Transformation of the fox,
This is a work of fiction any likeness in this story whether it is name or action is purely coincidental. The subject is violent so please have some discretion.
A Fox's Dream
The old animal walked slowly through the darkening forest, his head hung with mounting exhaustion and his paws dragged through the fallen leaves of years past. His bright orange fur had once been of one color but over the years it changed from the lustrous red orange to a thinning white mix. His muzzle was pure white and his once black paws were mixed heavily with grey-white as well. He neared his den and chose to forgo the normal and cautious nature of his species and slunk into the dark dirt cave without checking for 'guests'.
When he wasn't immediately eviscerated by a waiting wolverine or another woodland predator he settled near the rear of the earthen cave and curled himself with his tail touching his nose. He was too old to fully complete the maneuver but just being curled would save some sorely needed body heat. His heart slowed and he wondered absently if he would die this night; he had been old when his first mate had died of old age. All of his children had grown and died as their progeny were now long in the dirt.
He didn't mourn them though he had known when he chose this life what would happen. He was no normal fox. Once he had been human; the red-dyed leather collar he wore attested to the fact that he was no normal animal. His name was engraved on the golden plate that was riveted to the gleaming leather strap. It was a simple name, 'Mounce'. It had been given to him so long ago.
His eyes began to drift closed as his stomach rumbled with hunger. He had been unable to find anything he was willing to eat; and he would go hungry one more night. This reminded him of his childhood, of the poor child he had been. He had been a burden to the people of his home. They'd felt obligated to care for the poor wretch left to them after the massacre of his father.
Martyn was too small to do some of the more strenuous jobs on the farm, so his father had set him to watch the sheep and practice his letters and numbers from the small book his mother had given him for his sixth birthday. He sat beneath a large tree and read the plain words while still trying to keep an eye on the gluttonous sheep that seemed to want to wander far too often for his liking or comfort. Green leaves rustled in the gnarled tree above him as he read.
The sun climbed and the simple minded animals cropped at the grasses on the hill around him as he studied. As the sun climbed higher into the sky Martyn began to worry about his mother's tardiness. She normally brought him something to eat around noon. But from the angle of the shadow that fell behind the tree she was very late. This had never happened in all his time as a half-hearted sheepherder.
Martyn left his charges when he could not wait any longer. They didn't notice his swift exit but nothing seemed to penetrate their thick skulls but danger and perhaps food. He left the four dirt colored sheep on the hill chosen for this week's grazing and hurried home.
What he glimpsed when he rounded the last corner that had hid his humble home from the road made him fall to his knees. Martyn didn't need to go in to know what had happened. He'd find them dead if not violated in ways he shied from thinking of. As he knelt in the dirt an emerald leaf drifted into his line of sight and glided to light upon the pool of blood that trailed from deeper in the darkened cottage.
He had seen the neighbor's daughter after being found in the hills by some criminal. In fact he had been the one to discover her broken corpse in the knoll while walking with his wooly burdens trailing behind him. The boy couldn't force himself to go inside and see his mother in the same twisted position.
Tears flowed from him. When the last of the light from the sun fell into his eyes as it sunk below the horizon in the west, he flinched away from the light and looked around himself. Night was falling and he was alone and unprotected.
From the depths of the trees he heard the gentle rustling of leaves. He froze and waited for the beasts who had destroyed his home to come and finish him as well. No weapon pierced his flesh but his fear continued to mount.
Martyn looked to the gathering shadows beneath a nearby tree and saw what he thought was a monster forming in the depths of pooling night. Around him he thought he heard the sounds of creeping beasts from his darkest nightmares skulking ever closer to him as he knelt waiting for them to devour him whole. Terror drove him to his feet and with no thought for his home but to get away, he darted for the road.
