FOX, A Hero's Journey. Book 2 The Road: part two.
Michael Gray Griffith
Fox is being hunted by the parks most dangerous predator. . . Another male Fox, against which he has no defense.
Simultaneously, we humans have released the virus that threatens to kill them them all.
Chapter
In the den under the rock, Fox slept. He was not alone. When he woke inside the dream, he found the Spirit Vixen waiting. She looked older than before, as though, with little time to rest, she’d been traveling a long, long time. She was not alone. Her pack was here too. They were sulking through the dream’s fog, their disconsolate eyes studying him or swinging back to check the greater distance.
But Fox didn’t care about them. As though she were his grandmother, he ran to her, burying his face in the nape of her neck.
For a while, she let him be, sitting back as he curled up against her. But all the while, with her tired eyes, she watched the others as they tried to hold on to and control their concerns.
Ready, she brought her snout down to Fox’s ear and whispered:
“We need you to leave the park and go somewhere.”
Fox opened his eyes and found her waiting.
“Where?” he asked, his tail wagging.
She paused, then with a grave face said, “To the other side of the world.”
“What?” Fox said, his tail slowing to a stop.
She didn’t reply. He took this to mean he’d heard correctly, and as the others ceased peering into the distance and fixed their complete attention on him, he lifted from her and moved away.
“There’s a sickness coming,” she began. “A sickness that will, if you stay here, kill you. And not just you—it will kill every living fox. And once you’re all dead, well… then we’ll all be lost. But you,” she said, suddenly flushed with excitement, “you who were so small, you have the best chance of saving us all.”
“Saving us from what?” Fox asked, his tail moving between his legs.
“From what?” she growled. “What do you mean, from what? This!”
Fox looked around. He found all the others still watching him, their troubled eyes drilling into him.
“What?” he asked again.
Leaning back, she wrapped her tail around her legs and studied him as though she had just found a different side to his face.
“From death,” she said, now calmer. “We need you to save us from death.”
“But you are dead,” he replied.
The whisper rushed around him, its communal confusion turning his head to all their faces.
“No,” she said. “We’re not. To be dead is to return to the Womb of the World—to be melted back, mercifully, into its light. This… this is a ghost of an existence: a half-death that, if you don’t save us from it, then when you die, you will find yourself suffering too. And once you are all dead, that’s it. We’ll all be trapped… trapped and lost forever.”
Fox took his time replying.
“I don’t understand,” he began. “If you want to return to the Womb of the World, why don’t you just follow the Spirit Trail?”
This second combined gasp sounded like a gust of wind racing through the trees.
“He doesn’t know?!” one of them snapped.
“How could he not know?!” snarled another.
“She didn’t tell him! His mother didn’t tell him!”
“Shut up!” the Spirit Vixen barked, then brought all her contained fury around to Fox.
“We can’t follow it back because the trail is broken. It’s been broken since we came here. And,” she growled, “unless it’s fixed, we will never leave!”
“Broken,” Fox said, his tail now firmly between his legs. “How did it break?”
“We don’t know how!” she replied. “We just know who.”
“Who?” Fox asked.
“Humans!” she growled. “The humans broke it, just like they break everything else.” Then she approached him. “But your mother didn’t tell you this?”
After a pause, he shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said. “How could humans break our trail?”
“How?!” she growled. “How would we know? Maybe it was because they brought us to a land that doesn’t want us. Maybe it’s because destroying things is what they do? Maybe it’s because they hate us and always have? But that doesn’t matter! The question here isn’t how, why, or when—it’s will you help us fix it?!”
Fox took so long to reply that in the end, she couldn’t wait.
“Leave the park,” she began. “Leave the park, travel to the city, find the right ship, hide on it, and remain hidden until you are home. You reaching home will fix the trail.”
Fox stared at her as though she were speaking a different language.
“What’s a ship?” he asked.
“That doesn’t matter now either. When you see one, you’ll learn. The only thing that matters now is whether you’ll go!”
To Fox, life was simple. The idea of leaving a good food supply to escape the reaches of a sickness he had seen no evidence of, and in escaping, traveling to some vague destination to help the dead die, sounded more than ridiculous—it sounded insane.
“He’s going to say no,” one of them said.
“No, you aren’t. Are you?” the Spirit Vixen said.
Fox stood up, moved back from them all, and said, “I want to wake up now.”
“No. No one is waking up,” she growled.
Fox waited a moment longer, then, eyes on them all, took another step back. “I am,” he said.
There came a snarl. Swinging to his side, he yelped as one of the pack, its ghostly teeth bared, rushed at him. Before he could react, it had torn through him and past. He swung around to find the others growling and the aggressive one coming back. It ran through him again, snarling as it did, and yet, despite its rage, Fox realized he was unaffected.
Turning back to the Spirit Vixen, he said, “You can’t touch me.”
As the Spirit Vixen smoldered, the rest fell quiet.
“And if you can’t touch me,” he said, “then you can’t force me to do anything… can you?”
She didn’t move. None of them did.
“I’m waking up now,” he said, and with his tail rising, he took them all in one more time.
“Wait,” she said. “If we can’t convince you, maybe there’s someone else who can.” And to this, she motioned to someone waiting behind him.
He turned around and almost fell down. No bigger than he had been when he’d growled into the Ranger’s hand, Dint was waiting, his eyes full of scorn.
“You need to see something,” Dint mumbled.
Before Fox could reach him, Dint had turned and was speeding away.
Fox turned back to the others. All of them were watching him. He turned back to his leaving brother and gave chase.
“Dint!” he cried. “Dint!”
Together, but separate, they sped through the dream’s fog. Behind them, the pack vanished into the grey.
Finally, Dint stopped.
