Mr. Fox

They gathered in the dim light beneath the roots, a circle of whiskers and paws and earnest, clumsy paws — a patchwork congregation of wild things who had learned how to live with their natures and with one another. One of them cleared a throat, a small, nervous scrape like a paw on bark, and began to speak.

“I don’t want to live in a hole anymore,” the speaker admitted, voice wobbling between bravado and something rawer. “It makes me feel poor.”
“We are poor,” another answered gently, “but we are happy.”
“Maybe the views are better above ground,” the first replied, and a tentative, ridiculous laugh floated up like steam.

There were promises tucked into older scars. A vow had been made once, twelve seasons before, while cold metal pressed against fur and the world had felt small and sharp. The vow had been simple: no more stealing. It sounded like an oath sworn by moonlight and hunger. But promises unravel in the mouth of the one who thrills at danger. It was quieter to say: “I am a wild animal.” It was harder to hear: “You are also a partner and a parent.”

Anger snapped like a branch. “Why did you lie to me?” the other demanded, voice bright with fresh betrayal. The answer came soft and shameful: a confession about needing to feel great, to be dazzling, to be the fantastic one. The room smelled of spilled cider and the metallic tang of fear. Someone said, “In the end, we all die… unless you change,” and the words hit like rain.

They argued in a language of half-formed curses and affectionate exasperation — a duet of “No, you cussing with me?” and “Don’t cussing point at me!” until laughter broke through the rancor and the plan resumed, ridiculous and stubborn as spring. The leader — equal parts showman, show-off, and saint of mischief — slammed a fist into the palm of his hand and declared a rescue. “My suicide mission’s been cancelled. We’re replacing it with a go-for-broke rescue mission.” Eyes brightened. Small bodies straightened.

The strategy meeting had a frantic, hopeful rhythm. Lists were read aloud like Latin names of saints: the one who can see in the dark, the one who chews through wood, the one who can run like wind. A volunteer raised a hand for shorthand and grinned. They assigned each other roles with the innocent pomp of children naming teams. “Micro-roles,” someone joked, and the smallest voice piped up, “I want to fight!” The leader said, delighted, “Good! Fabulous!” and the tiny chest puffed out with pride.

Outside the tree, the valley was a theater — tractors gleaming like hungry giants, figures moving with the certainty of those who think themselves righteous. Three women of industry and terrible manners had been described in grotesque, comedic detail: one enormous sun of a farmer who ate chickens for breakfast, another a squat man of donut-and-liver proclivities, and a third a lean, clever, cider-sipping strategist. They had sent letters cut from magazines — criminally theatrical misses whose very method betrayed their cowardice. The valley children had learned songs about them, odd little rhymes that made their names into nursery threats. The farmers made proclamations about shooting, about burning the name into history. The community listened and seethed.

There were bandit hats, shopworn socks pressed into service as masks, and an indignant, fierce pride in improvised armor: “Put your bandit hat on,” someone suggested half-jokingly, and little faces transformed into conspirators. One youngster, insulted by not being chosen, stomped and demanded fairness — “Where’s my bandit hat?” — and then, because youth is combustible, stormed away to slam a door and feel righteous.

A theft had started as survival and became a sport, then a problem. Tractors had uprooted the great tree; gunmen had chased, captured kin, insulted partners. “Your tractors uprooted my tree. Your posse hunted my family. You shot off my tail,” the speaker roared, voice cracking with both rage and weariness. There was a pause, a terrible dreamy imagining: “Maybe if I hand myself over and let them kill me, stuff me, and hang me over their mantelpiece…” But a tearful voice — the voice of the one who kept hearth-lore alive — would have none of it. “You’ll do no such thing,” came the answer; words knuckled into courage. The plan sharpened.

They prepared with the ridiculous earnestness of those who must make miracles out of scrap. A map of the house cellar was traced in charcoal; a plan to dig, to tunnel, to confuse hunters with laughter and with stubborn work. One child, small enough to fit where adults could not, wanted to help but was told to be careful. “You’re too little and uncoordinated,” the leader said, before softening with a version of pride: “I’m glad it was you.” The small one’s face brightened, fierce and chosen.

Bullying happened in the broader world: insults hurled like stones, dares that ended with mud shoved into hungry mouths. A timid soul was called a “wet sandwich,” and a fight spelled justice with a quick, precise move that left the bully sobbing and the defender breathless and wiser. An apology was demanded, homework of the heart: twenty-nine minutes to figure out how to be better. “You have got twenty-nine minutes to come up with a proper apology,” the elder said, stern and tender. The apology arrived in the form of awkward fumblings and finally, a hat placed on a head with trembling hands.

There were feasts — not only stolen vittles but carefully set tables where each creature’s talent was toasted. The speaker stood before a scatter-bright banquet and, with comic pomp, named each friend: the lawyer, the doctor, the tailor, the musician, the painter. Then honesty slipped in. “We are wild animals with true natures and pure talents,” the speech went, warm and ragged, “and it may be the differences among us that give us the tiniest glimmer of a chance.” Glasses were raised to survival and to the stubborn art of being together.

