FOX HUNT

FOX HUNT, by Rebecca Buchanan, art by Simon Walpole

It was a truth universally acknowledged among foxkin that humans were silly creatures.

They built their dens of wood, rather than taking advantage of nice, natural holes in the ground. They had no fur of their own, and so they had to keep sheep and goats to make clothing. Their noses were not so keen as those of a fox, nor were their eyes as sharp as those of an eagle. Their teeth were dull, and their claws nonexistent.

Silly creatures, indeed. When the Daughter and the Son had populated the Mother’s creation with four-legged and winged and finned animals, They had given every good gift to the elder creatures. By the time They finally got around to creating humans, there were no gifts left.

Except iron.

And so when Ashaenie found the dead crow that stank of fear and nightmares, he did not return to his den, or make for the Heart Tree or the Great Waterfall.

No. He ran to find the humans.

 

***

 

They had lived in the bend of the river for seven generations. Seven generations of foxkin, at any rate. Ashaenie wasn’t really sure how long humans lived. It wasn’t a matter that interested him. What did interest him was that they had proven to be friends in the past: they had shared their fish and chickens with his den, killed the mad wolf who was stalking the woods, and cared for his vixen after she had been injured by a boar.

And so he ran and ran. He jumped fallen trees, skirted the martens’ den, ran through the flock of copper pheasants (who hissed at him in irritation). When he came to the river, he turned right, paws digging into the soil as he followed the water down the gentle slope of the land. And there, where the ground momentarily flattened out and the river pooled, he found the humans.

The chickens bwoked in fear at his approach and fled for their nests. The goats ignored him. He ran passed their pen, nose tilted, sniffing.

There. Most of the humans were gathered in the shallow of the tiny lake, tending their floating rice paddies: the two females and one of the younger males.

He stumbled to a halt, panting heavily. “Greetings —” He coughed, and tried again. “Greetings, Beloved of the Son. I am Ashaenie of the Foxkin. I come with dire news, and a plea for assistance.”

One of the human females, her rounded belly showing that she had not yet birthed her kits, straightened from where she was bent to harvest the rice. She glanced quickly over at the young male, then frowned at Ashaenie, shoving loose dark hair behind her ear.

“And greetings to you, Ashaenie of the Foxkin. What is this dire news you bring?”

“A dead crow.”

The human blinked at him.

“It reeked of nightmares.”

She paled, a hand dropping to her stomach. Behind her, the other female — older, white hair pulled into a braid, a short sickle in one hand — sucked in a breath. She strode towards the shore, her trousers rolled up to her knees, and carefully set aside her basket of rice.

She looked down at Ashaenie and demanded, “How long has it been dead?”

The fox bristled at her tone, lips pulling back. He whuffed a low snarl — a sound any foxkin would have recognized — and answered, “Only a few hours. Sunrise, or perhaps a bit earlier.”

“Hhmm.” The older female tugged her braid over her shoulder and made for the human den.

“Mama!” The pregnant female set out after her, kicking water. Her steps were awkward and she grimaced, finally accepting the hand offered by the young male. “Thank you, Jinaru.” She paused and looked down at Ashaenie, a small apologetic smile curling her lips. “And thank you, Ashaenie of the Foxkin, for bringing us warning. Will you join us inside? We have fresh rabbit and plums, and I am sure that you must be thirsty.” 

The fox dipped his head. “Thank you.” At least one of these humans knows proper manners, he mused, and followed them into the house.

 

***

 

Fox dens were plain: just hard-packed earth, and maybe some leaves and feathers when winter settled in.

Human dens were much fancier. Curving beams and fat, carved pillars supported a roof that sloped gently from four corners up to a high peak. The front wall had been slid to one side, revealing an inner room with pillows, thin mattresses, and blankets piled neatly in one corner. (Ashaenie had to admit that they did look comfortable. Perhaps the humans could be persuaded to part with a few.) There was also an iron stove with a bucket of water set atop it, a tea pot, cups, a few plates; a pair of trunks for storage; shelves with food; and a shrine for the Mother, the Daughter, and the Son.