When Fox reached him, he was desperate to smell his brother’s fur, to feel his warmth, to wrestle with him. He couldn’t. Dint was made of nothing but light. And he was so small, especially compared to how big Fox had grown. To Fox’s eyes, he was far too small to take on the darkness of death. Fox wanted to curl up around him—become his living, protecting wall.
“Look,” Dint said.
Before them, an impossible sight replaced the dream’s fog. Fox knew other foxes had existed before him, but he had never envisioned in what numbers. Here and now, though, millions of foxes, their once-proud heads down, were all laboring in one anticlockwise direction, creating and stirring with their communal movement a galaxy of foxes—a radiantly brilliant soup of light. Some of the foxes were barely visible, while others were as clearly defined as himself and Dint.
“Who are they?” Fox asked.
“They’re the ones who have given up,” Dint replied, as the soup made his face glow brighter.
Staggered, Fox watched them all as their numbers stretched further than he could see, and their combined light rose above them like the erect body of an illuminated snake.
“Have you given up?” he asked.
“There are two leaders here. The Spirit Vixen and the Spirit Fox. The Spirit Fox is the leader of them,” Dint said, motioning to those in the soup of light. “He and they no longer believe that the trail can be fixed by a fox making it back. Instead, he’s convinced them to join their lights, and in doing so, they believe they can hold off the dark.”
“And what do you believe?” Fox asked.
“I believe the Spirit Vixen,” Dint replied. “And she believes in you.”
Fox looked at Dint, then behind them both. The Spirit Vixen and her pack weren’t there.
“And what does Mother believe?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Dint replied. “Mother’s lost.”
“What?”
“Come on,” Dint said. “This is dangerous. We have to go.”
“No, wait! What do you mean, Mother’s lost? Tell me! I want to know!”
But it was too late. Dint was already leaving.
Fox raced to catch up, and when he finally did, Dint talked as they traveled.
“When you die, your light is brightest, but it doesn’t last. As you wait, you fade. Finally, you go out, become lost, and then all you can do is wait and hope that the trail gets fixed.”
“But you’re not lost?” Fox said.
Dint stopped. Fox stopped.
“Mother didn’t go out,” Dint said. “If you want to survive, you have to steal another spirit’s light. It takes a pack to do this. They hunt you down, catch you, and steal your light. Then they share your light between themselves.”
“Mother was hunted down? By who?”
“By who doesn’t matter,” the Spirit Vixen said.
Fox swung around to find her and her pack.
“All that matters,” she said, “is that she’s lost, and the only one who can save her now is you.”
Fox paused and went cold.
“Save us,” she said, “and you’ll save her.”
Fox took her in, then her waiting pack, and then his smoldering brother. Finally, he came back to her:
“But why do you think I can do it?” he asked.
“I don’t think you can,” she replied, and this threw him. “Alone, you’re just a fox. But with the bird…”
“Crow!”
She nodded. “None of us have ever heard of such a union. The two of you can even speak to each other. And for this to happen now, just when we are about to disappear, well, we believe life itself is offering us a chance. Has given us him.”
Fox didn’t say anything, and she nodded to show she accepted this as his answer. A smile emerged on her face—a strange, sad, secret-packed smile that remained even after Dint had lifted his face, found Fox, and said:
“Just do it.”
A bullet could not have sunk deeper than Dint’s tone.
“Whatever you do,” she said as they all began to fade, “do not lose contact with the bird.”
Chapter
Some of the dead foxes, through running, had ripped up all their pads. Others had torn or even broken their snouts as they’d crashed into rocks and trees. Several were found washed up on the beach, where it was assumed they’d tried to swim for the mainland or perhaps used the water to quench the flames.
Several abandoned litters were found. Some of the cubs were discovered inside the dens, each covered in ants, while others were found further away—their final location dependent on how far the sickness had driven them.
The virus’s field test was an unmitigated success. Striding after the field technicians, the media were allowed to video and photograph whatever corpses they came across. They also took footage of the penned-up carriers, their red satellite tracking collars rubbing into their necks.
The story became wildfire.
All around Australia, foxes were being trapped in order to be injected with the carrier strain of the virus.
Councils, both city and rural, were being encouraged to set up CCDs: Corpse Collection Departments. Officers were sent to the city, where they were both trained in the use of and issued the appropriate protective equipment. Many of these new departments acquired their own vehicles—white vans with the picture of a fox’s head on the side.
Chapter
Crow lifted, alone, into the morning air. With a weary effort, he flew above the trees, following the slow snake of the road. He had not told Fox about these “Eyes in his Head.” No doubt it was obvious, though, especially seeing how lately he had developed the habit of beating his head against branches in an attempt to dislodge the discomfort the eyes brought. This banging had removed feathers, so now the sides of his head had developed bald patches.
Crow cawed to the ache. From somewhere below, a murder of crows returned his call. He circled, gliding through a slow revolution as he tried to locate them. It had been longer than he could be bothered to recall since he’d spoken to others of his kind. He had often heard murders calling to each other, but these calls were to him. A caw rose and lingered in his throat—a simple hello that, as he went to utter it, he found he could not because the “Eyes in his Head” had begun searing into his brain. It was all he could do to stay in the air.
Again, they offered him their voices, but breaking from his circle, he returned to following the road.
As it did every day at this time, the pain grew worse. Soon, it would be unbearable. Desperate to rid himself of its agony, Crow changed course for the pond.
There were no humans at the clearing, and without checking for other dangers, he landed on the submerged top step of the stone steps that descended into the water.
The shock of the cold water snapped the pain back to a more bearable level, but it did not extinguish it. Hopping out onto the bank, he stood there, too saturated to fly, and allowed the sun to dry his feathers. Dejected, he ignored the black swans and ducks who were watching him. He ignored, too, the sky that could very well deliver a hawk.