The nearest humans lived in the village of Emerald Meadow. The pleasant little village was nestled below two tall hills and the road that ran through it was said to go all the way to the southern border mountains. But he didn't think of this as he turned down the road toward the village. He was now running as fast as he could. Martyn's breath was loud in his ears but he also thought he heard something else breathing from the thick screen of trees around him, matching him breath for breath.
He continued as unnoticed tears fell down his face he raced through the falling night as some monster stalked him waiting for the true darkness to fall.
Emerald Meadow loomed before him where there had been nothing. He was no longer running full out but he wasn't walking either. Martyn had fallen several times during his near blind flight from his home to the little village. The scrapes and bruises from his many falls left blood trails bright on his arms and legs and soaked into the thin fabric of his summer clothes.
The lights he had missed made his overworked heart beat even faster as he picked up speed, Martyn wanted to bathe in the windows shed radiance. The boy hurried the last several hundred yards and tried to catch the sounds of the monster that had not eaten him with the advent of full dark. The night watchman spotted him as he hobbled down the road. The man rushed out to meet him, his spread light on the surrounding area.
Martyn felt the old man grab him just as his vision tunneled, and he fell.
When Martyn woke he was in the common room of the inn. He'd been propped up on one of the long benches used for patrons of the little bar during the long cold winter nights. The hearth across the room was large enough for several adults to stand in with their arms spread but he had never seen anyone foolish enough to try. He looked into this until someone nearby clear their throat.
He looked groggily about for a moment and tried to understand why he was surrounded by a bunch of old hostile looking men. The abrasions from his long flight had been cleaned and the majority of the dirt from his clothes had been hastily brushed away. But he neither cared about who had done it or why they had chosen to do so.
His memories flooded him all at once; the shattered wooden door of his home. He saw the blood that swelled from deeper in the house, just visible from the door where he'd stopped. He'd been unable to view the horrors sure to hide inside. But most of all he remembered the quiet.
The silence had given him no doubt about the fate of his mother and father. They had been killed just as the young neighbor girl had been. He tried to think clearly but the memories filled his mind and blocked all. Horror seized him as a mastiff would a weakened rabbit, only he would not have the peace of the broken neck to hope for.
Tears began to fall from his eyes once more and into his mind pictures of his mother, who had never said an unkind word to anyone, bloody and broken among her linens. He saw his father with the heavy wood ax they used to fell trees beside his hand, a deep wound in his flesh from a sword or axe, his eyes open and staring in a fearful expression. Martyn was torn to shreds over and over as he imagined the many ways his parents could have been killed.
His thoughts were mercifully interrupted by the village head-woman. She knelt before him and took his hands gingerly. "Lad, what happened to your ma and pa?" she whispered in a voice as comforting as her dry old throat could manage. Martyn stared into her eyes as his leaked. He opened his mouth but all that escaped him was a low wail that stopped abruptly when he closed his mouth with a click of teeth.
She closed her eyes for a moment and stood, "Jovey, take him to a room and put him to bed with some of your least raw brandy, in some warm tea if it's ready now. Jakl, gather the able bodied men and tell them to meet me here as soon as they can." She turned back and wiped the tears from his face with strong fingers. "Don't worry lad they'll be found and buried with all dignity." Her face nearly lost its veneer of calm before she turned away.
The large barman's assistant came forward and pulled the boy into a standing position. He picked him up and cradled him against his shoulder gently patting his back as if he were a baby. Martyn neither noticed nor cared as he fell back into dark imaginings of horrific deaths.
When he was placed in a dark room on a bed he snapped back to reality. His heart pounded and he felt around until he reached the edge of the large bed. Martyn heard movement nearby and prepared to run for his life. There was a fumbling and a spark lit the room for a fraction of a second, then a little flame grew on the lantern and filled the room with yellow-orange light.
The dark room was made of wooden planks cut to size and nailed into the frame. The iron heads of the nails could be seen through the long years of age and wax. The small table held a wash basin and pitcher of what had to be cool water. Besides an old worn looking chair by the window and a small table there were no other pieces furniture.
