The Navigating Fox by Christopher Rowe

Author:Christopher Rowe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

Duodecimus

the second journey

WALKS ALONG WOMAN REFUSED to travel farther when it became clear the horses of the Holies were approaching fatigue. Scipio Aemilanus insisted they were merely shirking and argued that we continue. The ambassador asked, “Quintus?”

“I’m stopping for the day,” I said. “Anyone who wants to stay on the Road is welcome to. Perhaps the God of the Hinge will guide you. I’ve never seen any sign of a god on the Roads, though.”

This stung Scipio because roads and travel were purportedly part of his god’s portfolio of interests.

I paused and sniffed the air off the road, and nodded at the others to step into the natural world. We were at a place I had been many times, a copse of cottonwoods along an oxbow lake separated from a river beyond the next ridge by some ancient calamity. It was late afternoon.

The under priests and Walks Along Woman’s companions began unburdening the horses and mules—Loci and Foci bribed one of the northerners with a piece of silver to take care of their mount—and Scipio Aemilanus took a seat on a camp chair that a diffident boy unfolded for him. “Will you light a fire?” he asked me.

“Alas,” I said. “I have no hands. I’m surprised you’ve never noticed.”

The Holy rolled his eyes. “Will you order one lit?”

“Of course,” I said. “Scipio, light a fire.”

With that, I turned from the bustle of the camp and went in search of my evening meal. It is in my nature—as with all foxes—to cache food supplies whenever and wherever possible. For voiceless foxes, the wherever is confined to their small territories. My territories have never been small.

I rounded the lake, the twins squabbling over the shellfish they were pulling from the shallows fading in the distance. There was a clearing ahead where I had buried a pair of voles and the wing of a thrush, none of which should have rotted too much. But the scent I caught as I reached the edge of the cottonwoods did not rise from my cached food.

A thrill I had rarely experienced went through me. I knew before I saw her that a voiceless vixen was helping herself to the voles.

I crouched, chin on paws, and tuned my senses forward. Except for the initial scent, there was no sign of the interloper. If I had not been approaching from downwind, I might not have caught even that.

The direction of the wind was to my advantage, should a confrontation erupt. I was downslope, which meant she enjoyed the advantage of position. I was ignorant of her exact location, which mean she enjoyed the advantage of surprise. I was knowledgeable, which meant she enjoyed the advantage of ferocity.

I suppose one does not often think of foxes as ferocious. But any animal—particularly any voiceless animal—which depends upon the deaths of other creatures for its sustenance is possessed of anger and cunning, not just foxes.

Humans do not depend upon the deaths of animals, they simply choose to enjoy—if that’s the word—the benefits of those deaths.

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