The Fox
It was with great solemnity that the sovereign raven fluttered down to the water barrel and announced that the hens had lain rocks instead of eggs.
“There’s nothing we can do now,” he explained, “but the culprit is clear. We have been cursed once more by the fox.”
At the end of the barn, opposite the entrance, the hawk had arranged a dozen small stones in neat rows of four. Next to them sat the hens, who bowed their heads in a show of embarrassment. With the meaning of the rocks now made clear, the rest of the animals erupted into fits of anger and surprise.
“Terrible! Oh, terrible fox!” cried the rabbit.
“That fox is a cunning fellow,” mused the squirrel, quivering. “He’s starving us. Snowfall is a few weeks away; he knows we’re running out of scraps.”
The weasel, with his vantage point in the rafters, scurried along one beam to try and inspect the hens from overhead. He rarely took the raven’s words at face value. As he passed by the central beam where the rest of the birds were perched, the hawk glared at him. The hawk did not like the weasel’s impudence, nor the way he always attempted to climb up to the barn’s roof whenever the birds called a meeting. Such assemblies were meant to be private; it was disrespectful to eavesdrop rather than stay below. They had banished the butterfly for a reason.
“Let us settle down,” said the raven, opening his beak once more. “Everyone, settle down. I do agree it is most unfortunate that the fox is up to his old tricks, but we will not remain stagnant. I’ve spoken with the council already.” He raised one wing and motioned to the rest of the birds. All of them had their necks craned forward and were staring down at the grounded animals with blank expressions, except for the hawk, who still glowered at the weasel.
“And you came up with a plan, right?” asked the rabbit. “A very good plan, I’m sure. We’ll all follow it, I’m sure.”
The rabbit’s fur had only gotten grayer since the hunters arrived, setting up camp in the forest down south—the animals’ old home. That’s when they fled, heading north until they came across a half-built farm that had been abandoned in the middle of the woods. As soon as the birds noticed that the bear had not escaped with them, they assumed power.
“A good plan, indeed,” said the raven. “And my most qualified councilman to present it.”
The cardinal came down from the rafters and stood next to the raven. “Yes, we know what must be done. We’re going to start with rationing. We’ll be eating less, and what we don’t eat will be put away. Think of it as an emergency supply. For the good of everyone.”
“And where is this emergency supply?” interjected the weasel from above. “Are we to trust that you birds won’t touch it?”
There was a collective gasp from the other animals—save for the squirrel and the skunk, who tended to align with the weasel—at his display of audacity. The rabbit looked particularly offended. “Traitor!” he shouted.
The cardinal only nodded. “Trust will be necessary. The supply is eastward. During the day, the council will be standing guard on rotation, while at night, we’ll either be staying here for our moonlit meetings or continuing to ensure the stash’s security. It has to be us birds, of course, because you tree-climbing animals,” he looked from the weasel to the squirrel, “cannot be depended on to care for it. To prevent protest, however, the rest of you will be involved in other duties. When the moon rises and the fox begins his prowl, the squirrel and the mouse will be lookouts, and the skunk will patrol the barn. We will come up with more—”
“What about me?” interrupted the rabbit, eager to prove his loyalty.
“And you,” finished the cardinal, “will investigate reports of treachery. That is all.”
The cardinal returned to his perch on the central beam and immediately began to preen, avoiding the weasel’s gaze.
“So you see,” said the raven, “there is nothing to be worried about. The fox will be powerless as long as we remain vigilant and coordinated. Are there any more questions?”
Before the weasel could move to object, the thrush came down and whispered something to the raven. The raven looked surprised for a moment, and then turned and flew out of the barn. He was followed by the rest of the birds, and the animals listened to the sounds of them landing on the roof. It seemed that they had a very important meeting to attend.
“That fox will be exhausted eventually,” said the mouse. “I know how black magic works; if he uses it too much, the spirits will curse him instead.”
The other animals gathered around her to listen, leaving only the hens still lined up behind the stones they had apparently produced. They would return to their coop before nightfall; things often got stuffy in the barn, and the shade was not enough to make up for it.
The weasel, keeping out of the others’ view, came down from the rafters and scampered close to the hens. They didn’t notice him, too busy shuffling their feet and staring wide-eyed at the mouse in the center of the barn. First she had climbed up on the water barrel to address the crowd, but at the rabbit’s demur—the water barrel was for councilmen only—she instead moved to a spoiled bale of hay. The animals surrounded her in a circle.
