09-19-2017, 01:10 PM
Woodrow would never be familiar to most.
They saw what they wanted to see and what they often saw was a coyote slinking through the grass. He knew what he was and wasn’t - both horse and coyote, a half-breed that did not truly belong to either species and it seemed that both horses and coyotes knew that he was different. In his horse skin, his coyote scent was still present and in his coyote skin, there was something prey-ish about him that kept the other coyotes away. Only his family could stomach him, from his grandmother to his sometimes rabbit-shifting mate and their children to a color-changing mare he’d like to think he’d befriended. But he knew the lay of the land better than most because he’d run it in either form and could slink into places most horses could never even get to.
She distracts him with a smile, because who can resist a coyote’s grin?
Then he is half and half and not entirely one thing or the other. It is a gamble that he took with his transformation and he can see that she wants to laugh at how ridiculous he looks. That alone delights the trickster in him since he was a clown at heart. But they are on the subject of his grandmother and he thinks of that wild mare that he hasn’t seen in quite some time but smells her every now and then, out there in the meadow or down by the river and he knows she’ll look as she always has - fierce and wise, and he cannot help but chuckle because he knew how deep the vein of kindness and love ran in her for her bloodline.
“She is,” he corrects her, speaking of his grandmother in the present tense because nothing could kill that immortal mare. Well, something had and that’s how she earned her immortality and it was always a favorite tale of his when she wasn’t talking to him about the trickster-god he took after. “Right down to the feathers in her hair just like you.” and he reaches out, not paying attention to the decorum of keeping to one’s self and things like distance, and he lips at one of the feathers in her wild dark hair. He lets it go and cocks his head to one side, losing more of the coyote traits when he doesn’t concentrate so much on holding them and he is slowly becoming more and more of a horse beside her.
“I think she only speaks the one tongue besides the common one we all know and use. She was raised on it as much as she was raised up on her own mother’s milk. But she doesn’t talk much about that time. It pains her too much I think, to remember the good times and the bad. Grandmother tends to focus on the here and the now, and her brood of foals and grand-foals most of which I believe are now all grown up.” He realizes he might be rambling but thinks the red mare doesn’t seem to mind since she has a look of genuine interest on her face. It almost looks like a hunger if he’s reading her right but he could never guess as to what she might be hungering for.
“She’s still around here somewhere, I smell her from time to time but she keeps to herself a lot these days.” For just a moment, he frowns. Grandmother never seemed right unless she was rearing some foal from the ground up whether it was hers or someone else’s. She took to mothering more than anything else, recognizing the value in new life and giving it a chance to thrive in the world. He shook his head and grinned again as she asks about his canine teeth. “What happened was my mother gave birth to me but when she looked around at me for the first time, she saw a coyote and not a horse. I gave her the fright of her life! I couldn’t control the ability to shift back then, so I sometimes found myself stuck as one or the other and more often than not, it was as a coyote.”
Woodrow laughs; he’s never harbored a single bad thought or ill wish against his poor mother who couldn’t handle him. “My mother tried to raise me for a short while but she couldn’t take to how nippy I was when I nursed. The teeth bothered her so much that she went to Grandmother and asked if she could handle me. I was stuck more and more in coyote shape then, and Grandmother just laughed and took me in like it made no difference to her if I was horse or not.” He leans in closer to the red mare and there is a conspiratorial look in his amber eyes; “Between you and me, I think that old mare would nurse anything even if it wasn’t a shape-changing horse. She’d give a bear and a snake the chance to live if they could take milk from her.”
The laughter that came from him then was more of a bark and a bay than anything equine. He is happy to be talking about his family and happier to be providing a distraction to her since she seemed to have been staring off into space as if something troubled her. Woodrow figures that everyone tells their story in their own time and he’s never asked anyone to tell it before they are ready. He settles back on his haunches, shifting his weight and growing more and more comfortable the longer he stands beside her. She makes him that much more horse the longer he’s there and he hasn’t abided much in that shape in a long long time. It almost felt good to forget about his coyote skin for a little while.
