Chapter Text
It was down a rural road, the sort that wound its way through a forest and hence was bordered by bulging brambles and an unruly army of alders, that the tale began. An aged pickup made its placid way along the track, tires kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake, the driver’s whistle shifting in pitch at each pothole the truck bounced into. In the bed, sitting among old coils of rope, a tackle box, and the burlap sack they had long since wrestled their way out of, two puppies watched the endless passing trees and brush. The smaller of the two lifted his head, watching a bird fly over the warm blue above; his eyes had only recently matured enough to allow for such observations, and he was keen to take in all the world had to offer. His brother had less intellectual pursuits in mind and took advantage of the distraction to grab hold of the nearest floppy ear. The pair scuffled, pawing and chewing at each other, and when they tired of that they pawed and chewed at the burlap instead.
They were the offspring of a bitch who had learned years ago that her children were to be taken from her without exception, and so they had yet to be gifted with names. The only distinction between them was their size; they wore the same tawny coats and brown ears from their mother and their tails were already slightly curled like their father’s. Both parents had passed down independence, which was why, as soon as the truck slowed down, they both lifted their forepaws up onto the edge of the truck bed to see—well, what they could see.
The pickup had stopped alongside another truck facing the opposite way. There were no animals in the bed of this other truck, just snare wire, jaw traps, and other hunting paraphernalia. Despite being clean to the human senses, a distinct foul scent wafted over to the puppies. They both whimpered softly, dropping back down into the bed. The larger nosed into the smaller’s fur, to console them both.
“Williams,” said the hunter, by way of greeting. “Got your hounds, did you? How is the German keeping?”
“Oh, the usual,” replied the farmer, in the slow manner of someone reluctant to speak but too polite to stay silent. “Well, I got two pups, anyway. Should do alright, I think. He said they’d grow up perfect for chasing down coyotes and foxes. That’s all I wanted them for. Guarding the sheep and such.”
“I suppose your daughter will have ’em in her bed,” said the hunter with a raspy chuckle from a throat that had been subject to more smoke than it ought.
“I don’t know about that,” replied the farmer, reluctant to discuss his young daughter’s bed with someone outside of the family.
There was the pause of each member of the conversation waiting to see if the other would try to continue it, the farmer secretly hoping a moment would occur when it felt natural to end the niceties.
“Well, if it comes to it that they don’t shape up, I can always thin the varmints out for you,” offered the hunter. “Good money in coyote pelts.”
“Yeah, I reckon there is.” Another tortured pause. “Well, be seeing you, Jones.”
“Don’t be a stranger at the lodge, Williams.”
And on they drove in their separate directions, raising a small whirlwind of dust between their retreating forms. The smaller of the puppies again put his paws up on the edge, but this time he was alone. Unheard over the bubbling roar of the aged pickup’s engine, the puppy let out one squeaky, forlorn howl.
Having grown too curious for his own good, climbed over the barrier and tumbled into the ditch, the larger puppy now trembled and whimpered, suddenly aware of how large the world was compared to his tiny being. It did not occur to him to chase after the truck; he was rather bruised and battered after a hard landing, and by the time he was done feeling sorry for himself he was well and truly alone. No other vehicles passed by on the dirt road. He had no company but the background chatter of birdsong and the trickle of water in the bottom of the ditch, which—he tasted it—was too silty to drink and left grit on his tongue. He let out a high, expectant whine, but it was no use. His dam could no longer be summoned. He was all by himself.
Except for the pair of amber eyes keeping vigil from a clump of ferns. They stared, unblinking, for several long moments. They remembered, they debated. This was a dog, a traitorous animal and an extension of Man. Not even a dog, just a pup, small and defenseless. Revenge could be so swift, so sweet.
Slowly, the fox slipped from the undergrowth and crept forward to stand at the top of the ditch. The puppy’s attention was elsewhere; he had not yet learned to always look over his shoulder, to always swivel his ears, to never trust the quiet. The fox made no sound. A surge forward, a snap of his jaws. A culling to soothe his wounded heart. He eased himself down into a crouch, preparing to spring.
The puppy gave a pitiful cry.
The fox froze. He had heard this before. This was the cry for a mother, for a parent, for the one entrusted to provide food, shelter, and love. It stirred old instinct within him, the sort he had until now thought he would never feel again, let alone act upon. Yet here he was, his pinned ears rising to a welcoming perk, his taut lips loosening to cover his bared fangs once more, and his throat providing an inquiring yip before he had any say in the manner.
The puppy whirled around, nearly toppling over in his clumsy haste. His eyes stretched wide at the sight of this strange new animal, but he did not turn tail and run, nor did he attempt a growl. He simply gazed up at the red-and-white apparition, at a loss.
