Fox O' Nine Tales: Larissa Of Foxwood

Chapter One: Larissa of Foxwood

A Fox O'Nine Tale

By R. W. Slavin

Book One: Larissa of Foxwood

Chapter One:  Call of the Dream Kingdom

     As the first soft gray wave of pre-dawn light filtered in through the open bedroom window, there was the slightest movement beneath the blankets. He detected it of course immediately, his peaked ears twitching and rotating like tiny radar stations, his ever-vigilant amber eyes flashing fully open.

Yes, she was stirring. Soon she would be awake. His guardian duties were done for another night. He carefully raised himself from where he had lain curled up at the foot of the bed and alighted with a little jump from the bed to the floor. His four black-stockinged paws made no sound as he padded across the hardwood floor. Then came the short hop to the dresser top beneath the open window. There he hesitated to turn and regard his sleeping charge for a moment before departing. He wondered how such a seemingly vulnerable creature as this petite girl on the cusp of young womanhood, just turned twelve years old, could possibly be prepared for the adventure she was about to embark upon. The thought of it made the rust-red hairs of his fluffy tail stand on end, the twitching of his white tail-tip betraying his deep anxiety for her safety and well-being.

Larissa Lennox would soon, he knew, be making the Dream Journey, crossing over fully into the Dreaming World. It might very well happen this coming night. He knew the signs of imminent departure.

     From his dresser top perch, Larissa's loyal guardian for these last several weeks surveyed the bedroom he thought he might not be seeing again. He wanted a last look at some of the many sketches and paintings that were propped on easels or tacked to the walls or spilling over from the stack on her desk into an untidy pile on the floor. Larissa's art works were all centered on one obsessional subject matter: her beloved foxes. Some of her foxes were drawn as one would normally think of foxes, much like those one would see in photographs or might catch a brief glimpse of while walking in the woods. But there were also her very special foxes. These foxes walked upright just like people one would see in normal everyday life. These foxes wore fanciful velveteen pants and cotton blouses and even walked in leather high-heeled boots. Some wore buccaneer-style hats with enormous ostrich plumes affixed to their brims. Some of the foxes seemed to be slightly more fox than human. Some of the foxes seemed to be slightly more human than fox. Some seemed to be as equally fox as human.

     Some of the vividly-imagined fox characters were sketched in bold action scenes, riding horses or dancing like Lords and Ladies in grand ballrooms. But some of the fox characters were very formally posed, singularly or in couples, as if Larissa had been commissioned to paint their actual portraits. It was as if her imaginary fox friends were living, breathing beings in her secret, private world.

     The vulpine guardian, his survey complete, turned to focus his keen eyes on his favorite painting, the one hanging just by the open window, the open window through which he entered each evening and exited each morning. This painting was of a "proper" fox, without a fancy hat or boots, looking in fact very much like himself, he thought. He wondered if it might actually be his own portrait. Did she somehow "know" him, know him well enough to paint him, know that he was there at the foot of her bed each night, watching over her, as her dreams prepared her for the Journey? He liked to think so. But then again, he thought, he was probably only flattering himself. He couldn't possibly be as handsome as the majestic fleet beast captured in her painting.

     A bit lost in his reverie, he almost didn't hear the footsteps in the hallway, or the gentle turning of the doorknob.  Larissa's mother!  One last look at Larissa, and then he vaulted from the windowsill to the dew-covered backyard lawn below. He crossed the yard in a flash as the first sunrays of the breaking dawn heralded the new day. There was only the neighbor's yard to cross before disappearing into the safety of the edge of the woods, and deep within that woods, the sanctuary of his own burrow. As usual, the neighbor's watchdog was sound asleep on the job. And so it was that the quick red fox jumped over the lazy brown dog, and then hurried on home, snickering to himself, as he did each morning, at his own private joke.