He knew that this pain did not intend to give in. It wasn’t interested in just making him uncomfortable—however it worked, this pain’s sole goal was to kill him by making it impossible for him to concentrate. And it was succeeding. As he stood here, panting, he knew that this pain wasn’t a prolonged punishment but rather the slow beginning of the end.
Chapter
Tucked inside the cells of the carrier foxes, the virus was officially released. The first release was in the eastern states, where, one after another, infected foxes were set free into all of the major national parks and sheep production areas. Over the following two weeks, other foxes were released into the cities and substantial country towns. As far as possible, the exact locations were kept secret.
Out of man’s reach, the carrier foxes scraped their way over backyard fences and splashed their way across the winter creeks, celebrating their freedom as they tore over the fields and paddocks. They were desperate to be touched, and finding the trails of females, they followed them hungrily, fighting, as they did, any males that held their ground.
By the end of the first day, hundreds of foxes, all unaware, had become infected. By the end of the second day, just as the first foxes started feeling the first symptoms of the sickness, the number of infected foxes was rising toward a thousand.
The Ranger leaned against his ute. The dog was back at home, for even though he’d been told there was absolutely no chance of the virus mutating—of crossing the species barrier—he was not convinced. Before him, a technician was placing the cage on the floor. Because of the size and lack of importance of the park, he had been given only one infected fox. Inside the cage, it was being driven wild by the smell of the bush.
“Want to give him a name?” the technician asked, his hand on the cage’s latch.
Smirking, the Ranger shook his head.
Chapter
The storm formed far out on the ocean. Churning its way to land, it ravaged the city—uprooting trees and ripping off roofs. Then, when it had tired with man, it moved inland, thundering over the hills and the farms until it found and crashed into the park.
Last winter, Crow had found a branch in an old tuart that offered him some protection from the elements. Perched here now, he was cold and in pain. This was the first storm with the “Eyes in his Head.” In the pauses between, when he repeatedly beat his skull against the bark, he listened, exhausted, to the forest pruning its dead and dying trees with the tool of the wind’s strength. Around him, he could hear trees and branches crashing to the ground. Their toppling bulks shuddered the forest, which every few minutes found itself shock-lit by lightning.
Crow had not seen Fox for a couple of days. He had begun wondering if Fox had realized he was sick and, so realizing he was of no use, abandoned him. So convinced was he of this that he did not expect to see Fox below this tree. But he was there. Saturated and barely visible, Fox was squinting as he looked up.
“Bird!” he called.
Hiding his delight in seeing Fox, Crow dropped to a branch closer to the ground and asked, “What?”
“You’ve got to follow me,” Fox yelled, shaking the rain from his head.
“Why?”
“Just do it,” Fox replied and turned to leave.
“Food?” Crow cawed above the fury.
Fox turned and shook his head.
“Then get stuffed!” Crow cawed. “Why the hell would I fly through this for anything other than food?”
“It’s to help you,” Fox yapped.
“Help me? Help me with what?”
“With those ‘Eyes in your Head’!”
Dumbfounded, Crow stared down at Fox.
“Follow me,” Fox yelled, then turned again and headed off for the den below the rock.
Chapter
When Crow landed on the rain-battered rock, the trees surrounding it were swaying in the wind as though they were being tortured, and the wind, as if enjoying it, was howling.
Crow raised his head to the rain and let its freezing drops soothe the “Eyes’” pain.
“Bird!” Fox called.
“What?”
“You have to try to sleep.”
It’s pouring with rain, and he wants me to sleep, Crow thought, and laughing to himself, raised his beak to the rain.
“How did you know about my pains?” Crow cawed, but before he could hear a reply, an unnatural sleep rose from below him. As it surged up through his claws, he tensed to its power. Panicking, he tried to fly away. But he wasn’t going anywhere. The sleep had him as securely as if he were glued to the rock.
Everything became and remained black. Alone, Crow felt himself descending. As he floated down, the black became a grey fog. In it, he was able to see the black feathers of his dream-self and then, past this, he could see Fox.
Black eyes ready for anything, Crow took in all that was appearing. And things were appearing. Beyond Fox, shadows were moving—fox shadows, who, unfettered by flesh, were slipping past each other. As they came into view, he found all their eyes were focused on him.
Crow knew spirits existed, but he had never had anything to do with them. Rarely did he dream, and when he did, it was always images of food or, if not food, warmth.
There was no warmth here.
Then, next to Fox, the oldest vixen he had ever seen appeared. Partially transparent, she too had eyes only for him.
Crow puffed out his feathers, yet could see immediately that she did not see this as a show of strength but rather found it comical.
Then she spoke. He listened but did not understand.
“How is your head?” Fox translated.
“Who the hell is she?” he cawed.
Fox lowered his head.
“Well?” Crow went.
Without warning, the “Eyes in Crow’s Head” exploded. He collapsed, cawing to the torture. It felt like a thousand worms, each with needles for teeth, were chewing through his brain. It was so intense, the pain traveled back through his dream-self to his true body, which, all but paralyzed, shivered on the rock. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain stopped.
“How is your head?” the Spirit Vixen asked, and after an awkward pause, Fox reluctantly translated.
Picking himself up, Crow glared at Fox before bringing his fuming eyes to her.
“We can take that pain away,” the Spirit Vixen said in a gentler tone.
Crow remained silent. He had never been in a trap, but he knew, as Fox translated, that this was one.
Stuck, he listened.
“But first,” she began, “we need your language and some of your time. Give us these, and we’ll give you back your head.”
As Crow listened to the translation, everything changed. To him, the word “need” shifted the entire balance of power. Head back, he cawed, “Why should a load of dead foxes need me?”