The man turned from the table and noticed the boy's fearful posture. "Don't worry lad your among friends." He motioned for the boy to relax and when he settled into a calmer position on the edge of the bed he left the room for a moment.
Martyn pulled his legs up onto the bed before him and wrapped his arms around them as he watched the shadows for a movement. With an absent thought he dropped his legs to the floor and kicked off his leather short boots. Mother never lets me have shoes on my bed. He pulled his legs up before him and tried to forget the things he'd seen. As he rocked on the bed he tried to erase the memories and imaginings from his mind.
The door opened suddenly and he jumped with a wild flailing of limbs. The bar assistant entered with a tray. Jovey noticed the boy's reaction and tried not to show his discomfort at being around someone so... volatile.
He placed the tray on the table with the lantern and poured a measured amount of slightly steaming tea into a cup. He added honey and brandy then stirred it before bringing to cup to the boy. He didn't speak but the hesitation in his actions said he was worried more than a little about the boy. Martyn didn't reach for the cup so the man placed it on the table.
"Drink it boy. It should help you sleep and you shouldn't remember your dreams..." He didn't need to say anything else. The boy had feared slumber for he knew that with sleep would come horrendous dreams of his parents in their last moments. He tossed back the tea and held out the cup for more, as the tea seared his throat all the way to his stomach. The brandy made him choke for a moment as heat spread down his chest and into his stomach in a different way than the searing tea.
The man hesitated for a mere moment before filling the cup once more, this time without the honey. The boy didn't toss it back but drained this cup with slower gulping drinks. When he held out the cup once more the man put on a strained smile and refilled it.
This time he took slow drinks from the cup and waited for the first two cups to take effect. The brandy had been diluted enough for him to not feel too muddled before he grew tired. About three minutes later he placed the cup on the table and lay down atop the coverlet. He turned toward the lantern and waited for sleep to claim him dreading his ghastly dreams.
"Should we tell him? It may...no I am sure it will break him, but I would want to know if it were me." The voice broke into his sleep. The voices drifted through the door and though they were not loud his fear had sharpened his senses to a terrible degree.
The orphan boy lay in the bed waiting for the person to either speak of the thing that would break him or for them to leave him alone. He watched the steady flame of the glass shrouded lantern and held back his tears. He knew some things about the night that he hadn't before he had lain down to sleep.
There had been no beast following him waiting for the time when he was weakest to devour him. No, that had been his imagination mixed with his eerily enhanced hearing. His heavy breathing had echoed gently from the insulating trees as he'd run and made him think there was another panting creature. But there hadn't been, he had missed the murders and nothing stalked him but his own burdens.
"He doesn't need to know." The voice of the head woman said sadly.
"Could he have done what would have been needed if he knew she had been...?" A low voice asked, and was interrupted.
"She could have been saved," another voice interrupted harshly. "Weak minded child could have saved her but no, he fled in fear." There was a choked sob and a woman began to cry. The voice was very familiar but he refused to hear anything after the revelation about his mother I could have saved her.
A moment later he smiled.
Or rather his lips pulled back and all his teeth showed in the disturbed grin of a fool about to enact his latest humorous merrymaking. His chest heaved and he lost control of himself for a moment. A demented laugh escaped him and filled the room as it bounced around in his skull.
Someone threw open the door and people rushed into the room. The adults gathered around the bed and all but the old headwoman peered down on him with a mix of contempt and anger. "Stop laughing you little wretch, she is gone and it's your fault!" The head-woman turned to look scathingly at the woman who had spoken.
The woman's words only added more power to his wild laughter. But tears fell from his eyes and no one but the head-woman saw the anguish behind their twin streams. All other sound failed as the room was filled with his laughter.
