Page 11 of The Spirit of the Wolf

The Thunderer chose not to answer, and Grey Coyote turned his attention to other, more important matters.

Neither small nor large, nor wide, nor narrow, the white man possesses a thing that will propel you toward freedom. Though he will think it is possessed by him and though you must possess it, and it will possess you, only when you are free from it, yet act as it, will your people be released from the mist.

What was it LaCroix thought he owned which was now in Grey Coyote’s possession? What was it that, though Grey Coyote might own it, was not his?

Raising his arms to the midnight sky, Grey Coyote began his vigil by singing a song of thanks to the Creator. It was also a song to entreat the Creator to hear his voice:

“Wakonda, have pity on me.

Wakonda, I come to you to make my guess.

Wakonda, have pity on me, for I do not fully understand this riddle.

Wakonda, guide my thoughts.”

Overhead, the clouds parted, and for a moment a star shown brightly. Ah, the Creator listened. Grey Coyote continued:

“Wakonda, each time I obtain the possessions of the one I pursue, you have allowed me to guess at this riddle. I will do so now.

Wakonda, I venture that the woman is the possession I seek for LaCroix once owned her but now I have her yet I cannot own her since no man can really own a woman. Yes, Creator, I guess that the answer is the woman.”

Grey Coyote waited. The star still shone brightly; no thunder pealed in the sky. Barely daring to breathe, Grey Coyote recognized these as good signs. Indeed, if he were not mistaken, this meant he had thus far guessed correctly.

Now for the riddle’s final catalyst: If the woman were, indeed, the correct possession, what action was required of Grey Coyote that he might end the curse? Briefly, he recalled the words of the Lost Clan’s medicine man, White Claw:

“Show kindness and mercy to an enemy. Help them. Remember had we done this to the thunder god’s children so long ago, our fate would never have included an eternal curse.”

But who was the enemy? Surely it was not the white woman. How could a woman be his enemy?

Was it LaCroix? Hau, hau. It had to be LaCroix. After all, LaCroix was white. Had not the white traders cheated the Indians in trade? Did they not make the red man crazy from the white man’s water? Was not LaCroix also a liar? And a liar, as all wise men know, is an enemy to all men.

Surely, LaCroix was the enemy. But what action to take?

“…only when you are free from it, yet act as it, will your people be released from the mist.”

How could one be free from a possession if one were acting as it? Overhead, the clouds moved, signaling that Grey Coyote must make a guess. Taking a deep breath, he continued:

“Wakonda, my final conjecture concerns the action I must take to end my people’s fate.

Wakonda, guide my words, as well as my actions, for I am but a simple man.

Wakonda, LaCroix is my enemy, to whom I must show kindness, to whom I must aid. Because the possession that concerns us is the woman, I conclude that I must return the white woman to LaCroix. For as any man knows, to take away one’s wife is to steal a man’s heart. Further, if I am to act as ‘it’, or to act as the possession would act, would not the woman desire to stay with her husband?

Wakonda, therefore, the action I should take will be to hand back the woman to LaCroix.”

Grey Coyote waited. Nothing happened at first. Had he done it? Had he ended the curse? His heart beat out a fast cadence, and his hopes rose, for the star still shone brightly.

As quickly as the clouds had earlier moved aside, they now stirred briskly in the opposite direction, forming a curtain over the star, hiding it. The thunder rumbled, it spun, it roared, its noise sounding to Grey Coyote’s ears like the mockery of laughter. And then, as swiftly as all that had come before, the star was gone.

Grey Coyote’s arms fell to his sides, and silently he bowed his head.

He had failed. Once again, he had failed. Almost desperately, he whispered, “Wakonda, show me how to understand this riddle. For in all this time, I have never guessed it correctly.” Raising his face to the heavens, he cried, “Wakonda, I ask you. How can any man act as that which he possesses?”

There was no answer, unless of course one considered the wind a living entity. But at present, Grey Coyote was too distraught to hear its voice.

The Creator had gone, this was all that mattered, and despondent, Grey Coyote turned away.

His thoughts were gloomy. And why not? In his opinion, his life was practically wasted.