Requiem of The Fox

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Death hauled her by the ankles as she suffocated on the luminous depths of the sea. Water collapsed her lungs as if they were the thin walls of a wet paper boat. She woke from her own wretched screaming, her nightgown clung to her clammy legs. Marta couldn’t return to slumber. By sunrise, they discovered Anton’s body had washed ashore, along with Ube, the old widow’s grandson. They lay mangled from the waves. Anton had been teaching Ube to fish after his parents' passing. Marta loved that boy like her flesh and blood after she discovered herself to be barren at a young age. He had the warmest chuckle, like a gurgling stream; not a soul could help but smile if it reached their ears. The village held a funeral, and the old widow wailed over her little grandson for days. They buried them in the quaint dirt plots of the old town's cemetery.

Two winters’ days later, Marta stood for so long, soft ice flakes flurried aloft and dusted the grey headstones. Her slender, freckled cheeks stung from cold paths carved by tears. She drew a sharp breath. The sweet aroma of the pale lilies she’d lain at her lover's grave mingled mid-air with fresh snow. Anton’s wool trench coat embraced her in warmth, as if a shadow of him still filled it. Marta could not eat. Her fair skin grew haunting and pale. Her brown eyes sat sullen in their sockets.

Marta now lived alone in the cottage she and Anton built. A quaint fat house with a roof made of sod and a skinny chimney that always wisped smoke from the wood stove within. A round walnut table sat at the center atop a Turkish rug. In the loft, a mattress lay shielded by a pair of old tawny curtains. Anton and Marta had hand-painted scenes of wildlife that danced along the walls. That night, the moon waned and the village folk stood beneath it celebrating the Solstice. They say if one goes into the thick of the forest under the Solstice Moon and finds a weeping tree, the spirit Fyxe will grant you a wish. Marta ate hard cheese and fresh bread. She watched the red-hot embers in her stove crackle and gasp a final breath. She slid her feet into a pair of tall fur boots and tied a scarf around her neck to tuck into the collar of Anton’s grey coat. She’d grown up in those woods, climbed every outcrop, yet never seen a willow. Tonight, she planned to scour till her limbs froze and her feet bled.

The snow crunched beneath each tread as she ventured to the forest, a lantern in hand. The shadowy trees creaked in the wind and loomed above. They stood hunched like the backs of the elderly. She hadn’t drifted far into the wild when she came upon a silent clearing. There at the center rested a weeping tree. Its limbs poured into a waterfall of greenery that remained untouched by the freeze. Marta’s heart rattled against its cage. She began to feel uncertain. She’d prepared to be out here all night, frigid and weary. The tree emerged so suddenly, she thought. Perhaps it only appears to those who seek with a worthy cause? As if in answer, a silky voice responded, carried by a gust that quenched the lantern light.

“You reek of misery, child.”

A silver phantom sat before her in the form of a fox, emanating a brilliant blue blaze.

“Are you Fyxe?” asked Marta.

The vixen encircled Marta. It pranced about the crisp air, her vapor paws never grazing the ground.

“Indeed, I am the spirit of the Skogen. What is it you seek?”

“I want to take away the pain.”

“Pain, guilt, and death haunt you, girl.”

“Losing Anton and Ube…I dreamt of it. Before we found them. I’m worried I’m responsible. I can’t bear it, I can’t carry it, please help me!”

Fyxe tilted her head in fascination.

“Are you certain you want this? It is only human. Do you not desire to know the consequence of such a wish?”

“I’ve nothing more to lose. I wish to feel a little warmth again.”

“So be it,” said Fyxe.

The creature turned away and leapt, vanishing into the shelter of the willow's outstretched arms.

The following morning, sunlight teemed upon Marta as she slept beneath a quilt in the hayloft. Descending the ladder, she donned her coat and collected eggs from the chicken coop. When full from breakfast, Marta sat and brushed her thick black curls, humming a gentle tune. Each stroke of the bristles tamed her frenzied mane. She caught her reflection in the mirror and stopped, surprised to find her locks the color of a blood orange. Blinking, she grasped at the strands, but they rested jet black in her fingers.

Anton had worked as an angler at the port, and Marta would help him gut and sell the catch. Being more stubborn than he, she drove a hard bargain, but the villagers respected her trade. She’d work alone now and trudge to the river to empty the fish traps into buckets. She sat out on the porch and sharpened a knife, selecting a trout to flay. It flopped like a slippery rag doll in her palm, black marble eyes empty. She slit open the shiny flank of scales. The usual salty stench of fish carried a different flavor now. It smelled fresh and buttery, and Marta found herself salivating. Unable to contain herself, she bit into the raw pink fish flesh, tearing at it with her teeth. She heard a scream and came to her senses. The widow had come up the path with a basket of goods she’d dropped in horror at the sight of Marta hunched over the fish. The old lady ran off to the village before Marta could explain, though she couldn't justify why she’d done it. She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her dress and went to the side of the cottage to dunk her face under the water pump.

When night fell, Marta sat at the window in a knit shawl. Her ears perked at the surroundings of the after-dark being louder than ever. The wind whistled in loud bursts as it swept past the house. A great elk bugled in the distance, and a loon sang a high, eerie song. Marta recalled lying on Anton’s broad, warm chest. She loved to listen to the rhythmic thumps of his heart. She smiled at the memory, her eyelids heavied. Marta dreamt she’d returned to the forest. The giant blue pines flashed as she raced at a speed she didn’t know she could. She felt as though she were the wind itself, bounding. Her body was miniature and featherlike. Her feet became soft black paws, her ears big and tipped in white. She dashed wild and free.

The old widow came again the following morning. Concerned for Marta, she’d returned with a group of village mothers. Together, they'd agreed to care for the grieving young woman. They carried with them herbs, broth, bread, and fresh linens. When they arrived at the cottage, they found it quiet and empty. Only the tiny set of fox prints remained in the snow, on the back porch steps of the beautiful home.