Wesley's Story (rough version)

Wesley's Story.

1.
Wesley opened his eyes.
He sighed, blinking at the sun. His fur was hot, and he could feel his throat scratching already. He stood shakily and shook himself off, sand flying from his pelt in a cloud. He bit at a tick on his rump, but couldn’t rend it. He growled and looked out at the desert, hoping for a sign of direction. Dunes stretched out endlessly, and he wouldn’t even be sure which way he’d come by except that he’d finally collapsed from exhaustion after ascending a particularly vicious hill, and had rolled down its opposite side and passed out at its foot. With it at his back, he searched for any sign of a passable course, or a heading that might lead him to water. He scented the air for anything hopeful; wet, tree, animal. But there was only the gritty, dusty smell of sand, and its pervasiveness had even muted his own aroma. Of all the crimes the desert had enacted on him -the thinning of his figure and stinging his eyes with red-hot wind daily- the covering of his musk was by far the one he took most offense to.
Wesley had pride in his scent. It was home and happiness, and experience, all the things he ever cared about. The wastes were already beginning to claim him, and that was a fact he had begrudgingly accepted. The least they could do was leave him his mark before he died. But that was the way it went, he supposed. Death gives no compromise to the dying.
Gathering his will, Wesley picked the direction that seemed the flattest, and took to that heading at a slow trot. He didn’t expect to find anything, nor was he certain that he wanted to. But he couldn’t stop. He could die out here, and that would be fine. But he had too many promises to keep to let himself die.
So, Wesley forged forward in the wastes, pondering the life he left behind.
It didn’t make him feel better.

2.
“So this is it,” Wesley muttered to himself, keeping his pace steady. He gazed wild-eyed at the desert, shouting at it to entertain his demons. “Born a bastard in a hateful world, raised in a culture of values so polarized as to be schizophrenic, forced to abandon the only creature I’ve ever loved, and here I am in the asshole of nowhere, dying of thirst and shouting at sand! Excellent work, Asthur. Only you could craft a life so pitiably pointless as mine!” He laughed, shaking his head. “At least I never lost a limb. I once knew a wolf who’d lost a foreleg, and had the terrible luck to survive. His name was Stumlein, but everyone called him “Stumps.” I think I’d just as soon kill myself if I ever lost one of my beautiful legs.” He whipped back to bite at the tick, now swollen and dangling, but found no purchase. He shouted, turning his head to the sky, “Agh, you would set me out in the wasteland with a tick. A tick! Of all the hells of animal ending, you are by far the most pestulent and intimately infuriating! I’m almost excited to die just so that you’ll die too. I think it’d be worth the trouble just so I could return the favor in the afterlife.” He huffed. “I’m not so sure how others in Asthuria would feel about torture. Oh, it’s my death, I’ll do with it what I please.”
He stopped and glared at the hill that loomed in front of him. He turned his head left and right, hoping to find a better way, but this dune stretched too far in either direction without lowering. Wesley gave a sigh and made his way up the hill.
He growled, “Damn the winds and the sand and the dunes, damn the sun, damn the sky, damn my burning paws, damn you you stupid bloody tick.” He panted as he reached the midpoint, his limbs burning. His tongue was a dry lump in his mouth, and a particularly strong gust hit him with a heat that made his eyes water. “I’m going to make it over this dune!” he exclaimed, “Keep blowing your spiteful breaths, you’re not toppling this coywolf!”
As he crested the hill, he felt his legs give out, and he fell face-forward down the other side. He slid several yards before coming to a stop halfway down the dune. He groaned, and opened his eyes, mumbling curses.
And then his ears perked up.
Plains rolled out ahead of him, lined sparsely with grass. Wesley blinked.
“I’ve died,” he said. “Well, that’s quite a shock. Unless…” He turned back to find the tick still throbbing. “You’re still here, which means…” His eyes lit up as he began to run, laughing wildly into the wind. He called behind him, “You thought you had me, didn’t you? Not this coywolf, not today!” When he reached the bottom of the dune, he plopped onto his side and rolled around in the grass. Pitiful an act as it was, it beat the sand by leagues.