They saw what they wanted to see and what they often saw was a coyote slinking through the grass. He knew what he was and wasn’t - both horse and coyote, a half-breed that did not truly belong to either species and it seemed that both horses and coyotes knew that he was different. In his horse skin, his coyote scent was still present and in his coyote skin, there was something prey-ish about him that kept the other coyotes away. Only his family could stomach him, from his grandmother to his sometimes rabbit-shifting mate and their children to a color-changing mare he’d like to think he’d befriended. But he knew the lay of the land better than most because he’d run it in either form and could slink into places most horses could never even get to.
She distracts him with a smile, because who can resist a coyote’s grin?
Then he is half and half and not entirely one thing or the other. It is a gamble that he took with his transformation and he can see that she wants to laugh at how ridiculous he looks. That alone delights the trickster in him since he was a clown at heart. But they are on the subject of his grandmother and he thinks of that wild mare that he hasn’t seen in quite some time but smells her every now and then, out there in the meadow or down by the river and he knows she’ll look as she always has - fierce and wise, and he cannot help but chuckle because he knew how deep the vein of kindness and love ran in her for her bloodline.
“She is,” he corrects her, speaking of his grandmother in the present tense because nothing could kill that immortal mare. Well, something had and that’s how she earned her immortality and it was always a favorite tale of his when she wasn’t talking to him about the trickster-god he took after. “Right down to the feathers in her hair just like you.” and he reaches out, not paying attention to the decorum of keeping to one’s self and things like distance, and he lips at one of the feathers in her wild dark hair. He lets it go and cocks his head to one side, losing more of the coyote traits when he doesn’t concentrate so much on holding them and he is slowly becoming more and more of a horse beside her.
“I think she only speaks the one tongue besides the common one we all know and use. She was raised on it as much as she was raised up on her own mother’s milk. But she doesn’t talk much about that time. It pains her too much I think, to remember the good times and the bad. Grandmother tends to focus on the here and the now, and her brood of foals and grand-foals most of which I believe are now all grown up.” He realizes he might be rambling but thinks the red mare doesn’t seem to mind since she has a look of genuine interest on her face. It almost looks like a hunger if he’s reading her right but he could never guess as to what she might be hungering for.
“She’s still around here somewhere, I smell her from time to time but she keeps to herself a lot these days.” For just a moment, he frowns. Grandmother never seemed right unless she was rearing some foal from the ground up whether it was hers or someone else’s. She took to mothering more than anything else, recognizing the value in new life and giving it a chance to thrive in the world. He shook his head and grinned again as she asks about his canine teeth. “What happened was my mother gave birth to me but when she looked around at me for the first time, she saw a coyote and not a horse. I gave her the fright of her life! I couldn’t control the ability to shift back then, so I sometimes found myself stuck as one or the other and more often than not, it was as a coyote.”
Woodrow laughs; he’s never harbored a single bad thought or ill wish against his poor mother who couldn’t handle him. “My mother tried to raise me for a short while but she couldn’t take to how nippy I was when I nursed. The teeth bothered her so much that she went to Grandmother and asked if she could handle me. I was stuck more and more in coyote shape then, and Grandmother just laughed and took me in like it made no difference to her if I was horse or not.” He leans in closer to the red mare and there is a conspiratorial look in his amber eyes; “Between you and me, I think that old mare would nurse anything even if it wasn’t a shape-changing horse. She’d give a bear and a snake the chance to live if they could take milk from her.”
The laughter that came from him then was more of a bark and a bay than anything equine. He is happy to be talking about his family and happier to be providing a distraction to her since she seemed to have been staring off into space as if something troubled her. Woodrow figures that everyone tells their story in their own time and he’s never asked anyone to tell it before they are ready. He settles back on his haunches, shifting his weight and growing more and more comfortable the longer he stands beside her. She makes him that much more horse the longer he’s there and he hasn’t abided much in that shape in a long long time. It almost felt good to forget about his coyote skin for a little while.