“Anyone would tire after all that spellcasting,” she said. “And that leads to hunger.”
“She’s right,” agreed the rabbit. “He must be exhausted now, cursing our very own hens. All that time we thought he’d been killed—he must have been recovering from that last hex he placed! What a scourge that was!”
The rabbit was referring to the disappearance of the owl, which occurred a week before the hunters came. It was shortly after the council formed to challenge the bear; the owl was the most outspoken when it came to his rule. After starting a shocking argument with the rest of the birds about how to reason with the beast, however, he left the barn and was never seen again. By that time, the cardinal later explained, the fox had already cast a spell on him: a hex that made him oppose everything the animals stood for.
“A tragedy,” said the mouse. “The magic really changed him.”
Everyone nodded in agreement, save for the squirrel and the skunk, who had been lectured about magic by the weasel already. The weasel did not believe in magic. He told them it was all coincidence and conjecture, and ordered them never to indulge in any claims of it. With the proof right in front of them, however, the skunk decided to question the weasel again in the evening. The squirrel was not so eager to confront.
“We’ll be fine as long as we remain unified,” said the rabbit. “As long as we make sure everyone knows their place.” He narrowed his eyes at the weasel.
“Maybe I should go think about lookout posts,” said the squirrel.
“No, you’re coming with me,” said the weasel. He nodded to the skunk. “You too.”
“Don’t be too long!” called the rabbit as the squirrel and the skunk reluctantly followed the weasel out of the barn. “We’re going scavenging before nightfall.”
The weasel gave him a reassuring nod as he led the squirrel and the skunk into the forest, turning back only to glimpse the birds on the barn roof. Once they were far enough away, he voiced suspicion over what the raven had said about the fox’s supposed curse. Laying a rock that big should have been painful and impairing, and yet the hens seemed absolutely fine.
❧
It was midnight and the birds were still in their meeting. The mouse and the squirrel had left to watch for the fox, the hens were sitting comfortably in their coop, and the other animals were asleep in the barn—save for the skunk, who was standing guard outside.
At the end of the roof, along the central ridge and above the barn’s entrance, was a weathervane. The device was supported by a long, thin rod that ended in a sharp point, extending through both the directional indicator and the flat, metallic shape of a rooster. The council loved that rooster, and its mighty, domineering presence. It made for company otherwise unattainable: if there were real roosters around, the hens’ eggs wouldn’t be of much value.
The weathervane was the hawk’s favorite spot to sit; he was undisturbed by the loose base that sent it teetering in the face of even the lightest breeze. One bird who did notice the vane’s instability was the cardinal, but he kept his beak shut about it. He did not want to put the hawk on edge, nor give the thrush any ideas. Whenever the cardinal saw something that the others didn’t, he kept quiet and made note to bring it up only when convenient. That was how he would maintain the raven’s favor.
Next to the cardinal was the thrush, a rather unintelligent bird who often flew directly into trees. He listened intently as the raven listed off different ways to protect the food supply.
“Everyone knows the squirrel can climb,” he said, “and the weasel certainly tries.”
“Perhaps we need more guards,” suggested the cardinal. “I can mull over the possibilities. The rabbit is trustworthy, but he’d do better staying in the barn. Listening.”
“Maybe we should have hidden the eggs somewhere else,” said the thrush.
The cardinal darted forward. “Don’t talk about that, you imbecile!”
“Did anyone hear that?” asked the raven, who remained composed in the face of the thrush’s stupidity. He was looking at the hawk, who shook his head and then peeked over the edge of the roof. He didn’t see the skunk; it must have moved to the other end of the barn.
“Secrets are for the supply tree,” said the raven, now bathed in an eerie glow from the moonlight. “You better not forget that again. This is a barn meeting, remember?”
The thrush apologized, and then asked, “Why is this a barn meeting?”
“Because we need to be here in case of the fox,” the cardinal answered, loudly enough for his voice to reach any eavesdroppers. “Our defender—the hawk—needs to be here. We can’t leave at night without the animals taking notice.”
“And someone might try to sneak out past curfew,” added the raven.
As if on cue, a high-pitched voice rang out from the darkness of the forest. The birds turned to see the small, white shape of the mouse running through the trees, shrieking.