The fox was in a similar state. He had no idea what he was supposed to do now, nor what he was even prepared to do. He supposed introductions were the proper thing. Even slower than when he was stalking, he stepped forward until the distance was closed between them and he stood with his forepaws in the ditch and his hind rather awkwardly on the upper level. It was for fear of breaking several complicated rules of forest interaction that he didn’t immediately drop down into the ditch; instead, he first stretched his neck out toward the puppy, waiting for reciprocation and respectful sniffing.
The puppy regarded him, head cocked, then gave a delighted wriggle and licked the fox’s nose.
The fox jerked back, up out of the ditch. The puppy was unperturbed, wagging and hopping and scrabbling at the earth wall, trying in vain to clamber out. He gave a yip not unlike that of the fox, one brown ear flipped up so it stood erect, showing the soft wisps of fluff and tender pink skin beneath. The fox had not seen such uncomplicated joy and trust in a pair of blue-brown eyes since . . .
Without warning, he slithered down into the ditch, took hold of the puppy by the nape of his neck, and swept into the forest. He held his head high, and his quarry instinctively curled himself into a yielding teardrop. He had the rank scent of Man, but beneath that—milk. He was a baby, a pup, a cub. There was no darkness in the heart of a cub. He couldn’t be killed. Suppose he could be taught?
“Ah, Arthur.”
The fox halted, head lifting even higher, gaze searching the trees. Among the thick inner boughs of a chestnut tree, a lounging bobcat licked a large paw and swiped it over one ear. He continued his lazy face-washing as the fox grew more and more agitated below until at last Arthur had no choice but to set down the puppy and speak.
“What do you want, Francis?”
The bobcat blinked languidly, looking vaguely as if he was surprised to find himself in the middle of a conversation. “Oh, nothing. Only to know what you intend to do with that.”
This made Arthur almost certain the exchange in the ditch had been watched, and the idea of that prickled along his hackles. “None of your business,” he replied, haughty, and once again picked up his prize. He took a circuitous route to his territory and from there to his den, even though he suspected the foolish bobcat knew precisely where he slept most nights. This burrow was far smaller than his last, which was still an effort he was proud of on some level: multiple entrances and exits, branching pathways, niches for food storage as well as sleeping nests he’d cushioned with moss and the ever abundant red-brown fur. The current iteration was streamlined to a basic tunnel with a widened base, the ceiling of which was stabilized by the roots of an oak tree. He set the puppy down beside one of the holes. “I haven’t had reason to expand,” he said, “but the design is tried and true.”
The puppy had no appreciation for craftsmanship and was instead enamored with Arthur’s tail. He chased it when Arthur spun round; no sooner had Arthur pried it free of the milk teeth that they were clamped down again, with a head-twisting tug this time.
“Absolutely not.” Arthur awarded him a scolding nip. His tail was released immediately, and the puppy gave him a doleful look. “Serves you right,” Arthur told him, flicking his tail until the rumpled fur had some semblance of dignity again. “Chew on your own tail, if you’re so inclined. You must learn your manners, if you’re to be a fox. One mustn’t rush and bite whatever he can fit in his mouth. Wit is the fox’s favorite weap—what do you think you’re doing now?”
The puppy paused in squatting nearby, curious at the sudden shift in tone.
“No, no, no.” Arthur snatched him up, trotting several yards downwind before setting him down. “Not near the den. You’ve learned bad habits from Man.”
Once the puppy was done and Arthur had scratched the earth a bit in a lackluster attempt to hide the foreign scent—it was forest law that other predators could not step over his borders, but there was still no way to keep a dog concealed forever—he carried the puppy back to the den and this time dropped him inside. They slid down into the burrow and Arthur wrapped his body around the tawny bundle. He instantly started squirming, gnawing on Arthur’s ear. The fox pinned him down with one black paw.
“Settle down,” he said firmly. “Foxes sleep during the afternoon.”
This was clearly not a familiar concept. Eventually Arthur grew tired of snapping and swiping and just submitted to the sensation of puppy paws climbing all over him and milk teeth pinching his ears and tail. He was more inclined to sleep out in the open on a warm spring day like this one, but he didn’t want to risk the puppy’s safety. Even though he never slept deeply, and even though the rules forbade trespassing—a fox never trusted anyone.
The good thing about young cubs—and puppies, he corrected in his mind—was they burned bright but brief and needed large amounts of slumber before they could blaze again. The puppy curled up on Arthur’s tail, stretched his mouth open wide in a yawn, and tucked his blunt snout under his paw. Arthur watched this, then gave a gentle lick to the top of his head before resting his chin on his paws and drifting off to sleep.
When he woke again—sleeping lightly meant it always felt like only a blink between waking and dozing—only moonlight was threading into the burrow. Miraculously, the puppy was dead asleep and even when Arthur left him there were no yips. Like the last dig, the angle of the tunnel was such that small cubs could not get out on their own, so Arthur could have some freedom.