As Crow listened, the Spirit Vixen told him of their broken Spirit Trail and of their belief in a ship and the journey.
“Why me?” Crow stopped her. “I wouldn’t know one ship from another. What crow would?”
“A crow wouldn’t. A seabird might.”
“Then talk to a bloody seagull!”
As soon as Fox translated this, her eyes narrowed, and the “Eyes in his Head” exploded. In agony, he collapsed again. Convulsed before them, uncontrollably, until once again, it suddenly stopped.
“How is she doing that?” Crow asked Fox breathlessly.
“Help us or die,” the Spirit Vixen said.
“But how do I know you can get rid of them?” he cawed.
“Help us or die,” she replied.
Crow made his decision instantly. “Stuff you! Stuff you all!”
Immediately, the “Eyes in his Head,” for the third time, increased their pain. It was so intense now that Crow was sure his skull would burst.
Outside, in the physical world, his body shuddered. The pain went on, pushing him toward the limits of his endurance, then past. Pathetically, he began cawing like an abandoned chick in a nest. He cawed for help. He cawed for mercy. He cawed for death.
Gradually, though, the pain receded, then kept receding until it was gone.
Shivering, he opened his dream eyes and found a small cub standing near him—a cub that looked like Fox. Behind the cub, the Spirit Vixen was waiting.
“You leave tomorrow,” she said.
And as soon as Fox had translated this, they were gone.
As Crow lay in the dream, shuddering to the jolts of the eyes in his head, he looked over at Fox and glared.
“Why?” he cawed, and his caw was weak.
“To save my mother,” Fox replied and was clearly embarrassed.
Grimacing, Crow turned away, and this movement rolled him back into his body.
On his back, he lay on the rock as the rain poured and the lightning forked.
Chapter
Article: Sydney Morning Herald
FIRST RABBITS, NOW FOXES
The CSIRO is celebrating the apparent success of its NFE: National Fox Eradication programme, which has been working towards creating a genetically modified virus aimed specifically at the feral foxes of Australia. The virus is called FCV, or the “Fox Calicivirus.”
Despite being early days, the figures are extraordinary. All over the country, both in regional and metropolitan areas, the newly formed FCDs (Fox Collection Departments) are working flat out to keep up with the demand.
The FCV virus, which was engineered by a team of scientists working under the guidance of Professor Sebastian Chute, appears to be on course to thoroughly decimate the feral fox population. Many are claiming the FCV could be more effective than the rabbit calicivirus, which has left great sections of the Australian mainland rabbit-free.
Today, the mayor of Newbury, Stewart Middleton, claimed that his town—a predominantly sheep-farming community in New South Wales—is well on its way to being declared fox-free. Since FCV was released there early last week, sixty fox corpses have been collected. He went on to say that over the years, his community had outlaid millions of dollars trying to keep the fox population in check. Now, though, after years of losing the battle, they believed they finally had the weapon not only to win the war but to win it cheaply.
At a press conference later in the day, Professor Chute was questioned about the initial name of the virus: VVCV. “VV” stands for Vulpes vulpes, the scientific name of the fox, and “CV” for the virus family Calicivirus.
He replied that FCV (Fox Calicivirus) was simply more user-friendly and more Australian.
“For some reason, Latin hasn’t caught on here,” he said.
He was also asked about what he was doing to allay concerns in parts of the world, like Europe, where the fox is cherished. What precautions have been put in place to stop the virus from traveling there?
He replied that the only way FCV could travel overseas was if someone, who knew what they were doing, deliberately cultured FCV over there and released it. This was the beauty of the Australian continent being an island.
He went on to say that the fox was Australia’s number one feral predator, and by controlling it—or even possibly eradicating it—Australia would not only save millions in livestock production, especially lambs, but native wildlife would also reap the rewards.
When asked whether he believed the virus could eradicate the fox completely, he replied that in the emerging science of biological control, a one hundred percent success rate was unheard of. In rabbits, in some places, RCV was over ninety-five percent successful—extraordinary figures. In other places, though, especially wetter environments, the virus had failed to remain as effective.
“Still, I certainly don’t believe a one hundred percent success rate is impossible. We are in a new era—an era where our science and technology could rectify the damage our previous science and technology, and our greed and ignorance, did,” he said.
The press conference was interrupted by a lone protester declaring that the virus would mutate and infect humans.
Professor Chute answered by explaining that exhaustive human tests with the virus had been completed and verified. Not only had none of the humans tested become infected, but not one of them had even developed antibodies.
“A sure sign,” he said.
Chapter
Fox woke to the sound of a large animal running. Rushing to the den’s entrance, he listened to the fox tearing through the undergrowth. It ran as though it was being chased, its breath a snort of foam and pain.
Looking up, Fox found Crow. Somber in his wings, the bird was waiting.
Whether the bird was still in pain, thanks to the “Eyes in his Head,” or whether the pain had been temporarily relieved was a mystery. The only thing readable in the bird’s face was anger.
“Don’t glare at me,” Fox said. “They trapped me too.”
“Yeah, right,” cawed Crow. “Your mother? Well, I’ve got news for you. She’s dead, mate. I should know—I was there.”
Fox said nothing.
“You should have died too,” Crow cawed. “Remember that.”
“Which way?” Fox growled.
Crow didn’t move. Neither did Fox.
Finally, Crow looked away, then, in his own time, lifted into the air and flew off through the trees.
A few moments later, from somewhere out of view, Fox heard him caw.
Looking back at his birth den, Fox remembered the morning he left. Turning back to where the caw had come from, he found his head populated with the image of his missing mother’s face.
Crow cawed again.
With a heavy heart, Fox rose and set off.