An old human male lay on one mattress next to the righthand wall, blankets piled on top of him and pillows stacked up behind his head. A bowl with a bit of rice and a cup of water sat beside him. He opened his mouth to speak as they entered, but coughed instead, his whole body shaking.

The young boy — Jinaru — ran over and held up the cup. The old man drank greedily, head cocked slightly as his gaze darted back and forth between all of them.

“There is a nightmare, Father,” the pregnant female said.

The old man choked on the last bit of water. Jinaru picked up a cloth to wipe his chin, then went to fetch more water from the bucket.

Inhaling sharply, the old man waved a hand towards the far wall. His voice was a rough rasp that hurt Ashaenie’s ears. “My bow.”

“No,” the older female said, voice firm.

Ashaenie laid back his ears, glowering at the older female as she pushed one of the storage trunks across the floor. It made a loud scrapping sound that made his teeth hurt. Clambering on top, she reached up to a high shelf. Hands gentle, she lifted down a curved, asymmetrical bow that was longer than she was tall. A quiver of arrows followed.

Ashaenie’s nose twitched and he sat up straighter.

Iron. The arrows were tipped in iron.

“No,” the old woman said again. She carefully stepped down and set the bow and arrows to the side, next to her short sickle. Opening the trunk, she began to pull out pieces of clothing: linen shirt and trousers first, followed by leather (based on the smell), with flat segments of iron attached to the chest and thighs.

“Mama!” the pregnant female exclaimed. “You cannot!”

Stripping out of her clothes, she pulled on the linen and armor, piece by piece.

“There is no one else,” she said. “Hikara is ill, too ill to hunt. You are mere days from giving birth. Jinmaru is too young and inexperienced. And your husband is off serving his year with the Emperor.” She shifted the leather chest piece, tugging it into place. “That leaves me to hunt the nightmare, Shinare — and I am the better hunter, anyway.”

The old man — Hikara — coughed a rough laugh.

Shinare’s mouth tightened, and she glared at the older woman. “I can still draw a bow.”

Ashaenie watched, ears perked in curiosity. Silly creatures, these humans; among the foxkin, the eldest vixen would never be challenged in such a way.

“You are unsteady on your feet, your hips hurt, and you have to stop to empty your bladder every hour.”

Shinare flushed, shoulders stiff. But then she sighed and nodded once. “I will pack some food for you.”

The old woman did not answer, only twisting her braid up into a knot on the back of her head.

“Jinmaru, get the horse ready,” Shinare said, rapidly wrapping rice cakes, red beans, walnuts, oranges, and dried carp in brightly-colored cloths. “I want you to ride down the mountain to town as soon as possible.”

The young male looked up from where he held the water cup for his grandfather, his eyes going wide in excitement. “I am? Me?”

“Yes. You will go the House of the Daughter and tell them what has happened. They need to be warned — just in case ….”

“Just in case you and I fail in slaying this nightmare, fox.” The old woman wrapped a belt around her waist. She hung her short sickle on one side, and on the other a handful of heavy, four-sided blades that looked to Ashaenie almost like iron leaves. “Daughter, you offered our guest some food.”

“Oh, yes, my apologies.” Shinare flushed and hastily gathered a bowl of water, a plum cut into quarters, and some raw rabbit meat still on the bone. She bowed and set these on the floor in front of the fox.

“My thanks, Beloved of the Son.” Ashaenie tipped his head and then gobbled up the food. He was just ripping the last of the meat off the bone when the old woman stopped in front of him.

He looked up. She wore all leather and iron now, her tall bow in one hand, arrows across her back, sickle and four-sided knives at her waist. Ashaenie’s nose twitched as he caught the scent of iron coming from her boots, as well, though he could not see the source.

Shinare looped a water pouch and a leather pack filled with food over her mother’s shoulder. They exchanged a long, silent look. The old woman lifted a hand to touch her daughter’s cheek. Then she turned away and strode across the room to kneel beside the older man. Another long, silent look. They leaned close, touching foreheads, eyes closed.

