Coyote Man

By Michael Wolfgang Weaver

Some heroes seek a journey, and others have a journey thrust upon them. Our Hero is at the lowest point in his life, homeless and hitchhiking, stranded at the threshold of Taos Gorge in northern New Mexico. When he's picked up by an enigmatic, possibly insane Mountain Man who calls himself Bonneville, he is thrust unceremoniously into his very own vision quest. Unable to leave the canyon, and pursued by a ghostly bounty hunter he calls Coyote Man, Our Hero must confront his beliefs, fears and delusions if he's to free himself from the gorge, escape the clutches of the apparition, and learn the secret of life itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Wolfgang Weaver
• Release date: May 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310250880

Book preview

PRAISE FOR COYOTE MAN

I share with my friend Michael Wolfgang Weaver an abiding love of mythic story telling and spiritual striving. With Coyote Man the classic hero's journey grinds gears with the gritty reality of 21st Century America in a 1969 Winnebago. The result is a primer on transcending the fear and self-inflicted wounds that needlessly shackle us. Through the struggle for transformation of a haunted, stranded hitchhiker in Northern New Mexico, Weaver inspires us to ask ourselves: What are you waiting for? Part Carlos Castaneda, part Robert Bloch, one reads the last page of Coyote Man and feels braver and bolder for having done so.

– Mark Ordesky, Producer of the Lord of the Rings trilogy

Coyote Man

by

Michael Wolfgang Weaver

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Michael Wolfgang Weaver

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DEDICATION

To my beautiful and brilliant wife, Serge – the divine compass no explorer should be without.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

1 Saint Christopher

2 Saint Michael

3 Saint Ferdinand

4 Saint Lorenzo

5 Saint Agatha

6 Saint Isidore

7 Saint Mary

8 Saint Francis

About the Author

Connect with MWW

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to:

Joseph Campbell

Deepak Chopra

Eckhart Tolle

for their investigations

and inspiration

1

Saint Christopher

I emerged from the rust-ridden Ford pickup into the January dusk of northern New Mexico. My jovial young driver, Miguel, gave me a half-wave and a Happy Trails as I swung his door shut. He wheeled his old bucket into a near U-turn, crossing the highway and disappearing down a dirt track that led to the village of Velarde. I couldn't see the village from where I stood, but I had seen it, for the first time in my life, as Miguel and I had swung in from the south. Highway 68 came in along the valley rim there, offering a view for a mile or two. A view seemingly back into time: a farming community in winter, peaceful and quaint, its orchards laid out in patches, like a quilt. Then the road made an abrupt, westerly curve and descended into the valley, snaking toward the mouth of Taos Gorge. The Rio Grande issued from that canyon, free of the walls after some 60 miles, and along with the wintry wind, headed south, flowing past Velarde’s orchards.

Icy waters.

Ghostly wind.

Trees dormant and bare.

And I, too, was dormant and bare. In that time and place, that's how I felt. I was leaving yet another failed life behind in Albuquerque. Another job I wouldn't miss. Another girlfriend who wouldn't miss me. In fact, standing there in the frigid silence, I couldn't remember the last time something had worked out for me. Unless I counted Miguel. He had spotted me moping around the grocery store parking lot in Santa Fe and offered a ride. You could call that lucky. Something working out. At that moment, though, I had a hard time counting him in, because it seemed he might just have driven me further into the heart of misery.

From the outside, it seemed like things could hardly get any worse. But I could imagine. I could imagine Miguel not being the perfect angel he pretended to be. I could imagine starving to death, freezing to death. And it wasn't really the death that frightened me; it was the slow, painful dying beforehand. Though, to be truthful, the fear of the pain was really just distraction from the genuine horror: the inevitable plummet into the abyss.

Of course, I could also imagine things looking up, going well. I could imagine life as perfect. Imagine myself making the exact right decision at the exact right time. But why waste the brain power? Why set myself up for disappointment? Dwelling on the wretchedness somehow seemed more realistic. Smarter. And was I not the very picture of intellect standing there on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere with all that I owned crammed into a single duffel bag? Smarter...

I hefted said duffel bag and shuffled across the ruined asphalt toward a tiny convenience store. It had two old gas pumps out front, and what looked to be new decking in front of the entrance. The store itself looked like it might have been built before gas pumps were invented; though it's many neon signs hawking beer, cigarettes and lottery tickets did lend an odd sort of cheer to the icy, graying twilight.

It was cramped inside, with humming fluorescents set in the low-slung ceiling. I navigated to the coffee station, holding my bloated bag in front of me down the narrow aisle, trying not to knock items off their shelves. To my surprise, the coffee seemed new. Then I got to the counter with it and noticed the young woman there had her own large cup. As well as a large snake tattoo up her arm.

You must like the coffee here, I said.

Naw, it's terrible, she said. Just need to stay perky for another hour, then it's the weekend.

She gave me a genuine smile as she rang me up, though I could tell she couldn't wait to be free of the place.

You're not headed north, are ya? I said.

Naw, she said. I'm headed for Española. And I ain't comin' back till Monday mornin'.

Ah, I said, disappointed; though, really, it would have been quite the stroke of luck to catch a ride so easily. I hauled my bag toward