Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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Icicle Music

Just exactly what Coyote did to get Bear so riled up, I don't know.

Knowing Coyote, I'd say he probably seduced his daughter, or his son. Or maybe not. It was Wolf Moon, after all, cold enough to freeze the nose off your face, and early for Bear to be up and about.

He's always grouchy when he first wakes up in the spring—low blood sugar, probably—and, let's face it, Coyote's pretty irritating at the best of times.

So, anyway, Bear had been chasing Coyote through the snow and Coyote had skedaddled his mangy ass up a skinny old jack pine. He had to climb all the way up to the top where the branches were too small to support Bear's weight. Then he waited.

Well, Bear grumbled around the foot of the tree for a few days, but finally he gave up and went away to find something to eat.

Here's the problem. Going up, Coyote had adrenaline to help him up the tree, but after three days he was stiff with cold and weak with hunger, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to climb down out of that tree without falling and cracking his skull.

So, what did he do? What would you do in that situation?

 

The Great Icicle of Oakland Avenue must be twenty feet long, and it gets longer every day.

It hangs from the second story eave of the house across the street. Already the Icicle hangs all the way down past the second story, and halfway down the first.

A lot of houses around here are wearing their icicles now, mine included. It's Wolf Moon, and cold enough to freeze the nose off your face; we haven't seen above freezing for almost a Moon now. You wouldn't think there would be much melt under those circumstances, but of course the Sun climbs higher every day, and his rays are strong enough to melt snow off the southern side of the roof regardless of the ambient temperature.

The Great Icicle, sharp as a sword, is already as thick as my leg and, as I said, it gets thicker and longer every day. Its weight must be tremendous. If it doesn't fall of its own accord, one of these days it's going to grow all the way to the ground.

And then we'll see what's what.

 

So there's Old Man Coyote, stuck up at the top of the tree, and too weak with hunger to climb down.

What did he do?

Well, Coyote's what you might call a resourceful kind of guy and, as I said, it was Wolf Moon and cold enough to freeze the nose right off your face.

So Coyote whips out his dick and takes a piss. It's so cold that the piss freezes instantly, and in no time at all, Coyote has this frozen yellow arch that reaches all the way down to the ground. He takes hold of it with both hands and just slides his way down, neat as neat. That's how he got away.

And that's the end of the story, and that's the beginning of the story.

And let us all say:

So mote it be.

 

 

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Tagged in: coyote
Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.

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