Little Foxes

by Michael Morpurgo

  He sank at once, his feet kicking out desperately for the bottom, which did not seem to be there as he had expected. He came up again gasping for air and flailing the water to keep himself afloat. Ahead of him he could see the fox’s white muzzle nosing through the weeds and he struck out after him, legs and arms working frantically in an untidy dog paddle. But the far bank came no closer and he was tiring fast. He pounded the water furiously, but no matter how hard he tried he seemed unable to prevent his body from sinking. By the time he reached the middle of the canal he had swallowed a lot of water and was choking. The weeds were wrapping around his legs and dragging him down. He could see that the fox had reached the bank safely and was shaking himself, and that gave him new heart, but his legs seemed incapable now of obeying him. He knew then that he was going to drown, that there was nothing he could do about it, no point in struggling any more.

  He had sunk twice already when he saw a branch floating slowly towards him and reached out for it. He caught at the twigs and hauled it towards him until he could cling to the branch itself. He hooked his arms over it and kicked his legs free of the weed, and as he did so he found he was moving slowly towards the fox on the bank. So he kept kicking and kicking until the branch edged its way into the reeds and would go no further. Billy threw himself down on the bank by the fox and coughed the water out of his lungs.

  Only the fox saw the swan glide away, in under the shadow of the hanging alder trees, and he stiffened momentarily with surprise.

  Billy looked up to find Aunty May standing on the bank opposite. ‘Now you come back here this minute, Billy Bunch,’ she shouted. ‘This minute, d’you hear?’ Billy said nothing, but walked away through the long grass, the fox at his heels. ‘Well good riddance then, Billy Bunch,’ she screamed. ‘There’s plenty more where you come from, always will be. Don’t think you can come running back to me when they pick you up either. I won’t have you, you hear? I won’t have you. You take your filthy fox and run for all I care. P’raps that’s where you belong, Billy Bunch, out there in the wild with the animals, with that fox.’ But Billy was out of earshot by now and running and leaping through the grass, his eyes on the thin grey line of light that was creeping up over the dark and distant hills.

  Those hills beckoned him all morning as he trudged on through the grass-waving meadows and across the sun-spangled streams, but they seemed to come no nearer. Often in the valleys he would lose sight of the hills completely and become swallowed up in the immensity of the countryside; and when the hills did reappear there always seemed to be villages or farmyards in the way, between him and the hills, places where he knew there would be people, places he knew they had to avoid. That the police would be looking for them all over the countryside Billy had no doubt; and he could not doubt that they already knew in which direction he had gone. They would know well enough where to look for them. If he were to be sighted now it would be the end of everything. They would take his fox away from him and he would never see him again. With that terrible threat hanging over him he moved only under cover, as far as possible keeping to the hedgerows and the woods. If that meant going the long way round, then he went the long way round.

  Only once that morning did he stray too near a farmhouse. He was not to know that the smell of the fox would carry on the wind and draw the sheepdog towards them. They were making their way stealthily across a farm track and then into a cut hayfield the other side when the sheepdog came at them suddenly, hackles up, its body stiff with fury at them. The fox jerked away violently, snapping the lead, and bolted into the hedgerow. Billy’s instinct too was to run, but the dog was too close and he knew he could not run fast enough. So he stood his ground, his spine warm with fear, and faced the hysterical barking and the bared teeth. When it went for his ankles he lashed out viciously, landing a lucky kick on its side that sent it scampering away, tail tucked abjectly between its legs. It took several minutes of patient persuasion for him to cajole the fox out from the sanctuary of the hedge.

