palms of his hands up in a dramatic expression. “It saddens me that your stay will be so short.” He looked up at Coyote with mournful eyes. “If only I had known you were coming, we would have held a feast in your honor. Alas, your arrival was so unexpected. Tokala had not the foresight to warn me of your visit.” He shot the shaman a dirty look.

  Coyote laughed at his lament. “We have no time for feasts, Chief. Our next visit will be a social one, and I promise I’ll send word that we’re coming.”

  This seemed to appease the thin Wea, and he beckoned them to enter the largest and most decorated of the longhouses. Little red flowers adorned the outside, which made the house look like it itself had bloomed. The inside smelled of straw, fire, and flowers. Coyote and Caesar took a comfortable seat on a pile of warm furs, grateful to stretch their limbs after the long journey. A group of women brought them food—large chunks of bison, cobs of corn, cubes of squash, and even slices of fruit. A fire was lit, and while they ate, the chief spoke.

  “What is he saying?” Caesar asked her with a soft voice.

  Coyote swallowed the bit of corn she was chewing on. “He is complaining about the progress of the white man. He says he has seen haunted carriages ride across the plains, complete with rider but drawn by no horse.”

  Caesar smiled and Coyote chuckled behind her hand. To them, it was difficult to imagine a world without the horseless, steam-powered carts. They were a status symbol, and anyone who had money wanted to own one. The streets of larger cities were filled with them. Technology was evolving rapidly, and the Indians’ old living habits were nothing but a shaded memory to the modern townsfolk.

  The wrinkled man lowered his voice, and his face betrayed the anger he felt. Coyote nodded and listened to him.

  “The chief is appalled that the white man demonizes his people.” Her smile faded from her lips. She had heard the stories too. Tales of Indians scalping innocent travelers told by the light of campfires or in cozy saloons.

  “Our tribes are always portrayed as the bloodthirsty villains. They whisper of giant, red-skinned warriors appearing out of nowhere, sharp spears balanced in their hands, torsos dripping with blood,” she translated, and thought of the men who told each other these stories. Fearmongers. Coyote had other, much less polite words for them as well.

  “It is not we who are the monsters.” The chief held up his crooked finger, his wrinkled eyes open wide as he spoke. “Look what the white man brings us? Metal horrors walk around as if they were creatures of flesh and blood.” Coyote tried to hide her amusement as she translated the chief’s words, but she wasn’t sure if she succeeded. There was a sparkle in Caesar’s eye, and they shared a moment together.

  The shrunken man talked, gesturing wildly with his arms, growing more upset with each passing moment. He pointed in the direction of the road outside his village, and spittle escaped his aggravated mouth. Coyote took in all his words patiently, and when he was done, she turned to Caesar.

  “He really doesn’t like the metal servants,” she chuckled. “Thinks they are demons.”

  The chief spoke about the progress he had seen the white man make, yet he followed their every move with a grizzly fascination. He placed his gnarled hand on Coyote’s shoulder and cocked his head.

  “He says that despite our hunger for unnatural growth, we can always come back here to this place—where nature rules, and where the spirits guide us,” Coyote said, and she patted the chief’s hand with her own. His skin felt leathery to her soft touch.

  “Thank you, Chief.” She smiled at him. “You are most hospitable, and we feel this place is friendly and sacred to us.” The chief’s words had touched Coyote’s heart. She liked being in Indian Territory. It reminded her of a home she never had, of the stories her father told her when she was little. She knew Caesar preferred the Indian country too. To her partner, this was a magic land, where the spirit guides were strong and brave, and where people were in tune with the magic of nature. Coyote sometimes wondered if the former slave would not be happier living his life with the Indians. Here, the people accepted Caesar and treated him with kindness. In Coyote’s world, he would always remain a slave. He might have lost his bonds, but the white men still treated him as if he were chained. Her vow to protect him was only as strong as her trigger finger. One day, someone would be stronger than her, faster . . . and if she fell, Caesar would too.

