The Struggle
One of the things that I most consistently struggle with is the concept that my readers will pick up everything I'm laying down and build their own castle, mote, bridge, and world from the pieces. My inclination is to list all the ingredients in any given loaf of bread, to include every single pertinent detail to the flight trajectory of an unladen swallow (Monte Python reference, folks). What I've found in my own reading adventures, however, is that the inclusion of such details is best limited to snapshots, to little moments where the veins on a leaf are perfectly described followed by a general assertion that the stand is full of trees that look nothing like the one described -- and leaving the description at that. It's much harder, as a writer, to leave things out than to add things in, but I try. I try, and sometimes this task comes easy. Other times, it comes with much more difficulty. Sometimes I imagine that I'm painting the image of the moon, and I've got all these stars up there, but they're ruining the aesthetic of loneliness. Sometimes, I paint the rays of the stars in my mind, infinite details coalescing at the tip of my fingers, and force myself to remove the white filter of moonlight. Either way, I try.
And that's all any of us can do.
This piece
The selection today starts strong and fades into explanation. It grows dull and reads lethargic by the end. Even so, this WORD DOODLE is significant and valuable, showing hints of things that are not explained elsewhere at the beginning and more powerful for the omissions. The power of a pair of adjectives to relay mountains of information can never be overstated.
I should also point out that this is a "mythic" piece, meant to be a story explaining how things are to children in the world of A Vow Unbroken (the first of the series is Borehole Bazaar). These are the allegories used to explain how the world works once the races begin to intermix, and as such, there is an element of spoileryness to this sort of piece. Even so, it's a great little non-canonical word doodle.
Please do not steal this work, but if inspiration strikes from reading, act on your inspiration. Treat the copyright on this the same as an oil or watercolor or other fine art piece and give "inspiration" credit where it is due. If, by chance, the exercise of trying from memory to copy is used, be extra certain to label your source (this is good advice in general/for life).
Dancing Evermore
It is a sad truth that foxes do not live forever, but not a sad truth that, when they die, they go on to the realm of the hunt. One might ask, since only the greatest hunters of all species go there, to try their hand at hunting and to be born again when they are vanquished, ever experiencing every moment of exhilaration and graceful poise, why a low-level carnivore would opt for such a fate as this.
Ah, but have you heard of unlucky Kiki? Of triumphant Forjay? Of luxurious Yizhear? These foxes, they led the way. But how?
Well, that story comes from a little kit of the Sobresat foxes, which are almost as much coyote as they are fox, though smaller than the former and of shorter, less glossy fur than the latter. They are playful with their pack, but shy and retiring, timid and timorous, when confronted with outsiders.
Shy, yes, but also fierce.
One day, a particularly agile member of the clan was gnawing on a bit of bone that was somewhat too large for her head. She was in good company, for a pack of giant wolves, bone spurs forming a thick, tough ridge about their spines and the fur about their neck and shoulders thick like a porcupine's, were likewise gnawing. She had often dined with them, but was not one amongst them. Rather, they had long learned that she never stayed chased off for long and that her eyes and nose were good enough to warn of disturbance.
There is not much that could bring worry to a sizeable pack’s tails, but even they were not the strongest, much though they ranked near enough this mark. The leaders called themselves Ehrjaxt. They numbered three most times, though there were a few who shared their name when the pack splintered for the hunt. Ehrjaxt with the brownest fur stood and shook his great cape, lolling his tongue for a moment before he paced toward the Sobresat fox. She gazed up at him with wide eyes, though she did not release her bone.
Wolves speak in the way of wolves, which we can understand but cannot truly emulate. Foxes speak in the way of foxes, but they can speak wolf when they need to. It never sounds quite right, but wolves rarely bother to learn the weird sounds of the fox. So Ehrjaxt of the brownest fur said to the fox, “If you would join us, you will hunt.”
The coyote fox stood quietly for a moment, dropping her bone and setting a single paw atop it, claiming it for herself. She considered for a time, then nodded and resumed eating. Now, she had understood that this meant she was to hunt right now, to leave this moment, but foxes like having things explained extra, just to be sure. So she waited until the brown-furred Ehrjaxt snapped at the air before her whiskers before darting off, holding still to show her bravery first.
No one knows the name of this first Sobresat fox, or perhaps her story is the story of many such foxes, and hers is simply the story that is told. At any rate, she knew she could not hunt in the way that even a single giant wolf can hunt, but she knew that she could hunt in her own way.