Chapter
The Dog-Fox growled. He didn’t like spirits. All his life, he’d had nothing to do with spirits, yet here they were, surrounding him.
From the illuminated pack, the Spirit Fox separated himself.
The Dog-Fox growled.
The Spirit Fox seemed pleased with this.
“Hungry?” he asked, his own jaws glowing despite the early morning light.
Puzzled, the Dog-Fox stopped growling.
“Then follow us,” the Spirit Fox said.
Chapter
They moved fluidly. Crow flew ahead every time he saw Fox approaching, and then, once perched, he cawed.
As he trotted along, Fox found his head filling with questions. Was there another way to find Mother? Could he trust the spirits? Was that running fox the first evidence of the sickness? The questions were so consuming he almost missed it.
Crow cawed.
Fox stopped.
The birds, the wind, and the insects spoke as though nothing was wrong. Crow cawed again, his tone annoyed. It didn’t work. Rooted to the spot, Fox was yet to move. Eyes wide, he scrutinized the view behind him as he sniffed the air. But he was upwind, so if something were behind him, he wouldn’t be able to smell it.
Crow cawed again: short and curt. Obediently, Fox turned back and moved on.
Stone still, the Dog-Fox evaluated. The fox before him was less than half his size. If he could get close enough, he could easily outrun him. And then, once caught, it would be even easier to overpower him. The only chance the little fox had was distance. The ground below was dry leaves. He would have to tread softly, slowly—spread his weight to minimize their cracking. But the young fox was moving fast, chasing that crow just as the spirits had said he would be doing. This was odd. But he didn’t care. All he cared about was matching his stride to the young fox’s.
If the wind held… perhaps?
And why should he fix the trails? Fox thought. He’d been left for dead. He was here because of the bird, not them. And what of the sickness? So one fox had it—what did that mean? He’d never been sick. He’d just been hungry, and he had survived hunger. He had survived everything.
Crow cawed.
Every new caw sounded more annoyed than the last. Fox crossed a human path, smelled their steps, and wanted to stop. There was bound to be food around here somewhere. Humans always left food.
A parrot squawked.
Fox swung around, his quick eyes catching the green bird as it raced off through the branches. Then he fastened his attention to the bush below where the bird had been.
He waited. Bar the buzz of the bees as they labored from one flower to another, there was nothing much else to hear and nothing dangerous to smell. Yet, despite no proof, every hair along his spine, from the crux of his tail to his head, had risen.
Crow cawed.
Fox ignored him.
Fox’s keen eyes picked out a praying mantis, nodding as it waited for prey. He heard a magpie warbling in the distance and he heard his heart—his heart that knew something was there. His heart that disregarded all his other senses and told his head to wait.
Crow cawed.
Fox remained still.
Silence.
More silence.
Crow cawed again.
The Dog-Fox thought: If the young fox panicked, that would give him a few meters, but if the young fox froze—which many animals did—then the young fox was his. Then, as he watched the fox look for him, he suddenly realized he recognized his scent. Glaring down at his paw, he found the place where his missing claw had been—the one he’d ripped out while trying to dig his way to this fox. His jaw clenched. His eyes came back. Glaring through the scrub, he found the young fox and charged.
Crow cawed, but his voice was like a memory, for Fox, stunned by shock, was staring in disbelief at the Dog-Fox bounding through the scrub.
“Move!” something in him yelled. He could not. He just stared, transfixed by the Dog-Fox’s eyes, which were fixed on his.
“MOVE!” an inner voice roared, and this time he obeyed. With fear fueling his muscles, snout down and forward, he tore past trees and plunged through the scrub. But he knew, even before he’d turned, that he’d left his run too late.
The Dog-Fox’s claws found his rump. Fox’s hind legs collapsed. He crashed into the dirt. The Dog-Fox was all over him, his jaws clamping around the back of his neck.
Fox twisted to escape, growled, scratched, and bit at the air, but nothing could shift the Dog-Fox’s jaws. Before he knew it, Fox was rolled over onto his side and felt the jaws clamping down on his throat. His breath was turned off. Desperately, he tried to inhale as every limb tore at the earth or scratched the Dog-Fox. He was after leverage, after hope, but despite all his struggles, Fox felt death approach. Dark, hungry, and well-used to its duties, it rushed toward him.
Fox panicked. Clawed, twisted, kicked, and pushed until, with his lungs screaming for a breath, he saw the spirits. At first, he tried to call to them, but then he realized it was the other pack—the larger, brighter pack—and in front of them all, the Spirit Fox sat.
The Spirit Fox looked satisfied. Fox didn’t understand and had run out of time to learn. With no other means of escape, he gave up trying and retreated to the last place of safety he knew: sleep.
In the Dog-Fox’s jaws, Fox, as though a switch had been flicked off, went limp. His tongue slipped out and dangled from his jaws.
Crow reached the battle now. Landing in the trees above, he sat, stunned, and wrapped his wings around himself. As he watched, he saw Fox’s tongue slip from his jaws and his body go limp.
The Dog-Fox held on, then, giving Fox another vigorous shake, he finally released his grip and sniffed his kill.
The Spirit Fox looked up at Crow. Stared at him as though a crow was something he had never seen before. The Dog-Fox, noticing, did the same. Crow couldn’t see the spirits, but as he watched, the Dog-Fox bared his teeth and growled. A new pain came—deep-rooted, it took over everything and left him hollow. Nothing made sense. Nothing.
In his sleep, Fox felt death approach. There were no spirits in his sleep to help him. No comforting dreams—just a rising cold and a voice screaming at him to fight. It was a voice that he recognized… It was his own.
The Dog-Fox turned back from Crow to take his first bite of flesh. Snakelike, Fox’s head sprang up and clamped his needle teeth onto anything he could.