  Billy had nothing to use for a lead now and wondered if the fox would follow him up the track. Walking backwards, he whistled him up and called him. At first the fox sat watching him in the middle of the track, head on one side, thinking. Billy kept walking and whistled again. Whether the fox grasped the idea or whether he just did not want to be left alone there Billy did not know, but the fox came loping up the lane after him. After that he seemed not to want to stray more than a few paces from Billy’s feet, and if he ever did Billy’s whistle would always bring him back.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AS THE DAY WORE ON, THE SUN BEAT relentlessly down on their backs. Billy was glad of it, for it dried his soaking clothes as he walked; but with only stream water inside them both boy and fox began to weaken. As he tired, Billy began to take more risks, and in his anxiety to get as far as possible from the city before nightfall he became careless. Where before he had kept close to the edges of fields, hugging the hedgerows, now he would take the shortest route, walking openly out across fields where they might be seen from the farmhouses. He knew well enough that they were more exposed to discovery on the roads than anywhere else. Until now he had been scrupulously careful to ensure there was no one about, no traffic approaching, before crossing; and he had always picked up the fox and carried him across. But when in the late afternoon they came to a narrow, winding lane he did not even bother to pick up the fox and gave only a cursory glance down the lane. He was about half-way across, and whistling for the fox to follow him, when the little girl on the bicycle came round the bend fast. She skidded to a halt on the gravelly road, using her feet for brakes.

  ‘Didn’t see you,’ she said. ‘Haven’t got no brakes – busted.’ As she spoke, the fox walked nonchalantly out across the road towards Billy, belatedly obeying his call. ‘Hey, isn’t that a fox?’ she said.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Billy.

  ‘He is,’ she said. ‘I seen ’em in books, and my dad shot one once when it came around the fowls. ’S a fox, that is, ’s a fox.’

  ‘Just looks like a fox,’ said Billy. ‘’T’isn’t really.’ The girl, he thought, was a little younger than he was, with long blond pigtails and an open smiling face, the kind, Billy thought, that would talk a lot. He would have to be convincing. ‘Looks like a fox, I know,’ he said. ‘Everyone says so, but it’s just a funny kind of sheepdog – still a puppy he is really. I mean you’ve never heard of a fox you could stroke, have you? I mean they’re wild animals, foxes are. Like wolves they are, sort of, take your hand off they would, give ’em half a chance.’ And he crouched down and stroked the fox’s neck, burying his fingers in the soft fur. ‘Good dog,’ he said. ‘Good dog. See? Quiet as a mouse, he is. No need to be frightened of him. He won’t hurt you. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you, boy? Come on, you have a go.’ The girl stepped off her bike and laid it down in the middle of the road.

  ‘You sure he’s all right?’ she said, approaching nervously. The fox sat quite still, looking up at Billy for reassurance. Billy felt his whole body stiffen as the girl touched him, and when his ears went back on his head Billy feared he might be betrayed, but as the girl relaxed, her petting became less tentative and she was soon smoothing him all over and enjoying it. ‘Never seen a dog like this before,’ she said. ‘’Spose it’ll look proper when it’s grown up.’

  ‘’Spose so,’ said Billy, much relieved at the success of his ruse but conscious of the fact that a car could come down the road at any moment and that the driver might not be so gullible as this girl. ‘You’d better pick your bike up before someone comes round that bend. Got to be going now.’ And he opened the field gate and whistled for the fox to come after him, and then walked away out into the field as casually as he could.

  ‘Where you going?’ called the girl, following him to the gate.

  ‘Home,’ said Billy, waving his hand above his head.

  ‘Where’s that?’ she cried. But Billy pretended he had not heard and walked on a little faster, not so fas
t that it could be thought he was running away, but fast enough to get away from her questions. ‘My dad’s a farmer and he says you should ought to keep dogs on the lead, they’ll end up chasing sheep else. And you ought to shut gates, don’t you know that?’ On the brow of the hill Billy looked back over his shoulder to be sure he was not being followed and she was gone. He broke into a run, cursing himself aloud for his carelessness.

  After that, exhausted as he was, he took no more risks. He had had his warning and did not ignore it. As evening came on his stomach began to ache with hunger and he could think of little else but food. He thought of raiding vegetable gardens, of stealing eggs and even of venturing into a village under the cover of darkness to rifle the dustbins. But the dread of capture was stronger even than the nagging hunger pains that tugged at his stomach.