First, though, she wanted to have a witness, but Ehrjaxt with the longest nose knew full well that foxes, even tame ones like her, like to make others work and then share in the kills as an equal if left to their own mischief. So Ehrjaxt with the longest nose chose a pup to go with her, one that was nearing two years old, and told the pup, called Ovcta, not to let the fox trick him. Ovcta was canny among the pups, with larger ears and three tails instead of just two. He trotted off to where the fox waited, perched halfway up a tree.
Most foxes find trees difficult to manage, but most Sobresat foxes can climb them as well as most cats, though they do this by jumping great heights and landing precisely on the branches with their delicate three-toed paws, counterbalancing with their single, long, beautifully muscled tail. This one jumped to another tree, then down to land between Ovcta’s shoulders, then again down to the ground. So light was her footfall that Ovcta only barely realized she was there, but she was not perfectly clever, as one of Ovcta’s fur-quills stuck in her paw.
Now, Xi’Xien foxes are good about pain, and Twirling foxes, like Forjay, are so bold that they cannot be held back by it, and Tovalla foxes are too concerned with looking pretty to let it be known that they are in pain, unless such a truth makes them look pretty in some other way, but Sobresat foxes, they cry and make such a sound of despair even when a mere tick chances upon their ear. So this one fell to her side and cried and yelped and made every sound of distress that a fox can make, and even some that most think they cannot, until Ovcta felt he must either help the poorly creature or else kill it to end its suffering.
The sound made by the fox when the quill was gripped firmly and pulled out was loud enough that poor Ovcta could not hear so well for many days, but the Sobresat fox was content and led the way, despite having much shorter legs than the wolf, and one of them sensitive to the ground’s lickings, too. She took a path not much used by the wolves until she found a place where the Novamahr deer would come to drink, their giant antlers having made a path in the canopy that led to a bit of water while their delicate, tiny legs traveled paths so narrow that poor Ovcta was scraped on each shoulder by brambles. Still, eventually, they made it to the clear pool, and the fox rolled around in the water, rubbing her fur hard against the rounded rocks in the middle. Ovcta thought that this was just the normal way that foxes like to stay way cleaner than any creature should, but this was actually a clever ploy.
After making herself smell like nothing but wet and fur, she jumped up some eight feet to rub against the trunks, getting sap from where the Novamahr deer had pushed through the foliage to coat her freshly wetted fur. She then climbed high up to where a nest of newborn birds were and sat beneath them until she smelled of bird droppings, of sticky sap, of water, and of air, with only a little bit of her fox-smell slipping through this olfactory mask. Every few moments, she jumped up a little higher or a little lower, rubbing against moss and tree-ant hives but staying far away from the nest of parchment wasps!
Ovcta tried to ask her what she was hunting, but the coyotelike fox said to be quiet, that she was stalking, even though she made noise enough to let any prey animal know of her approach. With little else for it, Ovcta kept watching her and felt amused by the little creature’s antics, though he was sad that the fox would have to stop eating scraps with the pack when she failed to hunt. Foxes stayed young for much longer than wolves, so it was easy enough to think of her, each spring, as a newborn little sister, even if he only had just experienced his third spring, the first of which he did not remember the sight of but distinctly remembered the smells for.
Finally, they came to a clearing full of all sorts of game. Ovcta was surprised because normally prey would have run away, thinking themselves hunted, but this time, they seemed not to be worried that a fox was in the trees and making a racket. The Sobresat fox gestured for him to lay down out in the open air and sun himself on a rock, which seemed crazy, but then she jumped down and danced about first, and he trotted after, and all the prey gazed at them with confusion and alarm for a moment before twitching their ears and going back about their meals. It was just two youngsters playing, nothing the least threatening about that.
They lounged for a few hours in the sunlight like that until the shadows were a little bit longer. Every few minutes, the fox would get up and pounce on his tails until he snapped at her. Then, she would dart away, first only a little distance, but then with great leaps and bounds. The prey seemed more annoyed than frightened, now, and while a few moved away, others stood their ground or even pressed closer, letting her know that they would not be bullied by her wildly exuberant play. Ovact stayed on the rock and digested, not quite sure what this whole business was about but fascinated by how differently the prey acted around this lesser hunter, this killer of mice and occasional rabbits.