It did occur to him, now, that if he was to go through with this he would lose his bachelor lifestyle. He wasn’t sure his territory was large enough to support an adult fox and a growing dog. Who knew how large he would turn out to be? And why had he been abandoned by his master? Perhaps there was something wrong with him. Then again, Man were daft, so there was a good chance they just hadn’t noticed the puppy’s escape. They were not, as a species, infamous for observational skill. But Arthur wasn’t exactly overflowing with expertise in domesticity. The first time round hadn’t gone well. Perhaps he wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing.
A flurry of yowls danced into the night air, drawing the fox from his reverie. He froze, listening for each voice. One, two, three, four—all present. And yet these were the entreating calls to beckon an astray pack member. And, as he stood with pricked ears, they grew slightly louder. Approaching.
Arthur dashed to his eastern border. A few strides beyond his scent markers was a small clearing, and here the coyotes were gathered. They were large brutes, more than twice the fox’s size, and they pranced and worried at each other, flashing fangs and snarling just for the sake of it. Their leader, a savage who called himself Mikkel, grinned at Arthur.
“I hear tell there’s a new resident in our forest,” said Mikkel, coming at Arthur fast enough that he was forced to edge into the clearing, where he was encircled by the pack. Arthur pivoted with them, gaze flitting to each canid in turn; it lingered on Mikkel, though, because in a group of untrustworthy creatures he was the worst. “A bobcat told me.”
Francis’s biggest flaw, aside from not being a fox, was his vice for gossip. “I thought you would know better than to listen to a bobcat.”
“Don’t be silly.” The coyote’s jaws snapped; Arthur only just swept his tail clear of the teeth. “Everyone knows it’s foxes who tell lies.”
Now they were pressing in closer, a low growl rumbling among them. They were a rather unusual pack; two mated pairs but no spawn to speak of. Neither females had ever said a word to Arthur, and the other male—Berwald, Arthur thought he was called—was just as short-spoken. If not for Mikkel, in fact, Arthur suspected these coyotes would not be such a thorn in his pelt. As it was, they were troublesome neighbors who might have constituted a move if not for the otherwise perfection of the real estate Arthur had secured. And, like Francis, they had their benefits. More than one meal had been inadvertently supplied by the larger predators over the years.
If foxes were bad at trusting, coyotes were horrid at forgiving grudges.
“A cub,” said Arthur, spine arching a little when golden eyes shifted sharply to his own. “I’ve a cub.”
“A pup, not a cub.” Mikkel flipped up his lip, snout wrinkling. “Hounds belong with hunters, not with foxes.”
“This one’s never been with hunters—”
Mikkel lunged for him, teeth gnashing while Arthur twisted to evade. His nostrils flared. “You reek of Man. Don’t try to deceive me, fox.” In the moonlight, his eyes gleamed an empty yellow. “I can smell the truth better than you can.”
Arthur’s hackles lifted and he quickly tried to flatten them, for it was a fact of life to be afraid but to look that way was another matter entirely and was not becoming of the clever fox. “Now, now,” he said, giving a grin that was both appeasement and assertion. You have your teeth, I have mine. “Let’s keep it sporting.”
The coyotes went up in laughter, Mikkel leading as always. It was similar to the sadistic glee with which they relished goading and slashing a deer, getting drunk on fear-scent and hot blood. The various displays of vicious dominance were not worrying in themselves—if Arthur got hurt, it was his own fault for not staying alert among these fiends—but the fact that the coyotes were now rallying around him, sniffing and lathering in their excitement? This was cause for concern.
“Rich, from you,” said Mikkel, still with his wicked grin. “Is your pet a new scheme? Perhaps he’ll use it as a diversion,” he said to his brethren, prompting sneers all around. “He’ll feed it to us while he tries to steal our meat.”
For just a second, Arthur did wonder if that would work. No, a puppy would never run fast enough for that sort of tactic. He shook the thought from his head. “Certainly not,” he replied, keeping his tail curled close to his side. It was entirely possible that these other coyotes were not as power-hungry as Mikkel, but they were pack animals and so it wasn’t difficult to infect them with a mentality. Arthur scorned it, as he did most unfoxly things. “Neither I nor the cub have done anything wrong. There’s no law against rescuing an animal from Man.”
“Rescuing,” scoffed Mikkel.
“And indeed,” Arthur went on, “what happens within my territory is entirely my business. That’s what the law says, is it not?”
This stilled the coyotes. Even Mikkel paused, ears lowered in thought. Then he gave a sharp bark, sudden enough that Arthur started a bit. His pack swarmed the clearing and disappeared into the brush, leaving Mikkel to stare down at Arthur. The fox stared right back, raising his tail as high as he dared.