  She often pictured leaving him behind with Tokala, to give him a different life. But she knew her friend would follow her to the ends of the earth, and she would be lost without him. Even now, his dark eyes observed her as she spoke to the chief in his native tongue and she saw a hint of pride in them. The chief nodded at what she said, and Coyote turned to Caesar, an impish smile on her face.

  “I asked him for the guidance of the spirits of his tribe.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  “What does that mean?” Caesar stuffed some cornbread into his mouth.

  “It means we get to talk to Tokala in private,” she answered, shooting him a knowing smile.

  VISIONS

  Go to http://www.coyotethebooks.com and visit the Indian camp to unlock this safe. It’s not necessary to read the short stories at this point, as they’re not crucial to the plot. Please don’t read the stories before you’ve read up to the safes, since they may contain spoilers. The code is: 150284

  Tokala led Coyote and her companion into the small sweat lodge, a place traditionally meant for only the males of the tribe. No one spoke a word of protest against her entering, however; Coyote was different, and the Wea respected that. Tokala explained that they did not look upon her as merely female, but as a mysterious creature who held the love and respect of their chief.

  Dressed in nothing but their undergarments, Coyote and Caesar shivered in the night air. Caesar wore a pair of long johns, once white, but now old and faded to grey. The cloth had a distinct sour smell of stale body odor that came from not enough washing and too much wearing. It was a common scent found on travelling men. Small holes revealed his dark skin underneath, and one of the sleeves was frayed near the wrist. He looked shabby and unkempt, vulnerable.

  Coyote wore a startling white set of drawers that reached past her knees, and a tight, white top that revealed more than its fair share of her heavy bosom. Her clothing was cleaner than Caesar’s. Unlike her companion, she took the time and effort in every town to have her garments washed.

  Coyote coughed. A thick, smoky scent lingered inside from past meetings. It made her throat tickle and clogged her nose. Tokala handed them a paste of sage and sweet grass to smear on their faces. No one spoke as they followed his lead. The substance felt at once slimy and grainy, and was cold to the touch. Coyote shuddered slightly when she touched the paste to her forehead and cheeks.

  They sat around the fire area, and Tokala closed the sweat lodge entrance with a deer hide. The cramped space was shrouded in darkness, and it made Coyote feel a little uncomfortable. Caesar sat quietly, his arms wrapped around his knees, and he stared into the fire.

  “Is this necessary?” Coyote asked. “We are not here to speak to any actual spirits.” The Indian shot her a disapproving look, and Coyote backed off, shamefaced.

  “If we do this, we shall do this properly.”

  “May I remind you that you are not really an Indian shaman, Cueltor?” There was a smile in her voice.

  “These people have taken me in,” Tokala said. “They have shared their lives and traditions with me. I shall not shame them.” The darkness shrouded the shaman, causing his thin face to look like a mask of death.

  “I am an Indian shaman, just one who happens to be an Outlander too.” He shot her a solemn glance with dark eyes, like hollow shadows in the dusk of the sweat lodge. “I left Cueltor behind me long ago, and am now Tokala.” His voice was filled with pride.

  Coyote nodded. “My apologies.”

  “We are often judged by what we should be, and not what we truly are.” C
aesar’s voice sounded dreamy. Coyote nodded and patted her partner’s knee.

  “There is a reason why I have led you here. I’m afraid there’s much you must see, Coyote.” The shaman sighed softly, and Coyote stirred. “I can give you the information you seek, but there is more you need to know because you are at an important crossroads.”

  “We are?” Coyote raised her eyebrows.

  “No, not Caesar . . . ” Tokala rubbed his hands together. “Only you.” He waved his hands at the sweat lodge’s interior. “This ritual is to open your eyes, to show you things that you must find out for yourself.”

  Coyote shifted again. The shaman’s words unnerved her. “You’re being very mysterious, Tokala.” The smoke tickled her throat, making her cough again. She put her fist to her mouth. “Can’t you just give it to me straight?”

  “Alas, I cannot.” Tokala lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I am bound by rules.”