  He found talking helped him to forget, providing he could avoid the subject of food, but somehow it always came back to that. By nightfall they still had had nothing to eat. The last red of the sun bled into the clouds above the glowing city in the distance. Billy sat with his fox on the bracken hillside. ‘Looks pretty from here,’ he said. ‘But we’re never going back there. You and me, we don’t belong there, do we? Only sensible thing Aunty May ever said to me. You remember? She said we belong out here in the wilds together. Well, we do, don’t we?’ The fox sat trim beside him, attentive, alert to every sound of the encroaching night. ‘Mind you,’ said Billy, ‘I could do with some of her baked beans, couldn’t you? Wouldn’t even say no to a corned beef sandwich, and I know you wouldn’t, would you? Yes, you’re right. Best not to talk about it, only makes it worse.’ But he was too tired even to talk now. He beat the bracken around him into a soft bed, and lay back in it, turned on his side, his knees drawn up to his chin and was asleep almost at once.

  But the fox did not sleep, not yet anyway. For him food came before sleep. He went out hunting in the woods just above where Billy lay. He had been hunting before, but it was never as urgent then as it was now. He was slow and inexperienced, but hunger had sharpened his reactions, and after being given the run-around by an irritating fieldmouse that had mastered the art of vanishing, he cornered and at last exhausted a field vole and killed it. But this first kill seemed only to stimulate his appetite. He spent most of the night high up in the woods above where Billy slept, stalking and pouncing ineffectually, trying to repeat his early success; but with the dew coming down in the early morning the worms came wriggling to the surface in the soft earth of the forest tracks and the fox treated himself to a feast of them before he returned to snuggle up tight against Billy’s chest. He curled his tail over his nose and slept.

  Morning came too soon for both of them. Billy had slept fitfully. Whichever side he chose to sleep on soon lost all feeling, and the pins and needles that followed were excrutiating. When he woke his neck was stiff and he was wet through and shivering with the cold. There were church bells ringing somewhere in the misty valley below him, and a cow lowing mournfully. A persistent invisible pigeon called gently from above him in the trees and a pair of circling buzzards mewed plaintively overhead. Billy watched as a gang of raucous rooks moved in to worry them.

  The fox stiffened suddenly beside him at the bark of a dog. Billy was not alarmed for it seemed to him to be harmless enough and still far away. But then there was the murmur of voices, a hooting laugh, and Billy was on his feet and running. He followed the fox up the hillside and into the shelter of the trees. As they ran in under the trees a gunshot blasted behind them and the wood emptied itself noisily of every bird. The fox ran on ahead the way he had gone the night before, and Billy ran after him, stumbling over the dead branches that the fox leapt so easily. Another gunshot echoed along the valley behind them. Billy did not know whether the shots were aimed at them. The fox seemed to know and that was enough for him. Suddenly there were no more trees and Billy was out in the bright sunlight and tearing downhill towards a stream. Beyond the stream was a forest of conifer trees that climbed the hillside in serried lines. There was cover in there. If they could reach the trees Billy felt they had some chance. The fox loped across the open field, hesitated at the stream but then bounded across and up into the trees beyond. Billy splashed through the water after him and plunged into the forest before turning to see if they were being followed. He crouched in the shadows and watched.

  Not fifty paces from them two men came out into the field, each of them carrying a gun, a little Jack Russell terrier sniffing the ground around them. ‘I saw it,’ said one of them. ‘Big it was and brown, I saw it, honest. Could’ve been a deer, even. Gone to cover in the Brigadier’s wood. He’s got dozens of them in there. He won’t notice if there’s one missing, will he? Come on, let’s go in after him. It’s worth a bit, is a deer. Look, the dog’s after him, he’s got his scent, I told you, I told you.’ And sure enough the little Jack Russell was bustling down through the grass towards them, yapping as he came.