An old bull moose walked into the clearing, swaying with each ponderous step. He was colossal in height and girth, but his second hide was deteriorating in places, and it was clear he’d lost the last few rutts to younger males. Even so, Ehrjaxt of many years and old scars would not have led a hunt against such a creature except in the most desperate of hungers, and even the other Ehrjaxts would have shied away from the prospect of glory at the cost of taking the brute majesty of this failing defender.
Now, though, the fox darted close at the tails and flung herself wide, leaping up the middle path of the bull moose’s skull. He espied her not, his broad forehead and wide-set eyes perfect for spotting those that would approach from either flank and even, to a measure, from behind, but she danced perfectly with the swaying of his head, staying ever in his blind spot until, from twelve feet away, she leapt.
Ovact had seen the fox leap before, but it had always been little leaps, into trees or playfully with mischief. He’d never seen her leap with deadly intent, with every vector of her body perfectly aligned to most charge her spring, to carry her through the air like a granite bullet from a sling. The bull was not hurt by her landing upon his forehead, but he was startled and immediately charged, shaking his head violently as he did. Ovact darted to the side quickly, stunned to see his tiny friend atop the moose’s head, being tossed from curved palmate antler to curved palmate antler. But no, she wasn’t being tossed. She was running from one side to the other and crouching down, then running to the other side.
The bull was furious and ran headlong at the bushes and trees, doing itself considerable harm while the Sobresat fox moved out of the way, even biting onto the danglings of fur under its lower lip for a time. It kept plunging deeper and deeper, knocking through boulders and trees and bushes and all sorts of things. It was easy enough to follow, and it turned in its path eventually, taking some instinctive cares to avoid the densest brush. Ovact followed until he came to the edge of another pack’s territory, some eight miles down. He worried after his friend and hoped that no wars would come of this. Lifting his nose and opening his mouth, he sniffed at the air, hoping the pack-smell was not strong upon her.
But no! She had never caught his tails, and she had not touched him since her bath. She did not smell of a predator but of birds and moss and sap and all the things that a bull moose might smell of! The cleverness suddenly apparent, Ovact found himself worried over losing the precocious little short-furred fox. But it was not safe to enter this territory, so all he could do was pace the edges and sniff the air for the scents of a panicked bull moose.
All night he roamed the border, back and forth, forth and back, until, finally and at last, he heard a thunderous crashing and darted off toward the sound. Several birds startled from their rest and he snapped prodigiously, not pausing overmuch and thus catching a bird that had expected him to behave as a proper hunter. He carried this prize with him and charged after the sound now, his feet finding purchase enough to hurl his body headlong toward his target.
Feathers in mouth and the bird still flapping as he hadn’t got the right grip on it and was too excited to slow down and finish the hunt right, he caught sight of the bull running forward again, its neck bloodied in a dozen small bites, the wounds from its rutts of the day before worried and raw and exposed, and a heaviness to his step that spoke of complete and utter exhaustion. His one eye was goughed out, but the other eye was white all around the edges. This was causing it to vere toward one side, but then he spotted his fox savagely biting at the giant ear, turning the monster again. It went straight for awhile before starting to turn again. And then was corrected once more.
There was a great deal of cruelty in this method of killing as the fox kept the moose moving for three days flat out, but eventually it collapsed, unable to move as she scrambled off and began digging and biting at its neck, finally reaching deep enough to spill lifeblood. It was only after the creature sagged down that Ovact realized that the three Ehrjaxts were standing quietly by, observing. A younger adult took the name and stepped forward, growling softly. The little coyote-fox hunkered down but did not run away, and the leader of wolves hovered directly over her, all teeth bared. Finally, though, the matron relented, licking the scruff of the Sobresat fox twice before moving in to take a first bite.
Suddenly, the rest of the pack was over the dale and into the corpse, ripping through the tough hide to the warmth within such that steam danced in the sky. That night, the little fox did not run off to sleep in a nearby tree but curled up between Ovact and the Ehrjaxt with brown fur. She helped with the hunts now and was not chased from her share of scraps but treated as a one-year-old pup. And when the spring came, she denned with the other mothers and spilled her brood into the pack. So it was that, when her spirit walked from her flesh and the decision was cast before her, she chose to hunt and be hunted beside all the great Ehrjaxt, and a warmer welcome she’d have found nowhere else.
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