  He added more wood to the fire, which immediately grew brighter. Larger flames flicked into life in an instant, illuminating more of the darkness, casting the rest of the hut in contrasting shadows. The fire released a sweet fragrance mingled with vapor that hit their lungs, tickling and scratching like invisible fingers. The smoke poured out of the fire in a strange, thick mass, which rolled in dark clouds over the ground, crawling toward her like a hungry predator. Coyote stared at the phenomenon, hypnotized, her eyes watering and her mouth dry.

  “Coyote.” Tokala’s voice was distant now, as though he were calling her from miles away. “I know why Caesar is here; he will follow you to the ends of the earth. He is your guardian and your shadow. His Loa led him to you, but his loyalty is beyond his duty and it’s now built in love. Not because you’ve saved his life those many years ago, but because he sees you in a way others can’t.” Tokala’s voice sounded deeper, slower, as if the darkness itself had seeped into his vocal cords.

  “Is this why you want me in here? To talk about my relationship with Caesar?” she asked irritably. “I’ve saved Caesar’s life many times, and he has saved mine. He follows me because we are friends, and we make a nice living out of this job.” She bit her lip, not believing a word of what she said.

  Tokala sighed. “What made you choose to seek me out? Why are you here, Coyote?”

  She shrugged. “An Outlander named Qu’arth Slevanko.” A cough sent pinpricks of pain through her chest and throat, and her voice sounded strangled, like she were trying to talk with her mouth full of cotton.

  “No, that is only your mission. You have sought something else. You come for answers.”

  “I don’t,” Coyote said irritably. “I need to know how to destroy this Outlander, and you always help me find the answers. That’s all I want from you.”

  “But it’s not all you need from me. Search inside you, Coyote. Look for the question, and find the answer.” The disembodied voice pierced through the fog.

  The sweat lodge swelled with a thick, dry heat. Moisture beaded on Coyote’s forehead and ran into her eyes, the salt stinging and making her blink. Little pearl drops glistened on every inch of her skin, illuminated in the bright colors cast by the flames.

  Her mind swam in a feverish haze. She hated the sweat lodge and wished Tokala hadn’t insisted on using it. There were other private places where they could talk that weren’t so… so stifling. The thick scent of fire teased her every pore, making her long for fresh air. Her body sagged, searching for a more comfortable position, but that was difficult in the sweltering temperature.

  “Just tell me about Qu’arth Slevanko,” she repeated, her voice sluggish and thick.

  “That is a Sihnon name.” The shaman’s voice was filled with emotion; she could hear it from the way he spoke an octave higher.

  “Sihnon is your world, right?” Coyote fought for air. “Do you know of him?” The smoke filled the lodge, clouding the figures within. Long wisps of grey twirled through the air like hypnotic snakes, making her drowsy. The voice of Tokala sounded even further away.

  “Indeed, my world. I have not heard of this particular individual.” The disembodied voice was deeper and slower now, and she could barely recognize it as Tokala’s “But it is a name of the Quavar.”

  “Tell me of the Quavar?” She wondered if he could understand the slurred words that came from her mouth.

  “The Quavar are very dangerous.”

  “I hear this one has a taste for infants.” Her own tone sounded deeper, just like Tokala’s; it reminded her of a man’s voice. Her eyes burned, and rubbing them only increased the sting. The heat affected her thoughts, making them muddled and unfocused, and there was something strange about the smell of the smoke. She tasted it on the roof of her mouth, a sickly-sweet flavor. In the smoke, Tokala’s true shape surrounded his human form like a shadow. It was larger and thinner, but the build was similar . . . she could still recognize him.

  “They like young creatures,” Tokala confirmed, “especially their brains.” He paused for an uncomfortably long time then added, “The Quavar are the enemy of my people.”

  Shadows danced with menacing movements around the Shaman. More eyes peered at her from the Outlander’s face. Purple grey skin.

  “Shape changer,” voices without bodies whispered in the dark. “Outlander.”

  “How do I stop him?” Her words came out garbled. Her tongue was thick, like a rough slab of meat in her dry mouth. Multicolored spots swam in front of her vision, pulsating into different bright shapes. The faceless voices whispered louder.

  “We have something to show you.”

