Excerpt
The birds had ceased their singing. The fox trembled with fear and crouched lower in the hedge as he watched the man clamber to his feet. He saw the man stare down at the figure sprawled on the ground, then drag the body across the lane and kick it into the ditch. The man stood regaining his breath for a few moments, then walked quickly away from the scene, turning once for a backward glance before disappearing round the corner.
Cautiously the fox emerged from his hiding place, padded over to the ditch and peered into it. He whined unhappily, and nervously scanned the road to see if the man might be returning. There was no human in sight, however, and he heard the birds beginning to sing once more—hesitantly at first, then with increasing confidence. Somewhat reassured, he jumped into the ditch, landing beside the unconscious woman. He scrambled onto her chest and, perched precariously, sniffed her face. In his ears the birdsong grew louder, steadier. A few notes sung close by caused him to look up sharply: he saw a robin staring down from the top of the hedge. The robin chirruped again, and flew down onto a twig closer to the ground.
The fox turned his attention back to the woman. He sniffed her face again and licked her cheek. The robin had now left the shelter of the hedge and stood on the bank of the ditch, trilling encouragingly. The fox whimpered and nuzzled the woman, following up with a vigorous head-butt. The woman groaned. The fox, struggling to keep his balance, leaned forward and barked sharply in her ear, before sliding down into the mud. The woman, a young woman, opened her eyes and stared at him; she looked around her in a puzzled sort of way, then managed a weak smile and stretched out a hand to pat his head.
“Reynard,” she murmured. “My beautiful Reynard.”
She elbowed herself painfully into a sitting position, then recalling the horror of her ordeal, buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. The fox, whining, scrabbled to get closer to her. She wiped her eyes on her cloak, put her arms around the animal’s neck and buried her face in his fur, trying to drive from her mind the memory of the man’s brutality: his gloating grin as he had approached her in the deserted lane, his mocking laugh as he had grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him as she tried to sidestep him, the contemptuous ease with which he had thrown her to the ground. He was a man who knew he was in control of the situation… in control of her.
She burst out crying again, as the fox trembled in her arms. The robin had by now flown down to perch on a branch that had fallen into the ditch. Keeping a wary eye on the fox, he added his own sorrowful notes to the vulpine whimpers.
The woman stopped sobbing and listened; then, softly to begin with, she joined her own sweet voice to the chorus. Her song was first the gentle ripple of a brook, then the resonant splash of a waterfall, and finally the silvery peal of bells ringing in the air.
The harmonies had soothed the fox. No longer trembling, he licked the woman’s hand as she gently disengaged her arms from around his neck.
A movement on the bank caused the woman to look up. She saw a squirrel peering down at her.
“My Lady,” the squirrel said, “we saw what happened.”
“We weren’t strong enough to help you,” the fox said apologetically, with another lick.
“I know you weren’t,” the woman replied, stroking his head.
“He hurts us all,” the robin said unhappily. “He’s cutting down our trees.”
“He’s taking our roads away,” the squirrel agreed. “The woods and forests are almost gone now. How can we move around without our highways?”
“Your creatures are suffering, my Lady,” the robin said. “There are fewer and fewer of us. The ground-nesters are almost all destroyed. The farmers leave no room for them now in the fields.”
“I know,” the woman sighed. “And the fields themselves are exhausted. They’re given no rest.”
“We’re losing our homes,” the robin told her urgently, his dark little eyes fixed pleadingly on her.
“We’re losing more than our homes,” the fox remarked tartly, his amber eyes sparking with anger. “Some of us are losing our skins. A good chase is one thing, but having earthstoppers block up your den is something else again. I hate earthstoppers,” he added bitterly.
“I hate cats,” the robin burst out vehemently. “Trees cut down, houses built, and—cats! Cats everywhere. Damn cats! They’re nothing but killing machines. And the vicious brutes aren’t even hungry.”
The air above the ditch shimmered and formed itself into a feline shape. A ginger tomcat dropped lightly to the ground, landing beside the squirrel. He gave the robin a long, cool look. Then his emerald eyes changed color, and the little bird, now shaking like a leaf, found himself in the glare of a golden spotlight.
“What was that you were saying?” the cat asked in a honeyed voice. “Would you care to repeat it?”
The robin trilled miserably.
“That reminds me,” the cat went on, his golden eyes taking on a predatory, feral gleam, “I’m feeling a bit peckish. It’s some time since I had anything to eat.”