He lost himself in the sound for a moment and when he looked around once more the room was emptied of everyone but the old woman. She sat with him, her arms wrapped around him as if she could protect him from the horrible words that had shattered his slight hold to sanity. Tears leaked onto his head and he knew she was crying too, he had no choice but to continue his wild laughing; even as his sides and stomach ached with the sustained convulsions.
He felt her arms around him just as his mother had when he was sick. His head was swimming and his thoughts were slow. He had trouble forming coherent thought and so he drifted. Sometime later he dropped from half dreams of terror and pain seamlessly into true sleep.
He woke with an aching head with early morning light shinning directly into his eyes. He started awake and jerked upright in the unfamiliar bed. The old head-woman slept slumped in the comfortable looking chair upholstered with red-brown fabric. Her heavily grayed hair matched her robe-like clothes in color. Her face was marred by fine lines of age around her eyes and mouth. Her eyes were closed but as he stirred they popped open and she smiled sadly.
She reached a hesitant hand toward his face and he froze. She replaced the hand on the chair arm and leaned back. Her brown eyes reflected the worry she had for the little child before her.
"So you heard the...talk last night?" She asked without further preamble.
The boy didn't trust his voice so he nodded once almost imperceptibly.
"Those idiots will be dealt with." She paused for a moment to judge his reaction before adding, "But you have nowhere else to go so you will live with me is that acceptable?"
The boy thought quietly for a moment about his family and realized she was right, there was no one who could care for him. His grandparents had died peacefully in the night during a particularly cold winter a year ago. Before he could think more about his mounting despair he nodded again this time vehemently.
"Good, now let's get up so I can show you the way of things." She rose from the chair and held out her hand to him.
Martyn settled quickly into the routine of his life in the head-woman's house. Weeks after he had arrived in the village he had become something of a recluse. He was regarded with hatred among them all, but for the old woman who had become his protector and substitute caregiver.
Martyn did not sit idly and let Maggi care for him as she would a baby. He assumed chores as any child of appropriate age did. But he did so for the old woman twice over. After the first day he had received what he saw as evil looks as he became accustomed to life with the old woman. The people seemed to hate or fear him as they would a wild animal in their midst.
But Maggi was, if not loving then at the very least affectionate. She tried to make his life easier but in doing so she drew the attention of the other people in the village. So he had become more self-sufficient to shield his benefactor from the ire of the other adults. Their children were his to deal with.
He would not allow himself to touch them even if they bullied him. It would only make the old woman's life harder. Though she was the leader of the council and the highest ranking person around she was still subject to the whims and small cruelties of other people.
She would have to deal with reduced food stuffs or go without the services her station would have gotten her without hesitation before. Now she was looked upon as a doddering old woman with too soft a heart. So the boy endured the bruises and scrapes he received from the other children and even some of the young adults with a stoic grace that puzzled the other children.
He took their attacks and waited for what they would deliver to him next. No physical pain could match the ever present ache his parents had left when they had gone. In some twisted way he felt thankful for what punishment he got. His guilt overmatched his grief by a very large amount.
Martyn walked alone in the twilit dirt street, the heavy bucket held tightly in his fists. He tried not to slosh the clear cold contents on himself for Maggi needed the water to wash the easiest of the dishes so she would feel worth. She never realized he waited for her to fall asleep in the little bed before he would scrub the pots and pans then rewash the plates and utensils she had already washed. Her hands were riddled with arthritis and she felt much pain by the time she finished her washing in the cold water. Though she would not leave it to him no matter what he said. "This is my work boy; I won't have you feeling as if I don't care for you well enough." She'd said after his most recent attempt to do it for her while she was still lucid.
He didn't fear her waking from the banging of the pans. She had to take some herbal concoction before bed which made her sleep like a stone just to get some small measure of relief. He looked around the dark street and felt at home in the twilight as he had since his fear of the dark had melted away with the image of the stalking beast on the night of his... move to the village.
In the dark he could go unnoticed and forgotten as the people of the village went about their lives. He could watch families sit down together and eat their meals or most often fighting. But one and all they had each other, while he was alone...
