Prodigal Summer - Barbara Kingsolver [143]
“Why does it come down to this?” he asked.
“Because I’m going to change your mind or die trying.”
“Die trying, then. Because you can’t and you won’t change my mind. I’m a ranching boy from the West, and hating coyotes is my religion. Blood of the lamb, so to speak. Don’t try to convert me, and I won’t try to convert you.”
“I won’t go shoot your lambs in the head, either.”
“You are, though,” he said. “In a way you are. If you’re trying to save those bastards, you’re slaughtering lambs.”
She uncrossed her arms and threw a handful of dry grass into the fire, watching each strand light up and glow like the filament of a lightbulb. “If you only knew.”
“Knew what?”
“You said you’d read my thesis. You promised me you would, one time.”
He shook his head, grinning. “You never give up.”
“You did. You gave me your word.”
“I must have been trying to get you into bed.”
“I think we were already there.”
He leaned sideways, looking at her around the edge of the flames. “Likely.”
“So?”
“So? Tell me why I should read it.” Still on his heels, he made his way around the fire pit like some bent-kneed insect and stopped a few feet away from her. “What will I learn about coyotes that I don’t already know in my mean little fearful heart?”
“That they have one of the most complex vocal systems of any land mammal. That they live on rodents and fruits and seeds and a hundred other things besides lambs.”
“Lambs are on the list, though.”
“Lambs are on the list.”
“I already knew that.”
She tossed another handful of grass into the fire. “OK. And they have elaborate courting rituals that involve a lot of talking and licking, and they bring each other presents of food. Meat, especially.”
He looked at the pot on the fire, and then at Deanna.
“And once they form a pair bond,” she said, “it’s usually for life.”
“And I’m supposed to admire that?”
“You’re not supposed to feel any way about it. It’s just information.”
He nodded. “OK, what else?”
“They’re the most despised species in America. Even the U.S. Government is in the business of killing them, to the tune of maybe a hundred thousand animals a year, using mainly cyanide traps and gunning from helicopters. Not to mention the good work done by your pals at the predator-hunt extravaganzas.”
“Yep. Go on.”
“And after a hundred years of systematic killing, there are more coyotes now than there have ever been, in more places than they ever lived before.”
“There. Stop right there. Why is that?”
“It’s a mystery, isn’t it? We kill grizzlies, wolves, blue whales, and those guys slump off toward extinction as fast as they can. Darn coyotes, though, they’re more trouble. I think the Indians are right: they’re downright tricky.”
“And?”
“And the more we attack them, the more of them there are. I can’t tell you exactly why, but I have a lot of ideas.”
“Give me one good guess.”
“OK. Coyotes aren’t just predators, they’re also a prey species. Unlike the blue whale or the grizzly, they’re real used to being hunted. Their main predator before we came along was wolves. Which we erased from the map of America as fast as we could.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh is right. Wolves. There’s no such thing as killing one thing, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Every dead animal was somebody’s lunch or somebody’s population control.”
He took up a longer stick and jabbed at the framework of burning logs surrounding the pot, sending an impressive display of sparks swirling high into the air.
“Will you quit that?” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “You’re going to burn down the woods. Just leave it alone.”
“I’m trying to get the coals to settle.”
“Gravity does that.” This fire can burn itself, she wanted to tell him, without a man in charge of it. “My dad used to say if you play in the fire, you’ll pee in the bed.”
“Worth it,” Eddie said firmly, jabbing and sending up more sparks.
“Quit it,” she said, taking away his stick. “Here, sit, you’re making me nervous.”
He sat with his shoulder against hers. They listened to the elaborate sounds of the fire