Coyote and Meadowlark

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This was written a little over a year ago. It is loosely inspired by what I remember or imagine of Aesop's fables, though I'm not sure about the lesson of the story.

Coyote and Meadowlark

In the blistering heat of a long, harsh summer, a lone Coyote picked his way through the spreading desert. He was thin and weak and suffering from a sharp pain in his foot—he hadn’t had anything to drink in three days, anything to eat in seven, and he could hardly go on with his hurt paw. He whimpered a little as he thought over the unfairness of it all, certain his life was nearing its end.

“It’s hardly right,” Coyote thought, “that one such as I should suffer so, and lose everything to the burning sun and the drying wind. I haven’t led a bad life. Not the best life, for I have taken to eat what isn’t mine and tricked the occasional predator, but that is all in my nature as Coyote. And I was always so clever and so quick; it seemed like I should always be able to ward off my enemies, or at least be given the chance to save myself. But this slow desert has eaten me up, for all my cleverness and quickness, and now I must die.”

With that, the Coyote collapsed where he was and didn’t move for a long while. An antelope in the distance pricked up its ears at the disturbance, but quickly limped away. Coyote moaned.

“This desert has turned us all into humans. We suffer together, but cannot bear our own company. No one will lend a hand even if he has one. Oh! the tiniest gesture to help shoulder my pain would feel like a miracle now.”

As he said this, a Meadowlark was flying overhead. The Meadowlark was better off than most of the animals –though still far from healthy- because he had found a tiny oasis, not much bigger than his nest, in which a bit of water still stood. Because there was so little, he had kept it to himself for the last few days. But hearing Coyote’s complaint, Meadowlark felt sorry for his fellow animal, knowing Coyote to be worse off than himself. He knew that he could not do much, but even if he could help only a little, he felt he must.

“Suffering Coyote!” Meadowlark called down as he flew low overhead. “I have heard your complaints and know them to be sad and true. I cannot give you all of what you need, which is water and food, but maybe my song could lighten your soul a bit?”

“Oh please!” howled Coyote, “Oh please, Meadowlark! I know that if you sang but for a moment, it would feel as though I had drank a river and eaten a herd, just because for a moment another animal showed me compassion.” Meadowlark was happy that he could provide such hope for Coyote (even if he wasn’t sure Coyote would really feel like he had drank a river and eaten a herd), so he set himself down nearby and began to sing. It was hard, because his throat too was parched, but he sang as prettily as he could, and Coyote closed his eyes and seemed content. When he had finished, Coyote opened one eye and spoke even more quietly after the piping song of his friend.

“That was truly beautiful,” Coyote said, “and I am forever in your debt for it. For a time, it seemed that my soul itself would drift up with your song out of this body and to a place where water still runs and food is plentiful.” The Meadowlark bowed awkwardly and blushed a little—hearing Coyote’s praise only made him more aware of the pitiful state his audience was in. But Coyote continued without noticing, “It seemed to me, while you were singing, that your voice couldn’t possibly be so full and strong with no water passing through it for days now. Tell me, please, how did you manage such a feat?”

Now Meadowlark felt awfully awkward, and he tried not to meet Coyote’s eye. After all, the only reason he had been able to perform as well as he did (and that really wasn’t so good as Coyote made it out to be) was because he had a hidden store of water that he kept to himself while all the other animals had nothing. How was he to answer the Coyote then? How horrible it would be to lie, and probably unconvincingly, to this dying soul who had befriended him for the gift of one small song. But even if he did tell Coyote about the water —even if he gave him his last drops!— it was so little that Meadowlark was almost certain Coyote would die anyway. Still, he was a generally good fellow, and his conscience could not abide hearing Coyote’s weak panting as he lay still on his side. So he said, “I have a bit of water –a very small bit of water, mind you- that I’ve been able to survive off of alone for the past few days. I’m afraid it isn’t nearly enough to help you though. I really am very sorry.”

“Oh!” cried Coyote. “Oh! but that is why you don’t understand the pain I am in! You suffer as well, I know, but even to have a drop of water pass through these parched lips—I can only imagine it would be like the sound of your song as it passed through my drooping ears. And your song brought such wonderful thoughts to me, thoughts of water and food.”