Wesley exhaled and barked at the passing whisps of clouds, recalling the habits of his youth. His rapture slipped away as he was struck by memories; suddenly his nose filled with the ghost of fresh dew on the pines. He could feel the thick mountain grass on his back as he lay in the valleys below the Tall Ones, yipping at clouds in the company of his family. He’d been just a pup then, out of his element as always but long before he was wholly aware of the spite they had for him. He remembered touching snout to his mother’s breast, suckling as they lay beneath a grey cliff face, and they both passed into sleep and dreamt mingling dreams.
He took a deep breath, expecting the cool, moist wash of mountain air, but instead took a lung of hot, sandy dryness, and coughed. Wesley sighed and stood with questionable balance. Now he looked at the desert behind him and the plains before him and felt close to tears. For such a long time he’d been assured in his course, no doubts or regrets. But here, so many miles from the place he called home, it seemed his honor had indeed led him on a fool's errand.
In a moment, it occurred to Wesley that he had abandoned love for an empty journey.
But then he shook his head, and reminded himself of his reasons.
Then he swung his head around to grapple again with the tick, but it did not budge. Wesley screamed and, with no other option beyond moping and self-mutilation, forged forward into the wastes.

3.
“A round peg,” he said. “How interesting.”
The wooden pole stuck out of the dirt above Wesley, cracked and sun baked. Pressing his nose against it, he could smell the distant hint of farther lands. Better ones, with water and trees and-
“You just need to go right on your way!” came a shout from behind.
Wesley jumped, and spun around. A raccoon stood nearby, one eye fixed on the coywolf, the other turned to the horizon.
“Are you cross-eyed?” he asked.
The raccoon straightened his back. “Coyotes are not welcome here. Go on your way and leave us in peace.”
The coywolf blinked. “Coyote? Excuse me, but-”
“There is no excuse for the violence you would bring to me and mine, so leave before I have you killed.”
Wesley looked around, a shade nervously. “I see no others.”
“That's what makes them dangerous,” the raccoon said.
“Listen, I'm very tired. I'd just like a place to lie my head for a night.” Wesley sighed. “What am I going to do, eat you?”
“Precisely!” The raccoon brandished a small knife.
He rolled his head. “I have no interest raccoon meat, friend. I promise you that I bring no harm, I simply-”
Wesley heard a whistle from his left, and turned just in time for a rock to bounce of his skull. He shook his head, turning to accost the raccoon, when another hit him in the side. And another. Soon there was a rain of small stones, and it seemed whoever threw them ducked into holes in the ground before he could attack. The blows did not hurt his body so much as his pride, and he turned to see the raccoon with a triumphant smile on his face.
Another soul who hates me for what I am, Wesley thought, instead of who.
Without a word, Wesley trotted off into the prairie, away from the shower of rocks, until he passed around a hill. And there he heard cries of victory and relief.
The coywolf felt mounting anger and disappointment. What had he done? If the raccoon would just have listened...
Wesley shouted behind him, “I only wanted respite, you cross-eyed bandit! Thank you for proving once again that villainy lives in the heart of even the smallest creatures.”
He expected to be fighting back tears, but this was a familiar feeling. It was one he'd been grappling with all his life, from the moment he'd been old enough to hunt with his pack. The only wolves who ever showed him kindness, besides Isalia, were the pups, and that was only until their parents taught them otherwise.
He remembered Kal, the wolf everyone knew would one day be alpha of the pack. Everyone knew Wesley was not a threat to the leadership, he would always be the lowest of the low. But Kal asserted his dominance at every step. In the hunt, if Wesley made a mistake it would result in biting and growling and taunting. Whatever kills he took, Kal would criticize for their sloppiness.
It took many years for Wesley to understand that he, quite simply, was not a wolf. He shared only enough of the blood to look, at a distance, like one, and on occasion act like one. But at the end of the day, he would never be home there.
His face was that of a coyote, after all. No one trusted a coyote.

4.
Wesley sat on a hillside, staring down at the round peg from a distance. He'd made a round of the area, searching for food or sign of anyplace else, and found nothing. He was lost, he knew that much. Whether there would be hope for survival in the prairie, he was unsure.