And then the old woman was on her feet again, walking passed Ashaenie, passed the goats and chickens, and up the bank of the river into the woods.

The fox raced after her. He paused at the edge of the trees, casting a quick glance back at the human den.

Shinare stood in the entry. She touched the fingers of her left hand to her forehead, then her lips, then her heart. Ashaenie dipped his head in thanks for the blessing, then set out after the old woman again.

 

***

 

As she had only two legs, it took them longer to return to the dead crow than it had taken Ashaenie to reach the farm. They followed the river back along its course, eventually turning left. She followed him passed the spot where the copper pheasants had grazed. They gave the martens’ den a wide berth. They passed a small herd of sikka deer in the distance, and Ashaenie caught a whiff of brown bear somewhere upwind. Around them, spruce and fir and black pine loomed, branches creaking with every breeze.

It was nearing midday when they finally reached the corpse.

No scavenger had touched it. Even the flies avoided it.

Ashaenie’s nose twitched and he huffed unhappily, stopping some ten feet away.

The human stopped, too. Her fingers tightened on her bow and she slowly circled the dead bird. When she reached him again, she crouched, one end of her bow planted against the ground. She took a sip of her water, then tipped the pouch into her cupped hand. She held it out to him, and Ashaenie quickly lapped up the water.

“How many nightmares?”

The fox flicked his tail. The human confused him: rude and abrupt one moment, considerate the next. “I smell two,” he eventually admitted. “But they are clever. It is difficult to judge their size and strength.”

“Mmm.” She stood, slinging her pouch back over her shoulder. “If they have taken only small prey like this crow, then they are not strong yet. The nest should not be far. Find it.”

Tilting his nose to the wind, Ashaenie led her deeper into the woods.

 

***

 

The pungent aroma of boar filled the air. Ashaenie ignored it, along with the mad hammering of a pair of woodpeckers. Macaques shouted back and forth to one another in the trees, and a curious dragonfly buzzed around his head.

They stopped for water again, and the woman gave him some of her rice. It was awful, but he ate it because he was hungry and that was the polite thing to do. The orange wedges were better.

The sun was far into the western sky when they finally found the nest.

The stink slammed into Ashaenie’s nose, making him flinch back and cough. The taste filled his mouth and he shook his head. When he looked up, he realized they were in a small clearing, the ground thick with bright chrysanthemum shrubs. Butterflies flittered here and there in the angled sunlight, and the ground showed sikka deer, serow, and leopard cat tracks.

All of the tracks avoided a dark hole in the ground on the left side of the clearing.

Ashaenie flattened his ears. Beside him, the woman notched an arrow in her bow and took a careful step forward. She circled around to the side while Ashaenie prowled in the other direction, tail tip twitching, his nose low.

A wisp of reddish smoke puffed out of the hole.

They both stilled.

When the smoke had dissipated, they moved again, approaching the hole from opposite sides.

With a high-pitched hissy shriek, a red shadow erupted out of the ground. It leapt into the air above their heads, swooping left, right, left.

An arrow streaked through the air, missing the shadow by the width of a whisker.

The shadow dodged, rising higher, then falling towards them. Its shriek hurt Ashaenie’s ears and he pressed his belly closer to the ground.

Fear. It wrapped around him, cold and tight. Suffocating. His kits. He would never kill enough rabbits or salamanders to feed them. They would starve. Winter would come and they would be too skinny and they would die down there in their den, in their nest of feathers and leaves —

“Fox! Fox, help me!”

Ashaenie shook himself. The fear loosened, his mind cleared. He looked up as another arrow arced high and cut through the nightmare. The creature screamed and Ashaenie could see sky through the hole.

“Fox! The arrow!”

Swinging his head, inhaling deeply, Ashaenie spotted the arrow on the far side of the clearing, its iron head embedded in the ground beneath a chrysanthemum shrub. He raced over, closed his jaws around the arrow, tugged it loose, and ran back to the woman. He hopped onto his hind legs, holding it has high as he could.