Meadowlark felt as though he had been trapped by his own song. He had given so little to Coyote, but to Coyote it had apparently been so much. How could he sing to Coyote of the water which he himself had and Coyote did not? Was this not selfishness, cruelty even, wrapped as a gift? And so he made up his mind. He had hoarded the water for the last few days—even if he took this opportunity to give a bit of his last store to Coyote, he would certainly be no worse off than his friend! Meadowlark said to Coyote, “It is a small amount, and a ways off, but if you come with me I will let you have a bit.”

“Your compassion is beyond that of all the animals,” Coyote commended. “Never has such a desperate offer been made so boldly. But I’m afraid I cannot take you up on it. You see, even if I had the strength to make the distance, my paw is hurt and will not support my weight. I cannot even move to accept your generosity.”

“Then I will bring it to you!” Meadowlark proclaimed strongly, and he flew off in the direction of his little store. Reaching it, he realized how very little there really was. But, determined, he took his nest and scooped up all of it, then carried it in his feet carefully back to where Coyote lay.

“Take some,” Meadowlark said as calmly as he could, setting the nest close enough for Coyote to reach it with his mouth. Coyote probably tried to not take too much, but there really was so little, and Coyote’s thirst was so desperate, that in a single lap of his tongue there was not any water left in the nest. Meadowlark looked pained, but said nothing. Coyote lowered his head in shame.

“Here, I have taken what you have offered, and left you with nothing,” he whispered to his friend. “And now what does either of us have, but nothing? For you were right, of course—the water was not nearly enough. All it has managed to do is rouse my stomach, which I thought had already died of itself.”

“For your stomach, I have nothing to offer,” Meadowlark said quickly, and a little curtly, secretly pleased and ashamed that he could honestly deny the Coyote any more favors. He didn’t like this conflict of emotions, so again he turned his eyes away from Coyote.

Coyote’s eyes were steady and did not drop as he studied the Meadowlark. “It seems to me,” he began, his voice even lower, “that all of this ‘help’ you have offered has come to nothing, or less than nothing! Before I was dying of thirst and hunger; now I am dying of thirst and hunger, but am more aware of it. If you could not save me, was it really a gift to prolong my suffering?” Meadowlark realized that these words echoed the doubts in his own heart, and he remained looking away. Coyote crawled forward on his three good legs.

“Was it really a gift at all? Can pity ever be a gift? You, flying Meadowlark, could only pity me from above. Your song was beautiful, but it sounded like it should have come from the throat of the Mockingbird—it sang a song of pity, grieving to me of the things it had and I didn’t.”

“But what of the water?” the Meadowlark called in distress. “I took what I had and gave it to you! I was no longer above you then, we suffered side by side!”

“Yes, even though you would not raise me up to your height (perhaps you could, perhaps you couldn’t), you lowered yourself to my depth, where neither of us can fly nor has any reason to. And in so doing, you rid yourself of that damning pity, which even you could not bear—do you not secretly feel better for it? Now that we are both tied down to this same scorched earth, you’re free of my suffering. The connection, whatever was there, has been broken, and you are free of me.”

“It’s not that!” cried the Meadowlark. “I have nothing left to give! Even if what you say is false –and it is!-, even though my generosity remains, there is nothing left for it to satisfy itself or you! If I could give something to your stomach, I would!”

“Would you?” the Coyote asked, crawling nearer.

“I… No! That’s not what I meant!”

“Isn’t it? What did you mean?”

“I meant, if there were something else… Surely you cannot ask that of me!”

“What else is there to ask? Your generosity is all you say you have left, and your own self is certainly all your generosity has left. Or are you willing only to give that which really wasn’t yours to begin with anyway? Is this your generosity?”

Coyote was very close now, but Meadowlark still stood rooted to his spot, unwilling to look Coyote in the eye. He only protested softly, “But I gave….”

“What! Your pity? It would have been better for you to keep that! Your false possession, your hoarded water? What right did you have to it in the first place! Your generosity? We have seen how far that goes….”

Now Meadowlark tried to fly away, but he found his wings were so heavy, and he could not tell which way was up anymore. He didn’t understand what was happening, or why it was happening. He hadn’t led a bad life; it had always seemed like he should at least be given the chance to save himself. But his doubts had eaten him up, for all his good intentions, and now he couldn’t fly.

That night, Coyote had a meager meal of bird, which he was just able to get down from wetting of his throat with a bit of water earlier. He was clever, and he was quick. It wasn’t nearly enough of course, but for that night Coyote felt better than he had in a long time.