“Yeah,” said Curtis. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Botanical drawing, that’s sort of my thing now. You should try it.”
“Botanical? What, like drawing plants and things?” He was incredulous.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll try it sometime. Find a leaf to draw.” He spoke quietly, almost despondently.
Prue glanced down at the log they were sitting on. A wild tangle of ivy had claimed the territory; scarcely any of the wood’s bark could be seen below the green leaves. It looked as if the ivy itself had been the reason for the tree’s toppling. “Look at these ivy leaves,” she said, trying on the tone of an art teacher. “How the little white lines make designs against the green of the leaf. The more detail you get into, the more fun it gets.”
Curtis shrugged. He tugged at one of the vines. It clung to the bark tenaciously, like some obstinate animal. Letting go, he quietly reached back into the bag of gorp for another handful.
Prue tried to lighten the mood. “Hey,” she said pointedly. “Stop picking through for the chocolate. That’s so illegal.”
Embarrassed, Curtis smiled and passed the bag back to her
After they’d finished half the bag, Prue produced her bottle of water and took a slug. She handed it to Curtis, and he took a drink too. The early morning light dimmed as a gray bank of clouds blew in above the trees and covered the sun.
“Let’s keep moving,” said Prue.
They continued marching up the ravine, grabbing fistfuls of ivy to steady themselves as the ground steepened below them. The creek bed, which seemed like it would carry a lot of water during the winter and spring, was shallow and mostly dry, and they soon found the going easier if they used it as a makeshift trail. The wash flattened out at the crest of a hill, and they were again standing in the midst of the trees on a slight plateau.
“I have to pee,” said Prue.
“Okay,” said Curtis, distractedly staring back down the ravine.
“So go over there,” said Prue, pointing to a thicket of bracken, “and don’t look.”
“Oh!” said Curtis. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll give you some privacy.”
Prue waited until he was out of sight through the branches, found a spot behind a tree, and squatted. Just as she was finishing she heard an unintelligible rasp coming from the thicket. She quickly buttoned her jeans and cautiously came around the tree; there was no one there.
“Prue!” repeated the rasp. It was Curtis.
“Curtis, I said you didn’t have to whisper,” she said, relieved it was him.
“C-come here!” Curtis sputtered, still whispering. “And keep quiet!”
Prue walked over toward his voice, pushing her way through a tangle of vines. On the other side of the thicket, Curtis was hunched down and staring into the distance.
“Look there!” he whispered, and pointed.
Prue blinked and stared. “What—” she began, before she was interrupted by Curtis.
“Coyotes,” said Curtis. “And they’re talking.”
CHAPTER 5
Denizens of the Wood
The ground fell away from the edge of the thicket at a steep grade, creating a kind of promontory over a small meadow amid the trees. In the middle of the clearing was a gathering of roughly a dozen figures, collected around the remnants of what appeared to be a campfire. From the distance, it was difficult to make out details, but the figures were definitely coyotes: They were covered in a matted gray fur and their haunches were thin. Some prowled around the smoldering campfire on all fours, while others stood on hind legs and sniffed at the air with their long gray snouts. However, there were two rather startling aspects of the scene: One, they all seemed to be wearing matching red uniforms with tall, plumed helmets on their heads, and two, they were definitely talking to one another. In English.
The coyotes spoke in a brittle, yapping timbre, and they punctuated their sentences with snarls and barks, but Prue and Curtis could occasionally make out what they were saying.
“You’re pathetic!” shouted one of the larger coyotes, baring his yellow teeth at one of his smaller compatriots. “I request a simple fire and you idiots can’t get a single ember alight.” Some of the animals had what appeared to be sheathed sabers attached to belts around their waists, while others stood leaning against tall, bayonet-topped rifles. This larger coyote rested his paw on the ornate pommel of a long, curved sword.
The coyote to whom this tirade was addressed was skulking in the grass and whinging little yelps in response.