Martyn's unshod feet carried him out of the village as they often did, and he found the small clearing which he had taken as his second home not long after his arrival in the village. In his little sanctuary there was no one to tease or bully him and here he could be himself. He had a small bed he had built with fallen leaves and mounded dirt.
He slept in it on the nights when he was unable to manage the walk home from the sorrow ripping his heart out, his imagination played out elaborate day-dreams of heroically saving his father, even if he could have done none of the things he saw. But he was little more than a child in size, age, and most importantly strength. He couldn't stop the plays as he envisioned a blade in his hand and confronting the evil men who had taken his family, or an impossible bowshot from the hill beside their home.
He set his bucket to the side and lay in the body conforming hollow of earth he had made long ago. He ignored the biting bugs that crawled in the grass and leaves. Martyn pulled his legs as close to his chest as the rounded sides would allow.
The hollow was nearly too small for him now. He had grown as the year since his father died in his home. He turned toward the bucket and peered into the depths...
It was far too dark for him to see himself but he was aware he was not handsome. His hair was an unmanageable mass of dark red-brown. He had a long pointed nose more vulpine than human and his narrow brown green eyes could not but hold suspicion. He had grown at least a head taller than he'd been, and his clothes had been replaced by much more common brown and grey homespun garments long out grown by some other child. The clothes had been left for him at the request of the long suffering old woman.
She had been appalled by the peoples treatment of him at first. Then they had no longer voiced their views before her. Instead they had settled for the small cruelties of small minded fools. There were many ways, a snide remark in passing, a misplaced foot just when he hurried by with arms full, small cruelties all. These were the hardest to deal with; these had driven him to his sanctuary. He had tried to tell the old woman at first but after the people began to shun her as well he realized his mistake.
The people of the village were petty and they needed some release. Otherwise Maggi would be left out in the cold. With no one to care for her she would die just as his grandparents had.
As he waited in the dying grass tears leaked from him as they usually did. His hiding place had become a refuge. When the abuse grew to an unbearable degree he usually slunk here to release his pent up tears in silence.
He had found the place after the burial of his father. The procession had been a small one and the head woman wished for him not to see the body. But he had followed when his watcher left to complete more pressing business.
He remembered it well, the walk behind the unsuspecting people.
The road had been easy to follow in the early morning sun. No one looked behind and he staid far enough back that none of his blundering through fallen leaves caused them to hear him. The men were occupied by the heavy rotting corpse they carried between them.
No women walked ahead throwing earlier flowers in the road as was the custom. Nor did anyone cry or was there more black and dark grey than there was normally. All of the rituals had been forgone for this.
His father's body was wrapped in a spare blanket. His boots dangled from the small litter used to retrieve heavy barrels of beer from the basement of the inn. The boy trailed behind and watched as the legs swayed with the gait of the men carrying him. Another man carried a thick forest of wooden poles wrapped in canvas.
The man carrying the shovel was the barman's assistant. He could be heard swearing his fate at being roused from his bed. He was known in the village for consuming copious amounts of the liquor he sold after the owner had turned to his bed for the night.
Finally they reached their destination. The grazing ground spread before them. The lone tree, growing grass swayed in a swelling breeze. Green waves swirled around the roots of the tree a few leaves fell to dance upon the wind like a skiff upon a raging sea.
The grave was dug and they dropped the corpse in it. With some haste they buried the boy's father and left with as little fuss as possible...
But the words he heard on his first night echoed in him with rocking force. They had never found his mother. She had simply disappeared. He wondered if she had been killed or taken off to work as a slave.
The adults had grown quiet during the few times he had considered himself free enough to ask. He felt more fear for what they would not say than what he could come up with. The old woman was unwilling to speak of it and he was unwilling to press her for information.