She snatched it out of his jaws, notched and loosed the arrow again.

Another scream, another hole.

Her quiver was empty.

He raced around the clearing, breath fast, chest heaving. He found an arrow, carried it back to her. And another. And another.

Another hole, and another, and another.

The nightmare sank lower to the ground, tattered, ragged wounds bleeding sunlight.

Down and down.

The woman flipped her sickle loose from her belt. Iron a dull gray, she sliced it at an angle through the nightmare, and then again. A bright x bisected the monster.

With a final wavering howl, it drifted into four pieces and slowly evaporated.

Panting, the woman dropped to one knee. Only the hand wrapped around her bow kept her upright. Sweat dampened her hair, white strands sticking to her forehead and face.

“One,” she said. “That’s one.”

 

***

 

They collected her arrows, refilling her quiver. Then they covered the entrance to the infernal realms. First a large, flat rock. Ashaenie kicked dirt atop that with his hind legs, digging at the ground all around the hole, creating a small depression. The human continued to collect rocks, stacking and mixing them neatly with the dirt. She topped off the marker with two upright sticks, still wet and green, and a third tied in place with grass across the top.

When they were finished, she knelt and laid one of her strange, four-sided iron blades beneath the green arch. Clapping her hands three times, she touched the top stick, and then the two which stood upright. “Mother, who created the world and gave us the gift of mind. Daughter, who guards the infernal gates and gave us the gift of speech. Son, who guards the heavens and gave us the gift of heart. Protect us from fear. Sanctify these stones. Hold them fast.”

She was silent for a long moment, head bowed, eyes closed. Then she clapped her hands again three times and stood.

“Come, fox. We must find shelter for the night — and hope that the second nightmare does not come hunting for us.”

 

***

 

He led her to the Heart Tree. The sun had long set and the last wisps of dark purple along the western horizon were darkening to full black by the time they settled beneath its branches.

There were many Heart Trees scattered across the realm of the living. This one was a magnolia, born as the Son had walked the world, weeping. A few pristine white flowers still clung to the branches, but most had been replaced by dark green leaves. Flowers and leaves alike glowed gently, a soft light that did not hurt Ashaenie’s eyes, with veins of lighter green and brown running through the bark. The branches hung low to the ground, sheltering them.

They did not light a fire. The woman shared her water again, the dried carp, and another orange. Then she tucked her bag beneath her head, laid out her bow and quiver at her side, and stretched out on the ground.

“What are the infernal gates?”

She turned her head and frowned at him, hair nearly as white as the blossoms. “What?”

“You called the Daughter the one who guards the infernal gates.”

“I … oh. You do not address the Daughter so in your prayers?”

“No.” Ashaenie scratched some pebbles out of the way and then curled up, tail wrapped around his legs.

“In our tales, after the Daughter accidentally released the nightmares from the infernal realm, She vowed to make amends. So, She forever stands guard, holding back the monsters which would otherwise drive us all mad and destroy the Mother’s creation.” She sighed loudly, hands clasped across her belly. “Some still manage to escape, though. … That is not your tale?”

“It is not.” Ashaenie’s stomach rumbled with hunger. Perhaps there were some rabbits nearby. Or a nest of flying squirrels. “In the tales told by foxkin, the Daughter and Son were not satisfied with filling the Mother’s creation with animals. They wished to create realms of Their own. But They were neither as strong nor as wise as the Mother. And so the celestial realm, created by the Son, contains both the beauty of the stars and the terror of storms. And the infernal realm, created by the Daughter, contains both delicious bugs and rodents and the horror of nightmares.”

“ … delicious bugs and rodents …?”

Ashaenie cocked an ear at the human. “Of course.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“The crows have a much different story, as do the wolves and the bears.” He paused. “I suppose that I should not be at all surprised that humans got it wrong, too.”

Her wry, amused chuckle was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep.

 

***

 

In the morning, he caught a rabbit. There was no time to cook it, so they both ate it raw, along with some of her beans and walnuts. He found a clear, shallow stream nearby and they drank their fill. After she had refilled her pouch, Ashaenie lifted his nose, following the faint trail left by the second nightmare.

