The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,89
drawn down. Jem thought what he always thought: what it would be like to feel so much, to feel so sincerely, without all the layers, without irony, without trying to wad it up to block the mouse holes in your brain? What would it be like to just be able to feel it and show it and then be done with it?
He was so caught up in the thoughts that he didn’t stop until Tean caught his arm.
Jem didn’t know why they had stopped, and he opened his mouth, but Tean gave a tight shake of his head. Then the doc’s eyes cut up, and Jem followed his line of sight. On a hill almost directly in front of them, a gray dog was stretching. But it wasn’t a dog, Jem realized. It was a coyote. The old panic was there, building inside Jem at the thought of getting too close to those teeth. He thought of Antony because he always thought of Antony around dogs.
But there was more to the moment than just the panic. The mountain breeze carried the smell of day-warm stone, and the sun hung at the right angle to pick out the tufts and contours of the coyote’s fur, lighting it up like it was on stage. Then the coyote finished its stretch, and it trotted down the side of the hill, gathering itself at the bottom to bound forward, and Jem had the wild thought that it was enjoying itself, having fun, jumping the way kids jump just to feel their muscles do something different. The coyote stopped at a puddle, lapped water, and then splashed forward. Its head swiveled. Its yellow eyes passed over Jem. And then the coyote’s gaze came back, and the two of them were staring at each other.
Jem didn’t have words for the experience. Part of it was being eye to eye with another living creature, with all its unknowableness, all its difference. Part of it was the opposite: feeling himself alive, electrified, and connected to this thing because they were both alive, because they had both run and swum and jumped, because to be alive was to share in the same vital force. Part of it was the frozen moment itself: the motes of dust in the air, the coyote’s lean muscle under gray fur, the rippled water in the puddle, Jem’s skin prickling and drawn tight, the coiled energy in his chest. It was a fire without any heat, turning him into light as it burned through him. Then the coyote looked forward again, and it loped off into the gathering shadows.
Jem was trembling. “Holy God,” he said. “Did you feel that?”
When he looked over, Tean was smiling.
“Did you feel that?” Jem repeated, louder than he meant. He grabbed Tean in a one-armed hug, laughing, unable to stop his own shaking. “Jesus Christ, have you ever felt anything like that?”
“Once or twice,” Tean said, still with that small smile.
Jem ran his hand through Tean’s hair, squeezed his neck, pulled him into another one-armed hug. “Jesus fucking Christ, if I live a hundred years, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that again. I can’t even—I don’t even know—I mean, what was that?”
Tean shrugged. Then his smile got a little bigger. “What were you saying about cities?”
Just for that, Jem dragged him into another bear hug and swung him around for a while.
Laughing, Tean straightened his clothes when Jem finally released him. “We’re not done yet. We haven’t found anything, and we’ve got to be careful now that we know we’re near a pack.”
“Get your coyote spray ready.”
“It’s not—” Tean sighed. “Never mind.”
They began a spiral search, moving out from where they stood, calling out loudly and shaking the bells. Tean was the one who found it. He called Jem over, pointed to the dark splashes marking the disturbed earth.
“I didn’t bring a shovel,” Jem said. “Why didn’t I bring a shovel? I guess I’ll find a stick.”
Tean had already dropped his daypack to the ground and was pawing through it. He pulled out a small orange aluminum trowel and handed it to Jem.
“You always carry a mini shovel with you?” Jem said.
“Well, normally that’s for digging latrines when I’m backpacking.”
Jem held it back toward him with two fingers.
“What?” Tean said.
“I don’t want your poop shovel.”
“It’s not like I, you know, did my business on it.”
“Don’t want it. Won’t hold it. You’d better take it or I’m going to drop it.”