Here, at least, there was food. It'd just be a matter of taking it.
Night had fallen, and through the course of his observations he'd found that the creatures throwing rocks at him had been prairie dogs. Hardly a tremendous meal, but the amount of meat was perfectly reasonable compared to the effort it would take to kill one.
So he watched, glad that, at least in this one case of night vision, his two warring bloodlines had agreed on something. The dogs ran to and fro, digging and moving large piles of dirt. It seemed to Wesley that they were being coordinated by the raccoon to make something. But what?
His curiosity vanished when he saw a pair of dogs leaving the general work site and coming towards where he lay. He moved his limbs into place, ready to jump, timing it as best he could.
They passed out of site for a moment, then crested the hill. His heart beat fast, suddenly very aware of the low moon on the hillside, the stars, the smell of the desert, the feel of the dirt and dead grass beneath his paws, the gentle heaves of his prey taking breath, the scent of their warmth coming closer and closer.
One passed him entirely. The next turned its head and saw him leaping like a monster, heckles raised, mouth opened wide, teeth bared.
It ducked, and Wesley missed.
Without a pause, he turned and jumped on top of the dog before it could think to run away. The other made its way around them, back towards the round peg, while its companion tried to speak, but found no air in its lungs.
Wesley looked down on the creature, dribbling saliva onto its chest. He pressed hard with his paw, reveling in its pained expression as it tried to take a breath, struggled against certain death, eyes wide and knowing all too much.
He imagined the taste of the blood and the meat, the crunch of its tiny bones in his maw. Hardly what Kal would call a worthy kill, but hell, he hadn't tasted fresh death in months. And Kal wasn't here to criticize.
Wesley's enthusiasm slipped away. He still held the dog in place, still held his mouth open, but it suddenly felt as though there was no joy in it. All he could think of was Kal, dancing back and forth, ridiculing him for his simple tastes.
Now when he looked at the prairie dog in his grasp, he didn't see food. He saw a small animal struggling for life, fearful of death, completely in the dark as to which he should expect.
But the dog seemed to have taken notice of Wesley's sudden disinterest, and watched him with a certain hardened confusion, and the faintest glimmer of hope.
With a sigh, Wesley let him up.
“Apologies,” said the coywolf as he turned away. “I suppose I'll just go die in the wasteland, since it seems I've lost what little edge I had.”
He began to trot away, when there came a bone-chilling sound from very close by. A howl, deep and loud, and Wesley knew the timbre of it like he might know an old enemy. He turned to the prairie dog and shouted, “Run!”
The dog made his way back towards the round peg, but a wolf jumped out from around a hill and barked. The dog fell backwards, edging towards Wesley. He stood over the dog and lowered onto his haunches, growling at the wolf.
There came another growl from behind, and another. A whole pack of wolves, at least six, possibly more. Before Wesley could ask what they were doing in the prairie, he answered, Well, I'm here aren't I?
One of them stepped forward, the alpha by the way he carried himself. His fur was laced with scrapes and scars, and he had muscle like a gorilla. His eyes seemed to glow an unnaturally red shade of orange in the moonlight.
“A coyote,” he said, treating the threat of Wesley's stance like he might treat the same physicality in a newborn. He walked around Wesley, taking him in. “Only, you're too big.”
“Leave this one alone,” Wesley said.
“What kind of dog are you?” asked the alpha, his voice smooth. Too smooth for someone who appeared so violent.
“He’s a halfbreed,” said one of the others.
The alpha made a noise of acknowledgment. “Ahh, Part coy and part wolf. Where are you from, mutt? By the grey tinge on your back I’d say the North.” He took a deep breath. “You’re a long way from home.”
Wesley growled as the wolf circled him, and he had to fight the urge to reciprocate the action. Were it not for the quarry he was protecting...
“You’re going to leave and never come back,” Wesley said.
The other wolves laughed, and the alpha nearly lost his balance. “Or what?” he said with a laugh.
“Or I’ll tear your throat out and feast on your insides.”
The alpha stopped moving. Any pretense of joviality left him. The other wolves stepped back.