Immediately the hawk leapt from the vane, fluttering down and grabbing the mouse in his talons. He carried her up to the roof and dropped her in the center of the council’s circle.
“Quiet down!” hissed the cardinal. “Don’t wake the others. What happened?”
“The fox!” said the mouse, wheezing on her side. “I saw the fox! The fox was in the woods!” She coughed, and a few specks of blood dotted the shingles.
“I said be quiet,” insisted the cardinal, and the hawk moved to silence the mouse. Before he could, however, the raven stepped forward.
“You’re injured. Let me see,” he said, standing over her. The hawk backed away and returned to the weathervane.
“Make this quick,” said the cardinal. “I hear stirring below.”
“Several broken ribs,” said the raven. “Yes. Several. Did you hurt yourself while running? We’re going to need a new lookout.”
“Creeping, skulking!” whined the mouse. “Monstrous beast! He’ll come for us all!”
“You say you saw the fox?” asked the thrush. “But I thought we were—”
The cardinal stuck a wing into the thrush’s beak. “That’s enough.”
“No, no one’s listening,” said the raven. He pushed the cardinal aside and leaned close to the mouse. “You really saw the fox?”
“Yes!” she squeaked. “The one that cursed the hens! Hexed the owl! Woe unto us all!”
Looking thoroughly disturbed, the raven whispered something to the cardinal. The cardinal whispered back, and the two began a long conversation as the others stood by and waited. When they were done, the cardinal went to the hawk and whispered some more. By then, the mouse was unconscious.
As soon as the cardinal finished, the hawk picked up the mouse again and took off. They vanished into the forest.
❧
In the morning, no one seemed to know where the mouse had gone. The council was clueless as to her whereabouts.
“Weren’t you together?” asked the skunk. “As lookouts.”
The squirrel shook his head, explaining that he did not go far as he didn’t want to get lost.
“Maybe she saw something,” suggested the rabbit. “Maybe the fox got to her!”
The raven watched the commotion from the rafters with cold scrutiny. The rest of the council had gone to count the food supply, including the eggs they’d taken from the hens, but he wanted to stay behind to offer reassurance. Only when the birds had left did he realize he had little to reassure the animals of and lapsed into a state of internal analysis. Every animal had to be kept track of, but some had to be monitored more than others. He turned to watch the weasel and the skunk talk in the corner, though they spoke too quietly for him to hear.
“Are you sure?” asked the weasel. “You heard the mouse?”
“I heard her,” insisted the skunk. “The council must have heard it. They were still having their meeting.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. She stopped screaming. I thought I heard her from above, but it’s hard to say. Everything’s always hushed up there. And then, later, the hawk flew off.”
The weasel frowned. “They’re up to something. Tell the squirrel. I think tonight I—”
“And what are we talking about here?” interrupted the raven, who had flown down as silently as possible. “Any news?”
“No,” said the weasel. “Nothing to concern you.”
He knew it was a dangerous game to be curt with the raven, but the council’s only punishment was banishment and he was too valuable a scavenger to be expelled.
“I see,” the raven replied.
“What about the other lookout?” asked the skunk. “Don’t we need a replacement?”
“Just the squirrel for now.” The raven turned to the hens across the barn. The sun streaming through holes in the walls made the glistening sweat across their feathers shimmer. By the time he turned back, the weasel had gone looking for the squirrel.
❧
At night, while the cardinal recounted the remaining contents of the food supply—lowering his voice to a whisper when he got to the eggs, none of which had been eaten yet—the raven was unusually silent. He only stood back and observed as the thrush and the cardinal bickered over exactly how many seeds they should have taken from the scavengers’ haul that evening. He was lost in thought, trapped in the void created by his sleek, black feathers, drifting further and further from reality—then he heard a scratching noise from under the roof.
He blinked a few times and stepped back. The thrush was demonstrating to the other birds how to break a stick in half with his foot, and none of them seemed to have heard it. The raven crept back farther and turned around to glance over the side of the barn.
Nothing. Just the pale, damp grass below. Each drop of dew reflected the moonlight and shivered beneath the shadows cast across the trees. The raven wondered if the fox could really be lurking out there. Such thoughts filled him with dread, especially when coupled with the fact that they had disposed of the mouse before asking her more questions. It was foolish of him to indulge in the cardinal’s worry as soon as he did, but now it was too late. They’d pay for their impatience just like they did when the owl was dealt with too rashly.
