Prologue

Coyote and I travel along the Klamath River to an ancient Indian village. Though this village hasn't been lived in since the 1870s, in the old days it was a busy crossroads of native people and culture. I visit this place because a few of my ancestors lived here. Coyote tags along because he likes the name of the village: Coyote's Paw.

We walk along the old Indian trail that once ran from the beginning of the river at Upper Klamath Lake, hundreds of miles downriver through Klamath and Shasta villages, Karuk and Yurok villages, all the way to Requa where the river flows into the Pacific Ocean.

Coyote and I walk across the top of a small hill in the center of the village. There are many circular depressions covering that hill. Each depression is where a winter house once stood where the people lived.

We circle a ring of stones, the original dance ring at the eastern edge of the village. During the good-weather months, the people danced their sacred dances here. In the 1870s, they danced the ghost dance. Nearby are dozens of cairns, each cairn a family grave of people who called this village home.

On the rim of the canyon that overlooks the Klamath River, Coyote and I walk into another depression. I notice a circle of rocks in the center. This is the original fire ring of the Community House. People gathered in this large lodge during the long winter nights to dance, play games, tell stories. These were dreamy nights in the depths of the woods, mythtime along the river when Animal People and Human People understood each other. This was our traditional season of stories.

I glance at Coyote and explain to him, "I am honored to be one storyteller in a long line of tellers who have kept our stories alive."

"Ah," says Coyote. "I see how this works. It takes thousands of storytellers puffing out words to make just one of your stories stick in your human brain. But me, I'm the original Coyote, the shining star of all the stories. You storytellers come and go but we mythic heroes live forever!"

"Right," I say. I ignore my friend for a few moments. Coyote gets bored and goes walking along the trail, looking for something to do.

I sit for a spell next to the old fire ring. I listen to the crashing of the river in the canyon. I listen to the wind in the oak trees. In these sounds which have not changed for thousands of years, I hear the words of stories as they have been told here for a long, long time.

I remember the words. I add a few about the more recent adventures Coyote and I have shared. As I saunter through the seasons, I carry the stories with me. Where folks gather to listen, Coyote and I join them, and I pass the stories along.