Coyote trotted off the boat and onto the green shores of Ireland. He was far from home, but a trickster is a citizen of everywhere. He saw the lush hills, the ancient stones, and he thought, I could own this.
He climbed the Hill of Uisneach. Standing there was a woman with hair like red wheat and a cloak the color of peat moss. Ériu. The Sovereignty.
"Nice rock," Coyote yipped, adjusting his bandana. "I think I'll call it... Coyote's Rock."
Tale-Weaving Howl.
He began to spin a story, a lie so convincing it could rewrite reality. He tried to convince the grass that he had always been the king here.
The Land Listens
Ériu looked at the scruffy dog. She didn't look angry; she looked amused.
"You speak well," she said. "But the land does not speak your language."
She placed a hand on the earth. Land-Binding Sovereignty.
Coyote felt the ground shift. It wasn't an earthquake; it was a rejection. The grass he stood on suddenly felt very slippery. The wind changed direction, blowing directly into his nose, smelling of rain and judgment.
"I'm just saying," Coyote backpedaled, "a little rebranding never hurt anyone."
He took a step, but he couldn't. The briars had wrapped around his ankles. The mud had sucked tight around his paws. The very hills seemed to be leaning in, frowning.
"This island has a name," Ériu whispered. "And it is not yours."
A sudden gust of wind—a gale from the Atlantic—picked Coyote up and tossed him toward the sea. He tumbled, yelping, rolling down the emerald slope until he splashed into the cold ocean.
"Chilly!" Coyote sputtered, paddling frantically for a boat back to America. "This place has no sense of humor!"