What The Fox Saw

It was a cool Autumn evening on the South Downs when a fox paused in his night’s work to sniff the air. There was a strange scent on the wind and it raised the hair on the fox’s neck and tail.

He sniffed again. It wasn’t something good to eat, and it wasn’t something better to avoid. It was no scent he recognized, but it tasted cold and made his tongue curl back in his mouth.

The fox swallowed a whine and panted. The Downs were becoming an odd place of late. Night after night strange folk disturbed his hunting and his kits were growing thin.

Then he flattened suddenly as the scent became shapes rising over the hill. Two-legged they were, one light, one dark; one bent like a willow, one skulking like a sheep dog. There was nothing about them to bespeak danger, but that scent: like blood, like lightning, and the farmer’s fork. The fox stayed still, and the shapes passed.

When they reached the next copse, he rose silently to his haunches. But as they slipped away between the trees the light one turned, caught the fox in a speared glance, and showed his teeth. Then they were gone.

For a long time the fox stood frozen, whining softly. Then, with a shiver he turned to check that tail, toes and testicles were all where they should be. Then he slunk away into the grass.

What kind of creature sent pain over distance, for no reason? He’d felt a burning, a warning, in every hair, and known for sure he’d become someone else’s dinner instead of finding some of his own.

He’d hunt no more this night. Better to be home with hungry kits than not come home at all. Best go home and keep silent.