Red Coyote Owl

Red Coyote Owl piled the last teepee beam on the stack. Winter was coming and the tribe was preparing for southward motion. It was a good land. The tribe had dwelt there for eight seasons. The fresh water flowed and the crops and game were abundant. There had only been a few contentions within the tribe and one battle without. Standing in the horizon were the mountains that Red Coyote Owl had become a Warrior after his lone walk.

For some reason, he knew in his heart that he would never see this land again. A tear smeared the pigment from his face. Red Coyote Owl went to his father, the tribes’ medicine man, “Father,” he said solemnly, “I want to stay; this place is sacred.”

Quiet Lifting Feather felt his son’s, troubled heart. “My son, the significance of this cherished place is only in your memory. Truth is not in the river, trees, or stones in themselves but in their lessons. If you stay, the meaning may fade, for the tribe is moving. The memory is like a river, it’s lives because it’s moving.”

A long stretch of silence spoke strongly to them both. “Here’s a clear stone my son,” Quiet Lifting Feather said reflectively, “Put it into your medicine pouch; keep it in your heart. Look through this stone as a lens. The trees may fall and the river may run dry, but the truth that moves you in your heart will return perfectly as you look through this stone. These trees and valleys may not come back, but if you search, the truth of their lessons will. The best medicines in your pouch are not the roots and plants but in the good memory stones.”

Red Coyote Owl placed the stone in his medicine pouch and carried it with gladness. Even though his moccasins never stepped foot there again, he returned many times.