“This is my forest, not yours,” said Mikkel. “If that dog endangers us, it must die.” He showed his teeth a final time as if to prove himself capable of murder. “That is what the law says.”
Arthur was tempted, but he didn’t pull back his lips. He didn’t show any aggression at all, only said, “If it comes to that, I’ll do it myself.”
Mikkel pulled his head back, surprised. Doubt twitched his ears, but he didn’t call Arthur’s bluff. The night was aging, after all, and there was hunting to be done. “As you say, fox.” He gave one last snap as he swung round, teeth glancing off Arthur’s ear. “As you say.” Then he was gone, bounding back to his territory and vanishing with a flick of his black-tipped tail.
After that, Arthur spent yet another night tracking prey to the haunting song of the coyotes. Though he wouldn’t admit it, there were times when it almost felt empowering, like he could pretend he was part of the unit of hunters, connected on some level. Tonight, however, he was more inclined to tremble beneath the burden of the music. Perhaps this was truly a mistake. Perhaps he should just take the puppy back to where he’d found it.
Rooo-rooooo-roooo-rooo!
The fox stilled, one paw raised. This cry was much closer than the others. In his agitation, it took him a second to identify it. Not a coyote, but the puppy. His cub, howling where he’d left him in the den. A fox cub would know to stay silent in the absence of its parents. And so will he, Arthur thought, once he’s taught. What fox wasn’t afraid to take risks? The coyote and the bobcat, the owl and the crow, the rabbit and the mouse—they could all live as they had for decades, following the tracks left by their ancestors. But a fox followed no path. A fox relied on craftiness and ingenuity, and followed his heart over the rules. He would make a fox of the puppy, if only to show the obnoxious coyote he was wrong.
Arthur couldn’t bear to listen to the cub crying, nor did he want the coyotes—or anyone else—to hear the new arrival. The less the forest knew of the adoption, the better. So instead of following the rodent scent that was fresh enough to make his mouth water, he turned back and delved into one of his precious caches for a vole he’d caught last week. His trot became a sprint when the cries grew louder. The puppy sounded almost in pain. Could something have snuck into his territory without him knowing? A badger, perhaps? They were picky, unpredictable creatures; one day they could live peacefully in a fox’s burrow, the next they slaughtered a litter of cubs without even the courtesy of eating them. Arthur dove into the den without even scenting the air first. No one would harm his son!
The cries fell to whimpers. Once Arthur’s eyes adjusted to the shadow of the tunnel, he saw only the puppy, nuzzling at him and whining. Arthur knew what those little sounds meant. Me! Me! And, of course, Hungry! So Arthur dropped the vole and, when the puppy only sniffed blankly at it, tore it open. The thick scent of old blood filled the air. The puppy still only sniffed at it—perhaps he’d been left behind because he was dim—so Arthur chewed a mouthful and spat it back out for him.
“Eat it,” he said helpfully. “It’s food. What on earth did your mother feed you?”
The puppy at last caught on to the concept, gobbling up the meat mush and smacking his lips loudly. Arthur did his best to ignore that as he ate the remains, crunching tiny bones between his teeth. As he pawed the bits of bloodied fur away from the nest, he noticed a new accumulation of loose earth. Further investigation yielded a flurry of little claw marks along the steep wall of the tunnel. Arthur sniffed at the puppy’s paws and sneezed from the dust. “You’ll have good paws for digging, at any rate. Perhaps I’ll be able to make use of you.”
All of this excitement had tuckered the young beast out again. Arthur curled up with him. It was lovely, to have a warm body against his own again, and was there anything sweeter than a cub’s breath? A puppy, he corrected himself again, then on second thought discarded the idea. He would be raised by a fox, as a fox, and so for now he was a cub.
“I must call you something,” murmured Arthur. “Did your mother give you a name?”
The cub looked up at him with bleary, tired eyes. He said something, but it came out wrong, with the stumbling of youth and an accent foreign to the forest.
“What was that?” Arthur pricked his ears. “Did you say help?”
“Whelp.”
“Oh. Well, yes, that’s what you are,” said the fox. “But that’s different than your name.”
The cub only stared, at a loss. Then he began to whimper, and it only now occurred to Arthur that perhaps asking an orphan to recall his lost parent was needlessly cruel. “Never mind that,” he said briskly, nosing the cub until he was hushed. “You’re here, now. My name is Arthur, and I’ll call you . . .” He trailed off into another spring, purple crocuses, warm amber eyes, so many names. “Alfred,” he said after a beat, then again with assurance: “Alfred.”
His cub was already well on the way to sleep; if he heard his new name, it was through a dream. Arthur didn’t wake him to hear him repeat it back, as was proper for the reception of a title. He only licked the dust from Alfred’s paws and closed his eyes, as well, listening to the soft breaths of the innocent and the distant screams of pain and celebration as the coyotes made their kill.