He lost it many times over the course of the day. This nightmare was clever. It doubled back not once, but three times, leading them in confusing, meandering circles. They climbed higher up the mountain, traveling deeper into the wilderness. The trees thickened around them. Herds of sikka deer slipped in and out of the shadows. A wolf pack stalked them for too long, then found easier prey. Macaques continued to hoot and howl from above.

He caught another rabbit. Again, they ate it raw.

The scent of the nightmare grew stronger, until it was all that he could smell.

Higher up the mountain. The ground became rougher, uneven. The trees changed. More spruce and fir now.

Night. There was no Heart Tree here, so the human found an alcove formed by a pair of boulders and a depression in the hillside. She built a fire. This time, he was only able to catch a single flying squirrel. She cooked her half and then settled back against the rocks, her sickle and bow across her lap.

He curled up in the darkest corner of the alcove, hiding the white tip of his tail beneath his body.

And they waited.

 

***

 

The nightmare was clever and patient.

First, it sent the owl after them. Huge eyes crazed with fear, sharp talons stretched forward and wings wide, it swooped down upon them out of the darkness. Beak biting, talons slashing, it went for the woman’s face while Ashaenie whined and chattered, leaping uselessly back and forth.

She hissed, arm flung across her eyes. Tried and failed to stand. Managed to get on one knee, the owl’s wings beating her head.

Frantic, Ashaenie swung his head back and forth. Twisting, he examined the boulder to one side of the alcove. It was pitted and carved by rain and wind. Taking a running leap, he dodged around the human and the crazed owl, dug his paws into the stone, and climbed. Up, up, to the rough top of the boulder. Spinning around, panting, he paused, watching the owl —

— and then jumped.

He landed on the owl’s right side, most of his weight slamming into its wing. The bird shrieked. He opened his mouth and sank his teeth into the back of its neck.

They tumbled to the ground, slamming hard into the dirt.

The owl bucked beneath him, wings kicking up dust.

He tightened his jaws.

A crack, and the owl stilled.

And then the wolf was upon them.

This time, the woman made it onto her feet before the attack. She scrambled to the side as the wolf leapt for her throat, bringing her sickle around to slash at its side. The wolf snarled, paws catching on the hard dirt of the hillside so that it could flip around and lunge at her again. Drool ran from its mouth, its eyes wide and mad.

The woman fell down and to the side, pulling one of her arrows to thrust it up into the wolf’s chest.

It landed behind her, gasping and howling. The wolf spun around again, but slower this time. Teeth snapping, it lunged, pulled back, lunged again.

Belly sliding across the ground, ears flat, Ashaenie crawled around the mad wolf, keeping to the shadows. When the animal’s tail was within reach, he pounced, nipping and tugging.

The wolf spun, snapping, teeth just missing Ashaenie’s nose as he scampered away.

The woman rose up behind the wolf, slicing her sickle across the back of its legs.

The mad wolf spun to face her again, bleeding, legs shaking, and again Ashaenie leapt for its tail. Over and over, again and again, the wolf growing weaker with each attack.

Until finally it collapsed, breath rough and quick, eyes glazed.

The woman shambled forward, one foot dragging, and Ashaenie saw a dark gash along the back of her leg. Lifting her arrow, her arm shaking, she drove the iron down through the wolf’s eye and into its brain.

The wolf shuddered, and lay still.

Ashaenie did not see the nightmare until it was too late.

It slithered across the ground, a creeping red mist that arced up and over her back and shoulders, avoiding the iron plates embedded in her leather armor. It engulfed her head and neck, an infernal halo.

The woman cried out, arms flailing. Tumbling onto her side, she dropped her sickle. Yipping and huffing, Ashaenie pranced around her in agitation, unsure how to help. She kicked her legs, hands grasping uselessly at the red shadow. Her eyes glazed with fear and her mouth dropped open in a scream that echoed between the boulders and the hillside.