And then the alpha pounced.
Wesley believed himself to be a coward by deed, but if his youth had taught him anything it was how to hold his own in a fight. He was not strong, nor blessed with speed. But he did look to be absolutely pitiable, and that was one of his greatest strengths.
A finecky creature would have dodged, flinched, or backed away. Wesley merely bowed, and the alpha’s hasty attack glanced off his side. Without pause, Wesley spun around and bit the wolf’s neck, pinning him to the ground. The wolf struggled, kicking at Wesley's head with his hind legs, but the more he twisted, the more the coywolf's teeth dug into his neck.
Wesley tasted blood, and hardened his grip.
The alpha whimpered slightly, and turned his belly up.
The surrounding wolves echoed words of surprise and fear.
Wesley let go and backed away.
He eyed the others. “If you want to help your leader instead of standing there like a couple of dumbstruck deer, feel free. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been outnumbered.”
The alpha wolf growled from the ground. “Why are you letting me live?”
“Because killing isn't in me,” he said. “Not anymore.”
He glanced at the prairie dog, who now stood behind him.
The alpha got up and turned towards Wesley, careful not to look him in the eyes. It gave him a surge of pleasure to see such a bulking creature, who could kill Wesley with little to no effort, give any submission. He knew it had to be a knife in this wolf's pride, and the others in his pack would never look at him the same way again.
Maybe one of them would get sick of his bullying. Maybe they'd always felt they could lead the pack better. And if a halfbreed coywolf could beat him in a fight, well, why not a true wolf?
“Leave these creatures alone,” Wesley said. “There are greener lands for you elsewhere. Survival in these parts is hard enough without such voracious predators.”
One of the other wolves said, “We've been banished from our homeland.”
Wesley shrugged. “Find another, then. Go North. Maybe you'll be better off.”
The alpha lunged at Wesley again, but this time it was desperate and full of force. He had underestimated the coywolf -he would not make the same mistake twice.
Just as he would make to rip the soft tissue out from Wesley's belly, a rock sailed through the air and hit him in the eye. He yipped and dodged away, only to be hit by another. Wesley turned to find an entire crowd of prairie dogs, come up through tunnels he hadn't seen before, all of them wearing tiny parcels filled with rocks. The wolves backed away, and the alpha kept trying to bark words of anger, but they were cut off. Finally, he turned tail and ran, and the others followed. He watched them disappear go for a long ways before they disappeared over a hill.
Wesley sighed and turned around.
Two dozen prairie dogs stood, rapt, behind him. The one he had failed to kill was at the forefront.
“Did you enjoy the show?” Wesley asked.
He heard commotion in the distance and looked to see one of the prairie dogs leading the raccoon up out of their den. He saw the crowd and once again revealed his knife.
“I told you to stay away!” he shouted. As he stomped forward, the dogs formed a barricade in front of Wesley. The raccoon stopped.
“What is this?” he asked of the dogs. They all looked up at Wesley, who was himself rather surprised at the proceedings.
“I suppose,” he said, his voice trailing off, “I saved them.”
The raccoon blinked. “What?”
“Well, actually, they saved me. But I protected one of them. Sort of.”
“What are you playing at?” the raccoon asked, his knife lowered slightly.
“I just want someplace warm to sleep, and perhaps a bite to eat.”
“I don't trust your kind,” he said. “Whatever game this is, I refuse to play. Thank you for your assistance, such as it was, but I refuse to let something like you into my den.”
The raccoon turned to walk away, but the dogs did not follow.
“Something?” Wesley asked. “I realize that hard living hasn't made you fond of predatory instinct, but I do still have a conscience. I don't kill and eat every breathing creature that crosses my path.”
He turned back to Wesley. “I don't know what spell you've cast on my companions, but it isn't going to work on me!” he shouted. “Dogs of the round peg, to me. Now!”
Still they did not budge, and the raccoon began trembling.
“He'd sooner devour all of you, don't you see?”
Wesley shook his head. “I can speak for myself, thank you very much-”
“Hush, I'm not done talking! He'd devour you and me, and piss on all that we've made for the use it has to him-”
“What? That's disgusting!”