“Oh, leader!” cooed the thrush. “Won’t you talk to us? These barn meetings get so dry.”
The raven looked back but didn’t move, so the other two birds stepped closer to him. Only the hawk stayed on the other side of the roof, still perched on the weathervane.
“What is it?” asked the thrush.
“Nothing,” said the raven. “Just thinking. The barn was skittish today. The weasel was sneaking around. It was a mistake to assign the skunk guard duty; he may have seen what we did with the mouse—”
The raven noticed his mistake and clamped his beak shut just as a gasp sounded from right behind him. He whipped around and peeked over the barn roof, farther, until he could view the gutter. There, hidden inside, was the weasel.
“Get him!” the raven shouted, and the hawk was already bounding across the roof with his wings raised high. At first, it rattled beneath his heavy footfalls, but then he slowed and began to move more delicately. The weasel scrambled, unable to fully climb out of the gutter before he was grabbed by the hawk and slammed onto the ridge of the barn roof with one claw held over his mouth. The council gathered around him.
“Spy!” said the thrush. “He was spying!”
“You really should know better,” said the raven.
“What do we do with him?” asked the cardinal. Then, leaning close to the raven, he whispered, “Same as we did with the mouse? The owl?”
At the sight of the birds whispering, the weasel started to squirm.
The raven blinked. “Let’s see what he has to say.”
“Shouldn’t we leave the barn first?” asked the thrush.
“The skunk is here.” The raven turned to the cardinal. “Lure him away, will you?”
The cardinal looked around and, finding no reason to protest, flew down from the barn. His voice as he greeted the skunk, patrolling the opposite end of the barn, was barely audible.
“Now we ask the questions,” said the thrush.
“All right,” said the raven, slipping into boundless thought once more. He did not ponder what to ask the weasel, however, but what the weasel even believed. Did he know they had stolen the eggs? Did he know they had killed the mouse? Did he know they had lied about the fox?
Had they lied about the fox?
And then the thrush gave the raven a nudge and, almost instantaneously, he listed out every single question he had for the weasel—what he knew, what he thought, and everything pertaining to the birds. When he was finished, the thrush informed him that the skunk had been successfully drawn away.
“We’ll bring him to the supply tree, then,” said the raven. “He can think of his answers on the way.” The weasel raised a paw as if trying to say something urgent.
“Looks like he wants to speak first,” said the thrush.
“Fine. Let him speak.”
The hawk lifted his claw from the weasel’s face. As soon as it was a few inches away, the weasel sprang to his feet and began sprinting across the ridge. The hawk chased after the fleeing vermin, staggering as the weasel weaved around the weathervane and jumped from the roof.
“Quick!” said the raven, shouting after the hawk. “He’s under you! Push it over!”
With a look of resignation, the hawk lowered his head and rammed into the vane. Its sharpened end tilted forward and plummeted down.
❧
In the morning the animals ventured out from the barn and nearly fainted at the sight of the weasel’s corpse. He had snuck out last night past curfew and was impaled by the falling weathervane. A swift investigation by the council determined that it was the fox—after checking on the emergency supply tree in the early hours of dawn, the birds returned to find muddy paw prints along the roof. The skunk and the cardinal had been missing at the time, and didn’t return until after everyone learned what happened, but they were quickly cleared of any involvement.
“Though I found his philosophy vacuous,” eulogized the rabbit, standing next to the body as if it were a reverent headstone, “it pains me to see him dead. May we find unity in the hapless weasel’s death.” The hens listened to him intently, clucking about how unfortunate it all was.
The skunk, however, wasn’t convinced. Shortly after the body was found, he had quietly been taken aside and told that, after his failure last night, the council would no longer need a guard. Now he was sure that the birds didn’t leave the roof that night. Yes, he was diverted by the cardinal coming down and leading him to some animal tracks in the forest, but things just didn’t make sense. How did the fox get past the lookout? Why would the birds leave the barn without their most cunning councilman? And why did their most cunning councilman confuse the tracks of what was obviously a deer for those of a fox?
He imparted these misgivings to the squirrel, who was clearly shaken by the weasel’s death, as soon as they were alone in the barn. With the weasel gone, they were the only two left with the courage to speak up against the council, and the squirrel was still rather hesitant.