The wind stirred his hair and he rose from his grass and earth nest and headed for the village his tears done for the time being. The old woman had been growing weaker with every passing season. He had become her main source of comfort and care as no one else would assist her in the simple tasks she could no longer do alone.
This wore on her, Martyn felt it in her bearing as he helped her away from the necessary pit, or when he helped her put on her council robes. She was an honest and strong willed old woman and she knew she was close to her death. But for some reason she never mentioned it to him and he often found her watching him in the cold nights left from winters passing.
The walk back to the small shack they shared was short. The door swung in on insufficiently oiled hinges and creaked closed as he carried the bucket to the dish basin. The plates and such were easiest so he washed them first. The large pot was next, but a squeal came from the door alerting him to the presence of another person.
The bar man's assistant stood there. The large man lingered menacingly in the shadows of the passing night. With measured steps he entered the small building. In his hand was a kind of rough wooden cudgel.
"Why did you have to go and tell the owner I was stealing his booze?" The harsh voice slurred as it yelled. Maggi stirred and rolled over having been roused. "Well, little wretches who like to tattle need to be punished." He came forward menacingly and raised the weapon over his head.
A shout from the other side of the room was ignored as the man brought the stick down on Martyn's small right shoulder. His vision darkened for a moment as pain spread through his upper body. He revived as another blow rocked him.
Searing pain exploded through his back. Another scream filled the room and no more blows fell. Martyn came to his sense and raised his head a bit and looked around. The room had gone deathly silent. The old woman sprawled on the floor not far from him. Her eyes stared at nothing and the pupils were not dilated to the same degree. Her hair was matted with her own blood.
Martyn stared at her for an unknown amount of time. He noticed how her face drained of color, and het normally neat hair was fly away and unkempt looking. Martyn watched as more blood pooled and spread toward him.
Sounds from the outside echoed in his skull, he could hear men and women yelling. Martyn stood unsteadily; the muscles in his back knotted and jerked causing severe pain. As he got to his feet someone entered the house.
There was a loud feminine scream. He whirled around, causing more pain, to find one of the village women staring at him as if he were a horrific monster. When he tried to move forward with his left hand extended in entreaty the woman backed away with another ear splitting shriek.
"He Killed her!"
He slipped in the blood of the old woman and stumbled. Warm blood smeared all over his front as he fell into the pool. His eyes locked on those of the dead old woman, a shiver ran down his spine. Martyn got up slowly trying not to hurt himself more, and balanced on feet covered in slick blood.
Voices came closer and soon fire could be seen as shadows fell in dancing contrast to the light from torches and lanterns. Men approached their hands filled with wooden clubs and anything that could be used as a weapon. Martyn turned from the front door as fear took control of his limbs.
Martyn raced from the hut. He saw every twisting shadow and dancing leaf in the depths of the darkness, small things moved in the brush and he heard the hearts of his pursuers loud in his ears. He smelled his own sweat and the metallic tang of the blood covering his body.
He crossed through the darkness like a shadow; he was one with the darkness. All life within the dark shared his heart. He felt his stride change and he leaned forward more until he was nearly touching the ground. Cool wind blew across him, he was free, no memory, no pain. His skinned itched but it was a small annoyance. He ran at a speed no one could match.
As the sun touched him he slowed to a trot and finally stopped. His pursuers were far behind him and there was no way they could catch him. He felt strong and new. Refreshed in a way that made all emotional pain melt away like mist before a summer sun, he looked at himself and nearly shrieked, he was no longer the normal boy he had been in his earthen den not five hours ago. His limbs were elongated and small hairs had sprouted from his skin. The fingers of his hands were smaller, his legs were shaped oddly with the feet elongated until he walked on the pad on his foot. The rest had lengthened into something no longer recognizably human.
He was now more beast than man.
I'm Martyn no more...
The beast threw its head back and screamed his sadness and fear. The sound made more a howling bark than a scream as it vibrated in the trees around him. The beast-boy dropped to all fours and raced into the coming day.