by William Kitcher

A sharp discordant cacophony filtered through into the old fox’s dream. He couldn’t identify it but it was familiarly disturbing and he woke slightly and his ears perked up. Despite being huddled up in among some weeds for warmth, he still shook with the autumn cold. The noise coalesced into the barking of hounds, and then he heard the horns, and he knew he had to run again.

He was tired, so tired, and he was old, and he didn’t want to run again. But his instinct brought him to his knees, and he began to run. His back right leg was a little lame from having fallen down a hill, and it wouldn’t do what he wanted it to do. But he ran anyway. He knew he was done this time.

Why does my life end like this, he thought. Why was my whole life consumed by fear of those sounds? Can’t they let it just be? In these last few minutes of my life, how can I make things change? Why can’t things evolve?

He limped along, trying to gain speed, but his leg wouldn’t respond. He ran down the bank of a stream, and plunged himself into the cold water. The stream was brisk and he fought the current.

I’ve learned, he thought, that the dogs can’t track if the prey stays in the water, so he ran upstream against the current. But then he realized that there were too many dogs, and they would launch themselves into the stream. Some of them would go upstream, some would go down, some would merely cross the stream and run around at random, trying to pick up the scent.

The old fox had no choice. He clambered up the bank on the other side and set off across an open field. He could see a wood at the other end of the field and thought it might be the one with the cave he had once wintered in, but he didn’t know if he could reach it before the dogs caught up with him. And he couldn’t remember if the cave was small enough that he could get into it but the dogs couldn’t.

He ran as fast as his lame leg would let him. He looked from side to side to see if there was anywhere he could hide but there was nothing, only the distant wood.

The dogs had crossed the stream, and were coming after him, followed by the red-suited horseriders. He heard the dogs’ baleful howls, and wondered if they were trying to warn him of their presence, to get him to run faster, to tell him that they didn’t want to kill him but that their instincts were too strong. Run, run, run, he heard in his mind, and tried to pick up speed.

The wood was still too far away. He glanced behind and the dogs and horses were closer. They would probably catch him before he reached the wood.

The fox stopped and turned to face the dogs who were now only fifty yards behind him. He looked at them and changed. He let out a cross between a bark and a howl and he could feel it echo inside his head, and he thought he could hear it echo over the countryside.

The dogs stopped. The fox yowled again. The dogs’ ears pricked up. Some of the dogs retreated in confusion or fear. Some of them sat down and listened. The fox screamed out at the universe again.

The dogs slowly turned toward the horses and the riders and began to bark hysterically. The horses backed off and the dogs continued their barking and crept forward. The horses reared up as one and threw their riders off their backs. The dogs set upon the riders.

About the Author:

Bill’s stories, plays, and comedy sketches (and one poem!) have been published, produced, and/or broadcast in Australia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Canada, Czechia, England, Guernsey, Holland, India, Ireland, Nigeria, Singapore, South Africa, and the U.S. His novel, “Farewell And Goodbye, My Maltese Sleep”, will be published in 2023 by Close To The Bone Publishing.