“What if there is no fox?” he suggested, his voice hushed. “What if it’s a lie? Those birds had a reason to get rid of the weasel. Maybe even the mouse saw something she shouldn’t have.”
“There is certainly something off, but what can we do? You’re removed from your post.”
The skunk took a long, deep breath. “I wonder if it has something to do with the supply tree. They don’t want us going there, do they? Especially those who are adept at climbing trees.”
“You know I don’t like climbing,” said the squirrel. It was true; the squirrel had always been averse to it. That was why he never joined the weasel in the rafters.
“Even now, they’re still guarding that emergency supply during the day. It’s only left unguarded at night, now that they keep having those rooftop meetings. Didn’t the weasel tell you about the mouse? How I think she did return to the barn?”
“You think she was killed?”
“I know she went eastward that night. What if she found the tree? You simply must go and investigate it.”
The squirrel looked mortified. “I don’t even know where it is!”
“You’ll have all night to find it. Just go east.” The skunk gave him a pleading look. “You must. It might prevent any more deaths.”
“Or cause our own!” The squirrel sounded less sure of himself by the second.
“To avenge him, then.” The skunk motioned to the dead weasel, still visible from inside the barn.
The squirrel sighed. “All right.”
❧
In the middle of the night, the squirrel ran into the barn, shouting, “They’re liars! They’re liars!” All the animals were roused from their slumber, and became shocked when they saw what the squirrel had brought inside: an egg. One of the hens’ eggs, which the squirrel had found nested in the emergency supply tree, along with partially eaten scraps that the birds had collected from the animals over the past few days.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the rabbit, just as the council flew into the barn and stopped in the doorway. The skunk came up next to them, having first tricked them into investigating a dark, fox-like shape that he claimed to have seen in the woods.
“They’re lying to us!” accused the squirrel. “The hens didn’t lay rocks. They weren’t cursed by the fox. They’re keeping the eggs for themselves!”
The other animals gasped as a furious look crossed the raven’s face. The hawk scowled at the squirrel and stepped forward, but stopped when he noticed the skunk with his tail raised.
“Let me see that,” said the rabbit, but the disbelief in his voice was already fading away. He approached the egg and turned it over with one paw.
“They’re lying about everything!” said the skunk, still threatening the hawk with his spray. “They killed the weasel, didn’t they? Go up to the roof and check!”
For the first time ever, the squirrel climbed up the barn and onto the roof. He walked the length of it; the animals stood still and listened to the sounds of his scurrying. Then he came back down and shook his head. “No fox prints.”
The barn erupted.
“They’re all traitors!” said the rabbit, feverish. “They’ve betrayed us!”
“I reckon they even lied about the fox!” said the skunk, immediately buying into the others’ zeal. He had filled his role as the weasel in no time. “There is no fox!”
“There is a fox!” insisted the raven, but he was ignored over the calls of the crowd. The council was to be burned, killed, banished to the farthest forest!
“There’s never been a fox!” said the rabbit. “Those fiends have been casting the spells!”
The whole barn agreed. The birds were packed together now—huddled in terror of the skunk, whose tail remained high in the air. They were completely unsure of what to do, and even the cardinal could not see a way out.
The hens were called in and, at the beckoning of the squirrel, bowed their heads and admitted what the council had them do. They lied about laying rocks. Their eggs had indeed been taken by the birds, who promised extra food in return. They feared retaliation.
The animals surrounded the birds. The rabbit snapped his teeth and the squirrel shook with anger. They could hardly believe what the council had done.
The hawk raised his wings in an effort to protect the birds, but it was too late—everyone could see that sickly, shameful look on the raven’s face. The skunk could hold it in no longer, and just as every other animal backed away, he sprayed. He sprayed and he moved, circling the entire council, coating the four birds in an awful, repugnant stench.
Realizing the worst had finally occurred, the birds took to the sky. At first they formed a tight formation—packed together like a single, coherent unit—but after a moment they dispersed, all flying in different directions and disappearing behind separate treetops. The barn was freed from their constrictive clutch.
That night, everyone slept soundly but the hens, who were found the next morning devoured by some fierce, ravenous beast. Upon surveying the mess of blood and feathers within the coop, however, not even the rabbit had anything to say on the matter.
Joseph Lester is a junior at Hartwick College in Oneonta, NY, pursuing a dual degree in Creative Writing and Economics. This is his first time being published. His favorite bird is the black-capped chickadee.
The Albion Review 