Ears flat, Ashaenie jumped, sinking his teeth through her boot and into her leg. He tasted iron.

She jerked, scream cut off by a gasp of pain.

He looked up, teeth still tight around her ankle. Her eyes cleared for a moment, and he loosened his grip. Licking the blood from his face, he scrambled up her leg, landing hard on her belly. He could feel the thunder of her heartbeat through her clothes and the iron plates.

“Human! Female! The nightmare will steal your mind and your voice and take your body for its own! It lies to you! The fear is not real!”

Panting, one hand still scrabbling at the red mist, she slid the other hand down her side. Her eyes began to glaze over again, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her hand slipped into her boot, emerging with a thin, sharp knife.

Tail stiff with agitation, his belly pressed against her body, Ashaenie could only watch as she raised the knife and drove it down towards her own head.

The iron sliced through the nightmare, bit into her cheek, bounced off bone, dragged through flesh down the side of her face and across the bottom of her ear.

The nightmare screamed and pulled away. Still clinging to the unbloodied side of her head, it flapped and writhed in the firelight.

She swung the knife again, her aim awkward and uncontrolled. The knife cut through the shadow, the weight of her arm carrying it down. The blade embedded itself in the earth, pinning the nightmare in place.

It released her, still wriggling and screaming.

As the woman rolled over, Ashaenie jumped from her belly. He yipped at the shadow, watching it carefully as she struggled up onto one arm. Sliding her hand over the dirt, she reached for her sickle.

The nightmare’s struggles became more frantic.

There was an awful crunchy, shredding sound and the nightmare tore itself free of the knife. It slithered out of the alcove, away from the fire and the human’s iron.

“Follow,” she panted, trying to stand.

“You —”

“Follow!”

Ears perked, nose twitching, Ashaenie leapt out of the alcove and into the night.

The shadow was easy to follow, the stench of it burning his nose. He left a trail that would be just as easy for the human to follow, kicking up dirt and stones, snapping twigs and low branches.

The nightmare lost bits of itself as it fled. Thin tendrils hung in the air for a moment, twisting, and then were gone.

One touched his ear as he raced by, and he whined at the feel of it and the fear that filled his mind.

Then the trees gave way to a rocky patch of ground. The stench of the shadow disappeared down into the earth, down a hole hidden among the roots of a dead fir tree. He circled the hole, the shape a denser black against the moon-cast shadow of the tree.

He could hear the woman coming, her steps sluggish, one leg dragging. He yipped, calling to her.

A puff of thick reddish mist curled out of the hole, rolled across the ground, nearly touching his paws, and then retreated.

“Human! You must hurry! It heals itself in the infernal realm!”

Panting, mouth twisted in a grimace of pain, she limped out of the woods and into the little rocky field. Blood covered the left side of her face. Her white hair was a mess of twigs and dirt and sweat. She gripped her sickle in one shaking hand.

She stumbled, fell to her knees, and crawled the rest of the way to the dead tree. When she reached it, she stared down into the bottomless hole, her eyes bright with pain and anger.

Ashaenie crouched by her side, his nose twitching.

Another puff of thick red mist.

Bracing herself on one arm, the woman reached a trembling hand to her belt. Her fingers fumbled as she tried to grasp one of the four-sided knives that hung there. Her hand slipped.

Twisting around, Ashaenie grabbed one in his teeth. With an awkward tug, he slid it free of the tiny hook.

“Three,” she panted.

He pulled two more of the odd knives free and set them on the ground, tasting the iron on his tongue.

“Drop … them.” She pointed a shaking hand at the hole in the ground.

Huffing, tail stiff, he picked one up, took a handful of short steps forward, and dropped it.

The iron cut through the darkness, bright and cold.

“Mother … gift of mind, by which … we found and forged this iron.” The woman coughed. He scrambled to grab the next piece of iron and the next as she continued, voice catching. “Daughter, who … speech … share the power of iron. Son, whose … gift of heart compels us … iron … protect one another and … Mother’s creation.”

Down and down and down the iron fell, quickly lost to sight.