Around the shocked Dog-Fox, the spirits jerked. Before them, the Dog-Fox was floundering backward, with Fox holding on to the side of his face.
In celebration, Crow cawed.
But it was far from over. Snarling, the Dog-Fox began scratching Fox’s belly—his back claws digging and tearing into Fox’s flesh. Fox swallowed the pain. He knew, as he felt himself being pulled along, that to let go was to die. Finding every part of his being that wanted to live, he rerouted this want into his jaws and bit down harder—hearing and feeling his teeth cracking bone.
To the series of small cracks, the Dog-Fox snarled and swung his head this way and that. Finally, he swung Fox against the side of a tree. The force of the collision broke Fox’s grip. Free, but dazed, Fox forced himself to lunge back at the Dog-Fox. He was desperate to reattach himself before the Dog-Fox could compose himself. The lunge was without thought—an aimless rage driven by a determination to survive. It saw him smash into the side of the Dog-Fox’s face and knock his older head up. There it was. Fox only saw it for a blurred section of a moment, but he knew what it was. It was life.
There was no snarling. No shock. The Dog-Fox was a killer—he was used to death in all its savage fortunes. Yet, for all that, he had never been held by the neck before.
From the outside, the battle appeared so fast and ferocious, so blurred by the dust each fox was throwing up, it was hard to follow who was winning. Inside, though, the fight was slow. With their separate brains slowing the action, everything was clear. The Dog-Fox was twisting frantically—his back paws tearing at Fox’s belly and his front paws ripping the sides of Fox’s face. He was reaching for and managing to tear open Fox’s gums. Fox knew this. He could feel it, and he knew, too, that he had to hold on. But there was another truth he was also becoming aware of: his jaws were neither long nor strong enough to choke this larger fox. His only chance was to wound him. A wounded fox might back off rather than risk more damage being inflicted on him. But then, suddenly, he felt his canine pierce the Dog-Fox’s flesh and knew.
With no need to hold on anymore, he let go.
Free, the two foxes backed up against separate trees, then sat there, panting, taking the other in as they evaluated their own injuries.
Both ignored the enraged Spirit Fox and the other unsettled spirits.
Both bled and smelled the other’s blood.
The Dog-Fox had been injured before. The wounds from the vixen he had fought had taken months to heal. Yet, despite this, he was stunned by the ferocity of this small fox’s attack. He could see, too, that although Fox was baring his teeth, he wasn’t frightened anymore.
“Finish him!” the Spirit Fox snarled at the Dog-Fox.
Growling, the Dog-Fox regrouped and charged, but Fox didn’t move. He knew he didn’t have to.
After two steps, the Dog-Fox collapsed.
As all the witnesses and Fox looked on, the Dog-Fox pushed himself up. Not only was he lightheaded, but a pool of dark blood lay where he had fallen. Bringing his paw to a numb area below his jaw, he found the area drenched in blood.
The shock sent him back to the tree he had just left. Soon, he was leaning against it. Puzzled, he looked up at Crow, then at the astounded spirits, before turning his attention to the snorting, bleeding, and inflamed younger fox.
Chapter
Fox, Crow, and the spirits watched the Dog-Fox die. Although soon unconscious, it took another ten minutes for the tiny nick in his artery—the one Fox’s incisor had sliced open—to cease its drain. Despite his coagulation’s best efforts, it could not stop the flow. With one last convulsion—a desperate, defiant shiver—life let him go.
Fox collapsed: his own body, shivering, let him sleep.
Grave in his black dress, Crow watched the Dog-Fox’s spirit light leave. His light emerged like a moth from a cocoon. Head first, its transparent paws pushed the rest of it free. It was a hazier, moon-colored image of its physical self. Free, it briefly studied its own corpse before lifting into the air, where, unencumbered by branches or leaves, it faded from his view as it rose in search of the missing trail.
Crow turned his attention to Fox, inspecting his wounds as Fox slept.
The Spirit Fox turned to the other waiting spirits.
“Stay here till he dies,” he said, and then he left.
The day passed. Flies rejoiced, and the night came.
Asleep, Fox dreamt, and his dreams were empty. There were no baseless voices, no eyes or light—only his own presence as he traveled through his body, inspecting what injuries he could find. There were so many cuts, and many of these were deep.
A caw from Crow woke him.
Between him and the dead fox, a feral shadow was detaching itself from the greater trees. Slender, it sauntered into the dim moonlight and sat. Raising a paw, it cleaned its face while never dropping its observance.
The spirits watched. Fox could see that they seemed pleased.
Another shadow stole everyone’s attention. The lesser shape separated like the first, then found its open piece of moonlight. Gradually, others entered. Together, they stole the clearing of the last of its silence, replacing the quietness with the subtle sounds of the dry leaves they were disturbing. Quickly, it grew crowded. Agitated, hesitant, the scavengers edged toward the corpse while constantly keeping an eye on Fox.
Back in the trees, Crow watched the predators slicing into and out of each other’s shadows—their tension bursting in low growls and hisses as they all waited for one of them to take the first bite.
Around Fox, the spirits were nodding at each other.
Then everyone turned to the first cat—a grey tortoiseshell. It was creeping on its belly toward the corpse’s rump. None of the spectators moved. Within touching distance, it sniffed, retreated, then, after tapping the fox with a paw, it came forward and took the first bite.
The horde descended—grunting and growling as they squabbled over the feast.
But there were too many of them, and those scavengers unable to find a clear portion of the dead Dog-Fox turned their attention to Fox. Fox’s dried blood was discernible despite the overpowering stench of the other one’s death.
The spirits, now sitting together like a jury, turned to Fox, their faces glad.