  Upward was the only way to go. Billy dug his toes into the soft earth and forced his legs to run. The fox needed no whistling on now. He trotted on easily in front, tongue hanging out. They could hear behind them that the hunters were in the woods too, and that the yapping terrier was coming even closer. Billy ran now because the fox ran. He drove himself on, pounding the air with his arms, whispering through gritted teeth, ‘Faster, faster, faster. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.’

  With the forest behind them filling with excited voices they reached the forest path at the top of the hill. The fox immediately turned right as if he knew the way, so Billy followed him. Billy sensed that the fox was leading him somewhere, and he was far too tired to argue. When the fox left the track and bounded up the bank into more trees, Billy clambered after him.

  It was a different forest now, with great tall oaks clinging dangerously to the hillside. Many had fallen, their roots ripped out, leaving vast craters where young saplings were sprouting again. As they ran on and up, Billy saw the fox slowing. He was looking around him as he went, no longer intent it seemed on escape. The measured rhythm was gone from his stride and Billy found himself running alongside him, even ahead of him sometimes. Fatigue overcame Billy now as he laboured on, fatigue brought on by the knowledge that he had not thrown off their pursuers. Below in the woods they could hear them crashing through the undergrowth and always that shrill incessant yapping that was leading the hunters inexorably towards them.

  The fox had paused by one of the craters, and quite suddenly vanished among the roots. Billy whistled for him but the fox did not reappear, so Billy went down into the crater after him. The earth still clung to the roots that towered now over Billy, an earth wall of twisted roots, and at the base of it a hole that must have been torn out of the hillside when the tree fell. It seemed to lead in behind the wall of roots, and at the mouth of the hole he saw the white muzzle of the fox. Billy had no idea how big the hole might be inside, but the hunters were so close now that there was no time for debate. He thrust himself into the hole, arms and head first, but his shoulders stuck fast. He kicked out furiously with his legs and groped in the dark for something on which he could haul himself in, and he found it, a gnarled root that was strong enough to take all his weight. Once inside he looked for the fox and found two eyes staring back at him out of the dark. He gathered the fox to him and crawled to the back of the earth cave and waited. Whatever happened he would never allow the fox to be taken from him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE TERRIER CAME STRAIGHT TO THE HOLE and would have come in after them had not Billy hurled a clod of earth and stones at his snarling snout. It took a broadside to drive him away and he backed off, yelping in surprise. Billy crouched in the dark with the fox breathing heavily against him, and they heard the hunters’ voices as they toiled up the hillside towards the dog that stood quivering and barking at the bottom of the crater.

  ‘Ain’t no deer down there. You and your deer, Jack. Run me ruddy legs off I did, and for what?’ said one of them. ‘Rabbits, that’s all th
ere is in there. Came all this way for a ruddy rabbit we did. Lost the scent, didn’t he, the useless mutt.’

  ‘He’s after something though, isn’t he?’ said another voice. ‘There’s a hole down there, see? Big enough for a fox, that is. P’raps it was a fox after all, p’raps he’s after a fox. Let’s put him in there and see, eh? We came all this way, didn’t we? Worth a try.’ And Billy heard them slithering down into the crater. He grabbed the biggest stone he could find from the floor of the cave and watched for the terrier’s nose to appear again. But instead of the dog it was a face they saw, a woolly head of ginger hair and a red face. ‘Pitch black in there, can’t see a thing. Give me the dog. If anything’s in there he’ll soon bring it out. You’ll see.’

  But nothing would persuade the terrier to put its nose to the hole again. More than once they dragged the wretched animal choking to the mouth of the hole and held it there, pushing it from behind, but the dog dug its front feet into the ground obstinately and backed out yelping just as soon as they let go of his collar. Billy held his fire and hoped.

  ‘There’s something in there, got to be. Got to be something in there to make the dog turn tail.’

  ‘He’s a useless mutt, Jack, like I said. You should get yourself a proper dog. Yellow as a buttercup he is.’

  ‘Look, if he’s frightened, then he’s frightened of something, right? So there’s got to be something down there, hasn’t there? Now if he won’t go in after it and drag it out, then we’ve got to persuade whatever’s in there to come out, haven’t we?’