  Tokala spoke, but she no longer heard his words. The voices led her gaze back to the fire. The face of a man flickered in the red and yellow flames, somewhere deep in the heart of the heat. A familiar face, tanned and rough, but comely. A prominent nose, crooked from the many times it had been broken. The wind played with his dirty blond hair, tousling it gently. Grey eyes, the color of a stormy sky, looked at her through the flames. The face held an intense expression, one she remembered so well, but she found it difficult to read. She had seen this expression before that fateful day, seven years ago, and in her dreams many nights after that.

  It was her father’s face.

  “Papa?” She felt sixteen again, young and fragile, a different creature from the woman she was today. Her father’s image smiled at her sadly. No, it wasn’t a smile, it was something else . . . a grimace?

  The vision changed. Now he stood on the edge of a cliff, a shaking figure in his old clothing, his gun raised with doubtful accuracy at a point beyond Coyote. Near him stood a large man with an elegant, elongated face covered in scars. A long, silver-grey moustache hung from his top lip; light stubble lined his chin. He too carried a weapon, which he aimed at Will Webb.

  Coyote wanted to go to her father, to throw herself between him and the grey-haired man—the Outlander—who threatened him, but two large, warm hands rested on her shoulders, pinning her to the spot. She didn’t have to turn around to know whom the hands belonged to—James Westwood.

  This isn’t happening, she thought. This is only a memory. I have been here before. But she couldn’t fight the fear that overwhelmed her, and she didn’t have any control over her emotions. In her vision, Coyote relived the worst moment of her life.

  “Have you told her the truth about her mother?” Westwood shouted over her head.

  Coyote struggled, but Westwood was too strong. His hands anchored her in place. She cried out to her father. She wanted to save him, or for him to save her.

  Her father looked from Westwood to the grey-haired man near him, contempt and fear mingling on his face. The stranger’s gun was a curious copper contraption with a thick barrel, unlike anything Coyote had ever seen. At least not back then, not when she was still sixteen.

  “I told her that her mother was killed by an Outlander,” her father shouted. His legs looked ready to buckle. He swayed slightly then caught himself. His hand trembled, but his aim at Westwood was steady enough. “You kn
ow all about Outlanders, don’t you, Westwood?” Her father’s brows were pulled tightly to the bridge of his nose, and the corners of his mouth twisted in an asymmetrical sneer. Bits of spittle left his lips as he spoke. Hatred. “It was one of your damn Outlanders that killed my wife.”

  “Liar,” shouted Westwood. She felt his hot breath graze her ear and cheek; it even tickled the back of her neck.

  “You’re calling me a liar?” Her father locked his gaze with Westwood, and despite his trembling hand, Coyote had no doubt that he wouldn’t miss his target. She felt no fear, as her father had always been a fantastic shot and he wouldn’t miss now.

  He leaned forward to put emphasis on what he was saying. Strands of his hair moved gently in the breeze, while other parts clung to his sweat-soaked brow. A smile that wasn’t quite a smile appeared on his face, turning his expression maniacal. “You protect these . . . these vermin from the law.”

  “I don’t protect all of them, William,” Westwood snarled. “But some need protection from monsters like you.”

  Coyote felt Westwood’s body press against hers, the skin of his face warm against the back of her head. She looked at her father’s round eyes, at the way the muscles in his face moved. He was afraid, and yet so brave.

  “You’re scum, James.”

  Her father’s face was caked with dirt and blood. His nostrils flared and his chest rose and fell rapidly with frantic breaths. The lines on his face appeared deeper, and in that moment he looked so old, so worn down, and so small next to that big Outlander. Only minutes ago, he and the Outlander had fought for their lives. Her old man had put up quite a fight, but the other guy had been too strong. Coyote had wanted to rush to her father’s aid, but Westwood grabbed her and pulled her to him. A few times, she had thought the Outlander would kill her father, snap his neck or crush his skull, but her father had lived. Somehow, during the fight, her father had managed to get his hands on a gun, setting the stage for this final, desperate standoff.

  The word “scum” still echoed through the canyon, and Coyote saw venom in her father’s eyes. Behind her, Westwood sucked in a breath of air.