Ashaenie had expected an infernal scream, a violent upheaval of earth and trees. Instead, there was an eerie stillness, an awful quiet that made his fur stand on end. No wind, no insects, no birds.

And then the hole disappeared. The ground closed shut. Dirt and pebbles knit themselves together, leaving no trace of the entrance to the infernal realm.

“Two,” she whispered, and fainted.

 

***

 

The woman slept until dawn, sprawled across the ground. Ashaenie licked honey over her wounds, stuck leaves to them, and then curled up against her side, just as he had done when one of his kits was attacked by a marten. He prayed to the Mother and the Son and the Daughter, and listened to her stuttering heart.

Only with first light did she stir. While he yipped and tugged at her clothing, she shifted up onto one arm, dragged herself across the hard dirt, and twisted around to lay against the dead fir tree.

She laid there for two days and two nights.

Ashaenie found mushrooms and grubs, wild radishes and onions. She nibbled on them, chewing slowly. He caught a skinny squirrel and ripped the meat from its bones, feeding her a bite at a time. Their noses bumped, and his whiskers brushed her cheek. He dragged her pouch to a shallow stream and pulled it through the water until it was full. Half the water had spilled out by the time he dragged it back to her. She drank it all, slurping and coughing. He returned to the stream again, and then again.

When she slept, he curled up in the crook of her arm and counted her breaths.

On the third morning, hunters from the House of the Daughter found them. They appeared out of the woods, quick and silent, dressed in leather and iron. They carried bows and slim swords and sharp knives.

An old male with a bald head knelt down beside Ashaenie and the woman, long bow in his hands. “Jinaru brought us warning of the nightmare. Does it still threaten?”

The woman rolled her head in a negative, the brittle bark of the tree crackling. “Banished. Both of them.”

The man nodded, his expression grim. “You have done well, Kihara. We will treat your wounds. Two of my hunters will take you home. The rest of us will remain and continue the hunt. The nightmares never rest, and neither can we.”

The woman — Kihara — coughed and lifted a shaking hand to rest it on Ashaenie’s head. “Fox. Could not … without him.”

The old man grunted and dipped his head, one hand pressed to his chest. “You have our deepest thanks, Fox. How may we of the House of the Daughter properly express our gratitude and debt to you?”

Ashaenie twitched an ear, his gaze dropping down to Kihara, and then lifting again. “I would have answered: do everything in your power to save this one. I have grown rather … fond of her. But since you are already determined to return her safely home … then I shall say blankets.”

The old human blinked. “Blankets?”

“It appears that human cleverness extends to more than just iron. My kits and vixen were cold this past winter. Blankets for warmth would be appreciated.”

The bald man dipped his head again. “It shall be so.”

While Kihara’s wounds were slathered with stinky gunk and wrapped in cloth, the branches and moss were collected for the litter. When it was complete, two of the hunters carefully moved her into place. Ashaenie gingerly climbed in beside her, settling into the space between her hip and arm. He laid his head on her belly, watching her face and feeling her heart beat.

The old man clasped her hand in farewell. Then he lifted his bow, and he and the rest of the hunters slipped silently into the forest.

“I have come to a decision,” Ashaenie said.

She slowly scratched his ears. “Oh?”

“Yes. Humans are silly creatures — but perhaps not quite as silly as I previously thought.”

She chuckled, still scratching his ears, as the hunters gently lifted the litter and carried them home.

 

________________________________________

Rebecca Buchanan is the editor of the Pagan literary ezine, Eternal Haunted Summer, and a regular contributor to evOke: witchcraft *paganism* lifestyle. She has been published in a wide variety of venues, and her poetry has been nominated for the Dwarf Star, Pushcart, and Rhysling Awards.

 

Simon Walpole has been drawing for as long as he can remember and is fortunate to spend his freetime working as an illustrator. He primarily use pencils, pens and markers and use a bit of digital for tweaking. As well as doing interior illustrations for various publishing formats he has also drawn a lot of maps for novels. his work can be found at his website HandDrawnHeroes.