Fox growled at them, and his growl saw all the scavengers look his way.
He stopped growling.
The ones at the body went back to eating. The ones who were still hungry only had eyes for him.
“If I were you,” Crow cawed quietly, “I’d get up.”
Grimacing, Fox rose and found his balance. The scavengers watched his every move—their natural fear of a fox underwritten by Fox’s lack of size and obvious injuries. They were, as a rule, lone hunters, but circumstances could change your nature, especially if the prize of working as one was worth it.
Backing up, so as to keep them all in view, Fox turned at the first tree and ran.
From the trees, Crow watched them follow.
As he ran, the hunters and the spirits kept pace. They were all around him. He could smell them, hear them.
A black cat broke from the shadows. Fox growled at it, but it would not retreat. Faster than him, it bounded through the dark, its eyes waiting.
And then Fox saw it. Past the spirits, past the shifting shadows of the scavengers, another lone spirit was waiting in the distance. It was a small spirit—a guiding star in the trees.
“Dint,” Fox whispered and barged toward him, careering through the surrounding spirits and hearing, as he did so, all the hunters follow.
As the other spirits saw Dint, they charged toward him too—their ghostly teeth bared, their glowing hair raised.
“Run!” Fox barked. “Run!!”
But Dint did not.
The spirits reached him.
There was no cry, no growls. As Fox closed, snorting with rage, there came a greater glow of light as the spirits swarmed over each other and over Dint. Then, they separated, and in the parting, they were brighter, and Dint was gone.
“No!!” Fox roared, as above, Crow kept pace.
“Nooo!!!”
The spirits flew toward Fox. In a stream of light, they flew into his eyes in an effort to blind him. Closing his eyes, he kept running to where Dint had been.
Realizing Fox was reaching somewhere, the hunters broke cover. One huge cat ran close enough to leap onto him.
Should I? Shouldn’t I? Flashed across the cat’s scared face. Fox was as big as him, but Fox was injured and tired. The cat focused on the side of Fox’s exposed neck. If he grabbed him right—dug his teeth and claws in and then held on—he might just bring the fox down. It was too good a chance to let go. Extending his claws, he leapt for Fox and, in doing so, passed over him. Below his paws, Fox vanished.
Years ago, two men had entered the park in search of rocks and boulders for their landscaping business. This hole was the result of one such boulder being removed. Over the years, the hole had caved in with the weather, but it was still large enough to protect a fox. Spinning around, he growled at the cat, who, miffed, growled back into the darkness.
On the verge of collapse, Fox struggled to evaluate where the other hunters were. He couldn’t see a thing from down here, bar the lights of the spirits, as furious, they peered into the hole.
“What have you done with my brother?” he snarled. “Tell me!”
“The same thing, once you’re dead, we’ll do to you,” one growled back.
Outside, Crow landed in a tree above the hole and watched the hunters drop into the undergrowth. Their panting interest tuned to the hole.
Chapter
As the night deepened, Crow observed others arriving. Ones who had been feeding on the dead Dog-Fox were now snaking into view. Confident, thanks to full bellies, they sniffed the hole from a distance, then sniffed the position of the besiegers already there.
The hole was dark. The spirits had retreated to the trees, and from there, they watched.
In the hole, the incessant pain of the wounds tempted Fox with sleep, and the worry for Dint was wearing at his soul. Knowing that sleeping would be a fatal move, Fox changed position every time he felt his eyelids closing. But as time passed, he became chronically tired, and his thoughts of Dint and the fear of those outside began seesawing into and out of importance. As he struggled to remain focused—as his brain swam, drowned, and came back to the surface—he noticed, oddly, that some of the stars he could see through the hole’s mouth were disappearing. He cocked his head as he studied the new blackness. It took him a moment to realize it was the silhouetted head of a cat peering over the rim.
Fox exploded out of the hole, tearing a chunk of flesh from the cat’s cheek with one snarling bite. The cat hissed as it retreated, crab-walking, bleeding, and hissing back into the crowded undergrowth, swiping at another cat as it did. Determined to show the others that, despite its open, bleeding wound, it was still able to defend itself.
Fox fell back into the hole. Swallowing his want to whimper, he knew he had torn open nearly all his wounds. In the earth’s hold, they were bleeding freely.
Time passed. The bleeding eased. Drowsy, he rose to the hole’s rim and peered out and around. Except for the congealed light of the waiting spirits, he found only darkness.
The only living soul visible was Crow, who, with private shadows ruminating in his eyes, was looking at him.
Fox dropped back into the hole.
More time passed—arduous, slow, its only true clock the journeying sliver of moon.
The runner came now. Shaking the sleep from his head, Fox came to the rim and looked to where the noise was coming from. It was a fox, and it was running flat out, as if it too was being chased. They could all hear it snorting. It had no regard for quietness or stealth. It ran as though in a panic—with a viciousness. And then it passed them all, a little way off beyond their view, and kept running until the silence swallowed it.
Fox looked across to the spirits. They were talking to each other in worried, hushed tones.
Fox fell back and watched the stars.
Time returned to its slow drag. Despite being able to smell those waiting for him to die, he found it was possible for him to believe that their existence was more fantasy than real. Alone, he closed his eyes and looked for Mother, called to her with all his thoughts, but instead, he found the dull pain of his wounds and his grief for Dint.
Ironically, though, the wounds that had brought him here held the potential to save him. To keep himself awake, he bit at them. Used the sharper pain to ward off sleep. Some of the wounds were forming scabs. Others were oozing a watery, bloody solution. Tenderly, wearily, he licked these ones, bathing them with his antiseptic saliva, only to bite them again as sleep attacked.
But fatigue is a patient opponent, and as the night progressed, it gained more ground without Fox even realizing.