“-and then go on and do the same wherever he ends up next.”
Wesley scoffed. “I do all of my pissing outside, thank you. Not every wolf is a murderous monstrosity out to cull the heard. Most are just trying to stay alive.”
The raccoon paused. “So... you're a wolf then?”
“Not exactly.”
The raccoon spoke, distracted somewhat from his tirade, “I'd actually been somewhat confused on the matter. I thought you a coyote at first, but now I can't tell.”
Wesley said, “Then perhaps I'll leave and spare you the inconsiderate conundrum.”
He turned to leave, but the prairie dog he'd saved ran out in front of him, waving his arms.
“I'm sorry,” Wesley said, “but if he doesn't want me here, then I might as well leave. If it's a debt you think you owe me, consider this stand payment.”
He pushed past the dog and continued out into the prairie. The raccoon watched him, conflicted as he looked back to the peg, and to the dogs, and to Wesley.
“Wait!” he shouted.
Wesley stopped.
“Yes?” he asked.
“If you, if you... gods, I'm going to regret this,” he muttered. “If you really need a place to stay, then I suppose I can spare a chamber. If the dogs trust you then, fine, I guess that should be enough.”
The coywolf turned around.
“No thank you,” he said, and continued on his way.
The raccoon looked baffled, and picked up his pace behind Wesley.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “You can never be too careful in this part of the world. How was I to know your quality from a distance? I've seen dozens like you pass by with only a thought for their own stomachs. You can't blame me, it's just, it's the world we live in!”
Wesley nodded. “I understand, and I don't blame you. But this is what I've been walking away from all my life. I've no interest in bearing any more passive aggressive torment.”
“Wait,” the raccoon said. “Wait, wait. You're a coywolf, aren't you?”
He stopped, but did not look back.
“Yes, that's it. I'd heard of your kind before, but never thought to see. I'd love to-” he paused, coughed. Wesley looked around, arcing a brow, and the raccoon continued, much slower. “I'd love to carve you.”
After a pause, “That would hurt.”
The raccoon blinked, then followed Wesley's gaze to the knife in his hand. He dropped it. “Oh, no, not like that! It's a wood carving knife. I use it to threaten vermin and such, but it's not a weapon, it's a tool. What I mean to say is that I'd like to carve your likeness. You have a peculiar quality about you-”
“Thanks.”
The raccoon stopped.
“When I say peculiar,” he said, measuring his words, “I don't mean bad. I mean, simply... different. Complicated. Worthy of note. You stand out, you, you, you have something about you that draws the eye. It'd be a challenge to capture that in wood.”
Wesley turned around. “You're a strange creature.”
“As are you,” the raccoon replied. “You ask me, I think it was meant to be.”
The coywolf blinked, staring at the raccoon, unsure. There came an annoying bite, and he spun around to the tick. Wesley bit at it, but only succeeded in rending his own skin.
“Gods! Blasted bloody worthless bag of-”
The raccoon made his way to Wesley's side and, without invitation, yanked the tick from his side. He gave out a yip in pain and turned back to the raccoon to yell at him. But he held out the tick in his hand, its back distended such that its tiny legs were stuck up in the air, wriggling for purchase.
“You,” he said to the tick. He glanced up at the raccoon. With a roll of his eyes, he nudged the insect onto the dirt with his nose. It fell with a plop, struggling on the ground for a moment before finding its legs and waddling out into the prairie.
The two watched it go, silent.
“Thank you,” Wesley said. He wanted to say more, but nothing came.
The raccoon faced him. “My name is Everest,” he said. “I'd like you to stay with us for a while.”
“I don't know,” Wesley said. “That eye creeps me out.”
Everest slumped. “I'm working on it,” he said in a long suffering voice.
Wesley laughed. “Ah, there, we aren't so different after all.”
They made their way to the round peg, Everest picking up his knife and rounding up the dogs, and they walked down the hill. Wesley felt strangely at home in this company, and more than welcomed the possibility of a decent meal.
They disappeared into the depths of the den at the round peg, and the scarred wolf watched from the distance, plotting his revenge.