He went back three times. Each time, he told himself: This time I’ll control it. And each time, the fire water controlled him—until the stars turned into needles, and his own howl sounded like a stranger.
In the old days—before the rivers learned to bend, and when the stars still whispered secrets to the wind—Coyote was hungry.
“I feel like I gave birth to one,” groaned Coyote.
At first, he felt powerful. His fur stood on end. He could see the wind. He could count the bones in his own tail. Coyote-s Tale. Fire Water
He had already stolen fire from the Fire People, tucking a burning coal into a hollow reed and racing across the plains until the smoke made him sneeze and sparks flew into the pine trees. That trick worked so well, he thought, why not try again?
But Coyote, clever and crooked as a juniper branch, had other plans.
“That’s the fire water,” said the crow. “It promised you wings. It gave you stones.” He went back three times
Finally, on the fourth morning, Coyote buried the gourd and sang a quiet song: “I stole the flame for warmth and light. I stole the water to feel bright. But fire in the belly burns the soul. And too much bright will leave you coal.” Then he walked away, limping a little, and never stole fire water again.
“You look like you swallowed a porcupine,” said the crow.
That’s a lie.
Coyote’s Tale: The First Sip of Fire Water
“Ha!” he howled. “I am the smartest creature in all directions!”
“That,” he said to no one, “is fire water .” The People of the Sweet Springs kept the fire water in clay jars sealed with pine pitch. They said it was not for drinking—not really. It was for visions. For ceremonies. For speaking to the Grandfathers who lived beyond the Milky Way. In the old days—before the rivers learned to
Coyote was hungry for more .