Full Cry

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Me, too.” He shook the remaining snow from his cap as he stamped his boots.

  “Ran into Gray Lorillard. Said he’s retired and just moved back.”

  “Ah, that will be a good thing. Maybe he’ll start hunting again.”

  “Hope so. I think he went out with Middleburg Hunt when he worked in D.C. Anyway, we’re having lunch once the storm is over. I’ll get the scoop.”

  “Where’s my girlfriend?”

  She snapped her fingers. “I knew I forgot something. Next trip.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Early Sunday morning, the snow continued to fall. With a six-inch base of snow remaining on the ground from the week before, its depth now measured nearly two feet. Branches of walnuts, black gums, and the gnarled apple trees, coated with snow, took on a soft appearance. The younger pine boughs were bent low with its weight. The older pines appeared wrapped in shawls.

  The silence pleased Inky, snuggled in her den at the edge of the old cornfield. This, the easternmost part of Sister Jane’s big farm, provided a safe haven for the two-year-old gray fox in her prime. Some grays are quite dark, but not many. Inky was black and uncommonly intelligent. Of course, being a fox meant she was extraordinarily intelligent compared to other mammals.

  Even red foxes, haughty about the grays, conceded that Inky was special. She could connect with most mammals, even humans, and had a rare understanding of their emotions. The other foxes readily outsmarted hounds, humans, horses, even bobcats—trickier and tougher than the three “H’s,” as the foxes thought of the foxhunting crew. Foxes, reds and grays, thanks to their sense of smell, could pick up fear, sickness, even sexual attraction among other species. But Inky delved deeper. Young though she was, even reds listened when she spoke.

  Her den, disguised under the ancient walnut tree, was also hidden by rocky outcroppings, some of the rocks as big as boulders. On high ground with many entrances and exits, not far from Broad Creek—which divided Roughneck Farm from After All Farm—this location offered quick access to fresh running water and all the leftover corn bits Inky could glean. Even better, the field mice haunted the cornfield. There was nothing like a fresh field mouse for a hot, tasty meal.

  Inky’s littermate, Comet, had stupidly taken over a gopher den on Foxglove Farm across Soldier Road, about three and a half miles from Inky’s. Set smack in the middle of a wildflower field, at first this looked like a good thing. However, last fall Cindy Chandler, the owner of Foxglove, had decided to plow under the stalks, fertilize and then reseed with more wildflowers, as well as plant one side of the field with three rows of Italian sunflowers to bring in the birds. Comet, appalled that his den had been exposed, moved to the woods. He should have listened to his sister, who told him not to nest in an open field.

  At fourteen inches high, thirty inches long, and weighing a sleek ten pounds, Inky was the picture of health. Her tail, a source of pride, was especially luxurious now that she was enrobed in her rich dense winter coat.

  A low rumble alerted her to a human visitor. She stuck her black nose out of the den, a snowflake falling on it. Sister Jane, on her four-wheel drive all-terrain vehicle, pulled up the low farm road, following Shaker’s plowing.

  The ATV negotiated the snow and most anything else. Sister cut the motor and flipped up one bungee cord, which held a flake of straw. Putting that under her left arm, with her right hand she unhooked a second bungee cord, which held down a small plastic container of dog food.

  She trudged up the rise to the walnut tree. The cold and snow stung her rosy cheeks.

  An old cowboy hat kept the snow out of her eyes. As she approached Inky’s den, she whistled. She didn’t want to frighten the fox, who, if asleep, might not have heard her.

  Inky, who had popped back into her den, stuck her head out.

  “Good morning, Inky.” Sister dearly loved her foxes, but none so much at this one.

  “Morning.” Inky chortled, a low sound in her throat.

  “Here’s some straw in case you need to sweeten your bedding. I’m going to put the kibble right by your main entrance here. It’s in this plastic canister, which will keep some of the snow away, and Inky, I liberally drenched it in corn oil. You love that.”

  A round hole, paw sized, had been cut from the bottom of the canister so Inky could pull out food.