Loss was not spared. A tail, lost in a flurry of gunfire, became a wound that would not reattach, and the speaker joked to hide the ache. “Tails don’t grow back,” said one. “Well, at least it’s not double pneumonia,” came the half-comfort. Somewhere a child meditated to quiet a trembling heart; another turned on a train in the dark and two friends watched the tiny plastic wheels wheel the night into steadiness.

Inside all these maneuvers was a confession of identity, a question that echoed off the wood: Why this life? Why this shape? “Why a fox?” — or any creature who knew the thrill of the hunt and the ache of wanting to be adored. There was an ache for wondering whether the dazzling self was only dazzling because it had to be; an admission that one had a need for everyone to think them great. The partner cut through with sorrow and blunt truth: promises made in traps are promises that should be kept. “This story is too predictable,” they said, and in the predictability lay a truth that could be altered if the one who loved them could choose differently.

There were moments of levity that kept the machine of morale turning: improvised songs around a campfire, a chorus of nonsense syllables that painted the valley like music. Children sang of a handsome, clever creature who stole for his litter’s sake; the tune made the night less heavy and the memories less raw.

And when the final showdown loomed — when the tractors and the rifles and the terrible plan of the tall men converged — the community decided on courage. There was roaring, a hail of gunfire, a scramble into holes, a demand to keep going: “We’re not leaving here without that necktie,” someone barked, half-threat, half-joke. Even in the cacophony, someone’s humor shone: “Actually, we should just go. Where’d I park?” A laugh, a ridiculous humanizing slip, and then the work resumed.

The aftermath held its own strange lessons. Floods of cider, literal and metaphorical, rose to confound the hunters. Apple juice became an absurd flood. The messy, earnest digging they’d done had consequences: half the woods were obliterated, and mouths below the ground called for food. A badger screamed of starvation and rage — truth flaring up in panic. There was no easy fix, only the slow, communal labor of repairing what had been torn.

In quieter moments, private confessions were offered to toast and toast-eating and to the joy of living above ground. A small voice, anxious and affectionate, held up an imaginary goblet and said, “I see a room full of wild animals.” The leader raised the glass and clinked it on the floor like an actor’s flourish. Someone quipped to “let’s eat,” and the simple, human thing of sharing a meal settled like a benediction.

When night pressed its cool paw on the valley, the circle returned to its roots. The one who had promised and failed and promised again sat with hands in their lap, eyes rimmed with the politics of regret. “If we survive the morning, find another line of work,” came the plea, and the answer — weary but loving — was: “Okay.”

Outside, in the world of bright lights and mean machines, men plotted with magazine-cut letters and murderous resolve. Inside, in rooms lit by lanterns and stubborn companionship, the animals planned rescue missions and bandit-hat ceremonies, apologised, and taught the kids how to be brave. They learned that being wild did not excuse cruelty, that promises mattered, and that being “fantastic” was a dangerous costume when it hid the need for honesty.

Above all, they learned the simple arithmetic of survival: that differences were not liabilities but tools; that a mole’s night-seeing, an otter’s dry paper, a rabbit’s speed, a beaver’s teeth, and a small child’s courage could add up to salvation when counted and arranged with love. They learned to laugh at the absurdity of their own plans, to apologize when they hurt, to stand up when bullied, and to sing ridiculous songs to keep darkness at bay.

When the tractors finally receded and the apple trees shook themselves like drunks waking from a long stupor, the community gathered. The leader — no longer a mask of dazzling swagger but a creature softened by failure and mended by fellowship — raised a hand. “We’ll eat tonight,” they said, “and we’ll eat together.” It was not a promise to be perfect, only a pledge to try, and to keep trying in the face of the cunning world.

So they ate. They dug. They patched. They practiced strange, courageous things: apologies, plans, and little acts of kindness. And whenever the glorious, dangerous itch to be reckless rose up again, someone would grip their sleeve and say, quietly, “Remember the holes. Remember the children. Remember the promise.” The wildness remained; the better part was the choosing.

Outside, the valley’s three angry figures plotted vengeance in their fat, furious way. Inside, beneath the roots, under lamplight and laughter, a band of misfits — tail-less or bandit-hatted, small and tall and differently-abled — stitched a life out of what they had: talents, temper, love, and an almost sacred appetite for being together. They celebrated their differences with clumsy speeches, with toasts at mismatched boxes, and with messily, magnificently orchestrated rescues.

In the end, the moral was not simple. There was no tidy redemption, no miraculous cure for every aching promise. But there was change: the sort that arrives slow as moss, patient as the roots. The crooked leader learned how to listen. The partner learned how to demand better. The children learned how to fight and how to apologize. The valley learned a new tally: not of stolen goods or lost tails, but of the ways a community keeps its own.

And when, at last, they raised their boxes and drank to survival, someone wiped cider from their whiskers and declared, with a small grin and a battered dignity, “To our survival.” The words were funny and brave and true — a clumsy benediction for the wild, for the different, for the ridiculous and tender animals who had chosen to be more than what the world expected.

by Onnaya