A caw from Crow startled Fox. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then the truth hit him as hard as the Dog-Fox had.
Coming to the edge of the mouth, he looked up to the bird, and the bird in the tree looked down.
Finally, in a beautiful pale shade of violet, the dawn came. As the sun followed, Fox knew he was safe.
But then, as the day aged, the hunters remained. Too weak to move, Fox fought on against the tide of sleep, surviving, as he did, three more breaches of the hole.
Night came again, and as Fox watched the stars return, he knew that this night would be his last.
Chapter
“Here he is, everybody. Professor Chute! The man who saved our lambs!”
The applause was enormous. Standing on the hall’s stage, a younger Queen framed on the wall behind him, Sebastian wasn’t sure whether to bow or to wave. In the end, he didn’t have to decide because the mayor, Stewart Littleton—a man who looked like a bean bag that had lost a few beans—had dragged him in front of the town rag’s photographer.
Other local farmers also wanted their picture taken with him. But Stewart hadn’t finished. Grabbing his wrist, he pulled Sebastian from the crowd and out the side door of the hall, where a small crowd had gathered around a circle.
Inside the circle, in a pyramid of sorts, foxes lay.
“And this is just after two days,” Stewart said, then called the photographer through.
“Come on, Gabriel,” he said. “Get some pictures of the two of us with the foxes.”
The photos were taken—photos of everyone.
Later, in the pub, a sheep farmer who had dust and wire ingrained in his eyes told Sebastian about the lambs he’d found that the foxes had left.
“Nasty killers, foxes. Worse than dogs. I had this one lamb, once—found it running around the paddock with its intestines hanging out. It had its legs entangled in them. Poor little thing.”
Around them, other farmers straightened their cracked lips and nodded.
“Before your virus came,” another farmer joined in, “it was nothing for me to spend half my week in the paddocks hunting the bastards. That’s the thing with a fox, see. It doesn’t hide out there,” and with one sinewy arm, he swept the bar. “It hides in here,” he said and prodded his head.
The group nodded again.
“If you shot one, then you’d shot a dumb one. We couldn’t prove that, of course, until your virus spread through them. In one week, I found three times as many foxes on my property as I thought I had. And not just young foxes or cubs. But old ones. Some were missing over half their teeth.”
Other farmers joined in the conversation—some agreeing, some scoffing, others just laughing along.
All had horror stories about what foxes had done to their lambs.
All had been surprised by the number of foxes they’d found.
Many had found their corpses floating in their dams.
“Water again?” Sebastian thought, as he remembered the reports of the foxes in backyard pools.
On the way back to the local airport, his driver—who, along with a faithfully restored FJ Holden, had been provided by a local limo company—would not shut up.
He not only knew who owned every farm but who had owned them previously and what had happened to those farmers: drought, drink, or just plain useless.
As he listened, Sebastian observed the passing dams and imagined the dying foxes running into them. But why?
Then, as this puzzle turned over in his puzzle-loving mind, he imagined not only the lamb tangled in its own intestines but he moved inside its terrified mind.
“Have you ever seen a lamb after they’ve been attacked by foxes?” he asked the driver.
“Oh yeah. Heaps. They’re bastards. Just bastards.”
The driver smelled of cigarettes and had a blurred, amateur tattoo on the back of his hand.
The moment made Sebastian smile as he thought of the places and situations this virus was taking him.
“Hold on,” the driver went, and planting his foot, overtook the truck.
The rush of speed surprised Sebastian. Grabbing and holding onto the dash, he turned to take in the road train they were passing. It was carting sheep. Both trailers had three floors, and on each floor, he saw squashed, shorn sheep, their eyes wide and terrified.
“And what farmer bought them?” he turned back to the driver and asked.
“Farmer? No farmer, Professor. They’re off to the works.”
“Oh,” he said, and shifting in his seat, he looked over his shoulder and, furrowing his brow, studied the now-following prime mover.
Chapter
The fox could not see where it was running. In truth, it could see, but its brain was unable to process the visual information coming through its eyes. A year old, his body was on fire. He felt like the whole forest was on fire, and wherever he ran, he only found more flames. On he stumbled, rose, and ran, banging against trees and tripping over the tree’s rubble as he did. Soon, his claws were torn, and the fur on his front legs ripped away. But he couldn’t feel this, for the pain of the flames was too great. So great, all he could do was try and escape it. All he could do was run.
The Ranger heard it. Grabbing his rifle as the dog began barking, he ran to the front of the house in time to see the fox falling onto its face as it tripped over the bricks lining his long graveled drive.
“Back, devil!” he yelled, and barking, the dog pulled himself up.
“Get back now!” he cried, and as the dog returned to his side, clearly confused, the Ranger strode to the fox that was struggling to rise.
The fox’s hind legs were scraping the gravel as though they thought they were still running, but its front legs were wrecked and unable to lift it. It seemed to either not care or simply be unaware that a man was here, a rifle in his hands, half-raised.
The dog barked.
“Shut up!” he yelled.
The dog whined.
“I said, shut up!”
Sulking, the dog paced along the line the man’s voice had drawn in the gravel.
The Ranger studied the fox’s face. Above the blood-stained foam bubbling out of its lips and nostrils, its eyes, opened wide, were glaring ahead, almost as though it was blind.
Scanning the dark trees, the Ranger wondered how many others, like this, were out there now.
The virus was a miracle—a cleansing gift, mercilessly and voraciously healing the land.
Turning back to the fox, he traded in this brief smile for a surprised frown. It was as though he had opened a door in himself and found something he didn’t expect to be there. He wanted to touch it. Stroke it. And the surprise of this want stayed with him even after he brought up the end of the barrel.