  “Thank you.”

  Sometimes when Sister walked alone, no hounds, no house dogs, Inky would walk with her, ten or fifteen yards to the side. They’d reached an accord, these two females, one born of affection and solitude.

  Inky didn’t much mind the Doberman, Raleigh, but that damned Rooster, the harrier, felt compelled to put his nose to the ground and follow her scent, talking all the while. As a hound, Rooster couldn’t help but show off. Much as he irritated Inky, she knew old Rooster had suffered sadness in his life. His master, Peter Wheeler, a handsome, vital man in his eighties, had died two years ago, bequeathing Rooster to Jane—once his lover—and his entire estate to the Jefferson Hunt Club. Sister lavished care on Rooster, but he still missed his “Pappy,” as he thought of Peter.

  The one Inky really detested was Golliwog, the calico cat, whose airs plucked Inky’s last nerve. As a rule, felines feel they are the crown of creation. Golly took this hauteur to extremes. Sometimes when Inky would visit the kennels to chat with Diana, a particular favorite, Golliwog would saunter by, nose in the air, always no hello. Then she’d buzz around the corner toward Shaker’s dependency and emit an earsplitting shriek, “Fox at the kennels .”“This would rouse the entire pack, who would then rouse Shaker. Inky would skedaddle out of there. Golly was a royal pain.

  Sister breathed in, the air heavy, the sky darkest pewter. Inky put her entire head out of her den. Corn oil smelled wonderful. She wasn’t going to emerge totally though.

  “You know, New Year’s Hunt is Thursday.” Wanting to reach down and pet the glossy head, Sister restrained herself. “Oh, what a hunt that always is. It’s the last of the High Holy Days, so everyone will be decked out in their finest, regardless of the temperature. The horses will be braided. Some of the field will be so hung over they’ll glow green.” She laughed. “But if they don’t make it, they are tormented until the next New Year’s Hunt by everyone else who pulled themselves together to brave all. Inky, I don’t know why people drink like they do. A glass of champagne or a good single malt scotch now and then, just one, mind you, but anything more,” she shook her head, “damned foolishness. Course, if people want to destroy their bodies, that’s their business, so long as they don’t destroy mine. I look at you and Athena,” she mentioned the huge horned owl who showed little fear of humans because she inspired fear in them, “and our other friends, and you all don’t wreck your bodies. I can’t decide if the human is genetically flawed or has created a society where the pressures are so fierce many folks can’t endure them without a little chemical help. Or maybe it’s both.”

  “You all worry about death too much,” the prescient creature said, but it sounded like a soft yap.

  Sister couldn’t understand, but she was a country girl, acutely attuned to animals. “Well, sugar, I’m off to feed the reds down by Broad Creek. And I am hunting on New Year’s, weather be damned. The snow will be over by tonight, the roads will be passable, and Tedi and Edward will plow out a field so everyone can park. The ground will stay frozen, too. That can be difficult.” She smiled at the beautiful orange-light hazel eyes looking up at her. “We’ll cast down by the covered bridge, so I don’t know which way we’ll go. Anyway, I don’t think you’ll be much bothered. And then, dear Inky, the dilettantes will hang up their spurs, winter will deepen, and the balls-to-the-wall gang will stay out. Or should I say the ovaries-to-the-wall? Oh, how I love those January, February, and early March hunts.”

  “Sister, you’re looking well, and I wish you a Happy New Year”

  “Bye-bye, babydoll.” Sister turned, her tracks already half covered in snow, and returned to her bright red ATV.

  I
nky hopped out, reaching her paw in the canister hole to retrieve the delicious treat.

  Sister drove back to the other end of the cornfield, where a rutted road ran into the farm road. It wasn’t plowed out. She would have a long walk to the red fox den. She shouldered a large canister. The two reds, Charlene and Target, lived together and produced many wonderful cubs, most of whom survived, thanks to the care bestowed upon them by Sister and Shaker.

