Tail Of The Fox

Tale of the Fox

On a farm, the fields were worked by a Farmer. This Farmer, who had turned his back on a world he thought miserable, had lived his life each day as though it really were. And every day, he would set out, gritting his teeth, bracing himself for the day to come, and the cows would be milked, the eggs taken from their coop, and the fields prepped and picked for the harvest. And every day he would rejoice, as it was one more day he could be alone, just as the world had left him. One morning, when the sun climbed up high in the sky, and the light it released showed bright through the thin clouds, he went out for his breakfast. As he headed for his chicken coop, he found his day was to be nothing like he had envisioned. In the grass, and on the walls of the chicken coop, were the feathers and blood of his hens. The door was damaged, and all of his chickens were gone. All that was left was the orange fur of a fox. Fueled with hate, he retrieved his rifle, and went out into the woods that guarded the west side of his farm. For at least 10 acres he hunted, killing every fox he could find, whether it was in its den or out side. When he came from the woods that evening, the sun had gone down, and rested beyond the horizon. The Farmer left the woods that day with two objects, one a trophy, and the other a part of him. Kept on a chain was the tail of his hound dog. Together he and that dog had been through it all, the two of them against the world and all the many things he felt ailed him. Crudely twisted into his other chain, was the tail of a fox, one he had killed inside its den, before the family it kept watch over. Above the door of the chicken coop he hung the fox tail, as a warning for any others that may come in the night. And as he laid down in bed, he hung the tail of his hound over his head, to keep as a reminder of his old companion. That night he slept well, and by the end of the week his chicken coop was filled with new chickens. He continued to work, preparing for the harvest, knowing that his livestock was what kept him payed and fed. Once again, in the morning, when the sun climbed high up in the sky, and the light that it released was blocked by the thick dark clouds, as was the case quite often now, the Farmer went out for his daily eggs. Inside the chicken coop, the hens were gone, and the area around was free from the feathers and usual mess of a raid. And from the chain hung the tail, though without flesh, and just of bone, it hung, motionless in the breeze. Confused, but furious all the same, the Farmer went for his gun and the tail of his hound dog, and ventured out into the woods once more. His search was fruitless, the only foxes he found being the deceased victims of his last massacre. At a loss, he went to the first of the lifeless foxes he saw, and took away its tail, putting it back on a chain as he had done before. Once out of his woods, he tossed the old tail of bones away, hanging the one of flesh in its place. In the yard the old bones laid to be forgotten, and that night, in his bed, he laid his own old bones down to rest. He slept uneasy that night, not even the memory of his fierce hound dog kept his mind from being weary. The skies stayed dark, and his crops stayed brittle, though there were many clouds, none brought rain for his plants to grow. His new chickens brought him eggs in plenty, feeding him, but not sustaining him. He felt old, and all that he did seemed old and cruel, just as he had in his younger days. He awoke, stiff and embittered, early in the morning, when the sun climbed high up into the sky, where the little light that was released was blocked by the ever darker clouds. Trudging to his coop, the outside of the small hut was trampled in from all sides. From all sides it was destroyed, pummeled, and the chickens were gone. As he examined the coop, he saw the tail was missing from the wreckage. And off in the distance, he heard a crash, and the distressed moos of his cows. He went for his rifle, a rifle that felt much heavier to him now than he remembered. And he went for the tail of his trusty hound dog, the tail that's age and wear now showed harshly as he felt it in his hand. As he entered his barn, he saw the cows, clawed, lying dead on the ground. Kneeling to look at the creatures, he looked up, and saw it. Hanging from the loft where he kept the hay that would no longer be needed, was something burnt, something the Farmer knew to be the tail of the fox he had hung over his chickens. He looked at the keepsake tail of his hound dog, and realized for the first time, that the once brown and shining fur, was now dingy, brittle and grey, much like himself. He ran to the place where he had thrown the first tail that was plucked from the woods, there he found nothing but burnt grass, burnt grass that led to his home. He attempted a run once more, but slowed as his will crumbled to his body. Into the house he went, and he followed the tracks that were burnt into his floor. He cracked open his bedroom door, and over his bed, hung the burnt remains of the tail he had stolen from the wild fox. As he took a step in, the door slammed shut behind him. He tried for the searing hot knob, burning the palms of his hands. Turning back, he saw what he thought was an orange blanket begin to move on the foot of his bed. An adult fox unfurled itself, and arched it's back as it stretched. The Farmer saw the fox had no tail, and his eyes went to the dismembered bones that hung from the chain over his bed. The bones of the tail erupted in flame, sending fire all around. The farmer pressed himself against the door, trying to get away from the fire. The fox now made its way slowly toward him. The fire crept close to the fox, staying just a few steps behind him as he continued closer ever still. The room was in flames, heat came from behind the door, and the Farmer realized, as he leaned against the burning door frame, that his hound that had been with him, having had the same fierce spirit, was now gone, and in his hand, all that was left was an empty, brittle chain.

In the morning, when the sun climbed higher and higher up into the sky, when the light it released showed clear through the blue, clear blue sky, the firemen trudged through the houses remains. The wet ash sticking to their boots, and trailing from one room to the next. On the report that was filed by the Arson investigator, all that was written of the farmhouse, and all the things that occurred, was that after an unsuccessful harvest, and the high stress that came from keeping the farm, the Farmer tried for insurance fraud, torching his home from the inside out. And that he was caught by his own flames on his way out.