The Fox & The Crow

Chapter Eight

A low hissing comes from the dying embers of a tiny fire in the center of our makeshift campsite. Mrs. Beaver insisted on one to keep us all from freezing to death, but we had conceded to Mr. Beaver's concerns that the Witch's guards may trace the smoke, so the fire is barely more than a few twigs. Everyone lies as close to it as they can for warmth without cramping another's space, forming an awkward circle around the small stream of smoke that barely wisps a hundred feet up to the tops of the pine trees. The raccoon children nestle into their mother's fur, the deer sleep peacefully beside each other, and the Beavers huddle together.

I lie on my side, my arm tucked beneath my head. Now and then I scratch my nose as the Professor's fur coat tickles it. But mostly, my eyes dart to the Pevensies, sleeping soundlessly across from me. Susan's head rests on Peter's back as he's turned from her to cuddle Lucy. Her small face peeks out from the fur and I notice how red her nose is from the cold.

"Thank you for coming back for me."

I shiver and turn from Lucy to face the woods surrounding us. It's started to haunt me, how similar she is to Violet. The way her face breaks into a smile or the way she hums as she's falling asleep. I saw Violet's brown eyes instead of hers as we set up camp and I was frightened as her twelve-year-old laugh at some dinner joke had slipped a smile onto my face before I'd caught myself.

It's a gut-wrenching reminder of what I've lost, and yet I find myself soothed at seeing how she's kept safe in the presence of her older siblings. Part of me feels a pang of jealousy, too, I suppose, though it feels ridiculous when I realize it.

I yawn, reassuring myself that these similarities won't feel so uncomfortably familiar as we travel onward to Aslan. My heavy eyelids droop closed as I, once again, chase away this train of thoughts. A hush of winter wind follows and my mind is tossed into emptiness as I succumb to sleep.

The deafening engine of a plane grows louder as the prickling sensations of cold become more real, chasing away any warmth I have felt. I squint open my eyes, staring into the jaws of the red fox. My scream meshes with its own, with the bomber, with a faintly familiar child's shriek.

Spit flies into my face from the fox's mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut again and cover my ears, turning my head from its teeth.

Its screaming grows weary until it's only panting above me, its teeth still bared and dangerously close to my neck. I expect the fox to snap it in two at any moment, but I only feel its hot breath blow against my hair.

Peeking my eyes open, I stare up to look directly at the fox. I'm shocked to find that in its eyes, the hatred I had seen there has been replaced by a deep sorrow. It cowers above me, its head tilted down. Its pants transform to whimpers and I prop myself onto my elbows to stare at the giant fox as it shrinks behind the frost-covered cherry tree.

"Violet," I hear it rasp. I gasp as its gravelly voice chokes out her name again. "Violet."

"You can speak?"

"Violet," It glares out at me with its yellow eyes. The sorrow I had seen before is replaced by disdain and I shrink under its gaze. This creature does not say anything but her name, but I feel that in between each repetition, there is blame in the fox's words.

"Violet," It repeats. A seed of hatred inside me for this creature begins to bloom. It taunts me with her name as if I do not already know who I've lost. "Violet."

"I KNOW!" I scream at the large fox, and it cowers further. I feel ridiculous. This beast is not who I am angry at, but I still feel so riled up. I don't even know if the fox can understand, but I still press further, taking another step toward it.