  She wormed the foxes on her fixtures once they were old enough—about four months—to ingest wormer. She would stuff freshly killed chickens or sprinkle it over kibble. She and Shaker wormed their foxes on the same schedule as the hounds, once a month, on the first except for whelping season.

  When possible, the foxes were trapped and administered a rabies shot—no easy task. Trapping the same fox later for the booster wasn’t easy either, but they tried.

  Sister and other Masters of Foxhounds did all in their power to ensure a healthy fox population, but most especially they struggled to break the rabies cycles, which spiked about every seven years. Luckily, foxes didn’t prove to be the vast reservoir of the rabies virus that skunks, silver-haired bats, and raccoons were, but they still came down with this horrible disease. Thanks to Sister’s efforts, the rabies incidence in foxes dropped. Townspeople never thanked fox-hunters for their battle against rabies, a battle that benefited them and their pets, but then again, they didn’t know about it. It wasn’t in the nature of foxhunters to advertise.

  The French had invented an oral rabies vaccine not yet available in the United States. Sister hoped it would come to the States soon because it would greatly help her and other foxhunters protect foxes. Trapping took skill and some sense. A fox will bite. If she could instead put a pill in chicken or ground meat, it would make Sister’s mission much easier.

  The mile walk to Target’s den in the woods winded her. Pushing through the snow sucked up a lot of energy. She placed the canister by the den. Most likely neither Target nor Charlene would pop out and show themselves, but nevertheless they had a decent relationship with their human.

  Rarely do a female fox and her mate cohabit. The male may help raise cubs, but he usually has his own place. Still, for whatever reason, these two got along famously, and Target lived with Charlene.

  Sister mused on this. When one reads books about foxes or other wildlife, the information is usually correct. But in nature, as in human society, there are always exceptions that prove the rule. In truth, humans knew much less about foxes than about other animals. Considered vermin by state governments, they weren’t studied. The sheer adaptability of foxes—their high intelligence and omnivorous appetite—meant the fox could change quickly, do whatever it had to do to survive. Then, too, foxes didn’t read books about their supposed behavior. They were free to do as they pleased without fretting over breaking the norm.

  “All right, you two,” Sister called to the reds, “this will get you through die next week. I’ll be coming your way Thursday. You might consider showing yourselves.”

  “Maybe,” Target, huge at sixteen pounds, barked.

  Sister turned back. The snow was even thicker now, heavier, and she’d have to stick to the last cut cornrow to find her way.

  Sister’s senses, sharper and deeper, connected her to her quarry as well as her horses and hounds; in a profound sense, she was closer to certain species of animals, closer than she was to most people.

  Some believed that those who exhibited this unusual closeness had experienced a childhood trauma, and that such animal lovers are unable to love or trust other people. But Jane Arnold grew up in a loving home in central Virginia. Her friends were the bedrock of her life. In 1974, when her son died at fourteen, and, in 1991, when Big Ray, her husband, died of emphysema, her many friends and the animals pulled her through.

  Her son, Ray Jr., also called “Rayray” by the Musketeers, would have been in his forties now. Odd to think of him as middle-aged. His friends had grown older, but Ray Jr. stayed a teenager. She thought of her son every day. Sorrow had long ago burned off. What remained was a love that lifted her up. She did not talk about this. After all, most people are wrapped up in their own lives. She didn’t begrudge anyone his or her self-interest. And to speak of love beyond the grave, how might one discuss such a thing?

  A grave claims the body, but love will triumph over it. Love is the force of life, and of life after life.

  Sister brushed off the ATV’s seat, climbed on, turned the key, and headed back to the farm. She’d fed the foxes closest to the farm on the eastern side. Shaker was feeding those on the western side. The people who lived on hunt fixtures, those locations where the club chased foxes, would be out today or tomorrow with food for their foxes. Even the people who didn’t ride took care of their foxes. If someone couldn’t do it, all they need do was call Sister and she’d make arrangements for the welfare of those foxes.

  She parked her ATV in the equipment shed. Smoke hung low over Shaker’s chimney. She walked over and knocked on the door.

