"Once upon a time…” he wrote.
The words stalled. He wet the pencil with his tongue, but only succeeded in corssing the t and dotting the i.
Flames leaped in the fireplace. Why wouldn’t they unlock their stories? The April wind dashed gusts of rain against the windows. Why wouldn’t the clouds tell him their deep and brooding mysteries? He sighed, picked up a book, dropped it again. The sun burst from behind a cloud, the shower ceased and he grabbed his coat and cap, bounded out the door and leaped from the porch.
“Stay away from the pond or you’ll get snake bit,” his mother called.
The sun brought steam from the earth, rivulets of rain sought rendezvous with others and formed a stream. He took off his shoes and socks and waded.
The mud squished between his toes, he felt the laps of perch against his legs. He ran from the water, circled the pond in glee. And instinct caused him to leap a coppery mess.
He whirled in mid air. The copperhead lifted its head, sent out its forked tongue. He got a stick and thrust it at the snake, jumping back involuntarily as it lashed its full length.
He ran to a log, brushed off his feet and pulled on his shoes and socks. He swung on a tree limb, followed the burrow of mice, saw the swirl of a crow through the trees. The crow was joined by another, and another, and he ran through the woods toward them. “An owl, betcha,” he said.
An Indian he became, creeping tree to tree, until he came to the old sawmill. The crows cawed frantically and he saw the object of their attack – two fox kits warming themselves by the pile of slabs.
Oh, pounding of heart. Oh, fever of fevers.
His brain dizzy, his fingertips tingled at the thought of holding the soft kits. His eye saw the cage he would build, the bread and meat he would feed them.
He circled the slab pile and came up behind the kits. The crows spotted him and silently drifted away. The kits fastened their teeth in each other’s fur and rolled and growled.
Silently, the boy's hands closed on one warm, squiggly body, but needle teeth sank into his fingers.
“Ouch!”
Quick as light the kits darted into their den.
The boy contemplated. He could enlarge the hole. Rotten slabs gave way. His eyes became adjusted to the darkness and he saw four eyes gleaming at the end of the tunnel. He lay on his belly and inched inside, hearing their growling. Gently now. Touch them lightly.
The fur tingled his fingertips as he stroked them. The growling ceased. He drew up into a ball at the end of the tunnel and tucked the kits inside his shirt. At last the enchantment of the moment ended. Where were the parents? When would they return?
A hot streak shot through him. How would he face the angry fangs if they returned?
Hurriedly now, he dropped to his side to crawl to the den opening, and his eye caught a flicker of movement. A coppery, undulating figure wriggled unerringly into the tunnel. It crawled under a slab, its head raised, its forked tongue flicking in and out. It squarely faced the boy. Oh, trouble of troubles. Oh, trembling body.
Benumbed in the brain, eye fixed on the horror, he backed up. The kits squealed and wiggled. The wedge-shaped head dropped, the coils came loose like a rope and he heard the faint scratching of its belly on the ground.
He pulled out the kits and dropped them to the ground, he felt for a stick, a board, anything, but nothing came into his hands.
The scratching of the wriggling belly drummed in his ears.
Now his eye caught other movement at the tunnel entrance. The light blacked out and he heard the angry growl of the mother fox. The kits replied hungrily.
A hissing from the floor of the tunnel blotted out the soft cries of the kits, it stilled the growl of the mother fox.
Then the boy heard a rustling of feet, a thrashing about, the snap of sharp teeth. The light appeared in the tunnel again and he saw the mother fox, snake in her mouth, shaking its life away.
Never had the young muscles moved more urgently. His muscles surged and he was running, circling the mother fox. He tripped on a shoe lace and went sprawling. He crawled to the shoe, felt the wet, cold earth on his hindside as he pulled on the shoe, eyes fixed on the scene he had left.
The baby foxes in fuzzy red coats trotted to their mother. One sniffed the snake, tentatively pawed at it, then sought his lunch. The other teased by his mother’s tail, tried to catch its waving tip to no avail, then went to the breasts and lay, belly down, mouth attached, tiny paws pressing the milk forward.
The mother fox gave the boy one short warning growl and he was up, flying through the timber. He burst into the house and went to his tablet and pencil beside the fireplace. He dampened the lead with his tongue and put the pencil to the paper.
“Once upon a time,” he wrote, “there was a boy named Jack who had a great adventure one fine day…”