  “‘Mon in,” he called.

  She stepped inside. “What do you think?”

  They’d worked together for two decades. He knew what she was asking.

  “I think we’ll have a good New Year’s Day. But you might want to cancel Tuesday and make it up later.”

  “I’ve been turning that over in my mind. I’ll put it on the hunt-line,” she said, referring to the club’s phone number, which people call to get messages about the day’s activities.

  “I don’t think the back roads will be plowed out, and Tuesday’s hunt is over at Chapel Cross. That’s a haul under the best of circumstances. Guess I’ll call the Vajays.”

  The Vajays, a wealthy family originally from northern India, were enthusiastic supporters of the Jefferson Hunt. They owned Chapel Cross and would need to be informed of the change in plans.

  “Take off your coat, boss. I’ll make coffee.”

  “Oh Shaker, thanks, but I’d prefer a hot chocolate. You and I haven’t had a minute to catch up. Christmas makes us all nuts. Thank God we don’t do Boxing Day.”

  Boxing Day, December 26, was a big hunt day for some American clubs and for all the clubs in Great Britain.

  “Got a white Christmas this year, though. Made everyone happy.”

  “Yes.” She hung her coat on a wall peg, opened the outside front door, and shook off her cowboy hat. After she closed the door, she stamped her boots, untying and removing them. Her stocking feet felt the coolness of the uneven-width heart pine floorboards.

  “Someone needs to darn her socks.” Shaker pointed to a hole in her left sock.

  She sighed. “I haven’t bought new clothes in years. Jeans, hunt clothing, but no real clothes. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I actually like clothes.”

  “No time to shop.” He put on a pot of hot water. She joined him in the small kitchen.

  Shaker, a tidy person, liked to entertain. His wife, who had left him four years earlier, had always pulled social events together. When they were together, the dependency was regularly filled with people and laughter. But Mindy, much as she admired her husband, found the long hours of a huntsman and his total dedication to the hounds displeasing. She needed more attention and more money. She left him for a well-off man in Fauquier County. By all reports, she was happy. She was also driving a BMW 540i.

  Shaker put out a box of cookies. They sat down.

  Sister reached for a sugar cookie. “Before I forget, neither Alice nor Lorraine is particularly a strong woman. Once the snow stops, we ought to go over there tomorrow and see what needs to be done. You can fire up Alice’s tractor and plow. I’ll feed the chickens and dig out the house.”

  Alice Ramy studied at Virginia Tech three days a week. She rented and shared her farm with Lorraine Rasmussen and her daughter, Sari—a good arrangement for all.

  “Sure. Call and see if they need anything. We can bring it over.”

  “Okay.” She drank her chocolate, happy th
at Shaker hadn’t figured out her hidden agenda concerning Lorraine Rasmussen.

  She loved the concreteness of men, particularly Shaker. However, they often missed subtle emotional signs. He was lonely. A good man, he would never be rich or even middle class. But Shaker loved what he did, and he was good at it. That counted for a lot in life.

  With the right kind of setting and a little help from friends, Shaker might discover Lorraine Rasmussen and vice versa.

  CHAPTER 4

  The snow still fell in the Sunday twilight, shrouding the imposing stone pillars to Beasley Hall. The tusks of the two exquisitely rendered bronze boars, now covered in white, glowed even fiercer in the bluish light.

  These boars had cost $25,000 apiece when Crawford Howard purchased them eleven years ago. An arrival from Indiana, Crawford made a fortune building strip malls throughout his home state. Upon visiting Monticello in his early thirties, he’d fallen in love with central Virginia. Once he made enough to feel truly secure, he moved to the area and promptly became a member of the Jefferson Hunt. This was complicated somewhat by the fact that he couldn’t ride the hair of a horse. Determination and ego kept him taking lessons for years until he finally edged up from the Hilltoppers to First Flight. Not everyone in First Flight welcomed his graduation, for, although he could usually keep the horse between his legs, he knew precious little about foxhunting.