Pax

by Sara Pennypacker

  He pulled the raisins out and ate them one at a time, taking small sips of water in between. Then he opened two packets of string cheese and took four crackers from the sleeve. He ate as slowly as he could, watching the sun over the orchard, surprised to find that he could actually mark its sinking movement. How had he lived twelve years and never known this about sunsets?

  Peter laced his boots. Just as he started to rise, he caught sight of a deer, which bounded into the orchard from the woods beyond. He held his breath as the orchard filled—fourteen deer in all. They began to graze, and a few nibbled delicately at the low branches of the trees.

  Peter squatted back down, and the closest one, a doe with a spindly spotted fawn beside her, turned her head to look directly at him. Peter raised his palm slowly, hoping to let her know he meant no harm. The doe moved between Peter and her fawn, but after a while she dipped her head into the grass again.

  And then the clear twilight air was split by the screech of a saw biting through wood from behind the barn. The herd startled in unison and peeled away into the darkening woods, their white tails flashing. Before she bounded off, the doe sent another look straight at Peter, one that seemed to say, You humans. You ruin everything. . . .

  Peter took off. Back at the highway, half the cars had their headlights on now, and it seemed they were all trained directly on him. He ducked off the road.

  The ground there was spongy and smelled of peat. He was just debating about risking the flashlight when his foot sank with a splash. He grabbed an overhanging branch and pulled himself out, but it was too late—he could feel cold swamp water seeping into his boots. Peter cursed. Not bringing more socks—another mistake. It had better be the last of the trip.

  And then, clambering back to higher ground, he made another, much worse, mistake.

  His right foot caught on a root and he fell. He heard the bone break—a soft, muffled snap—at the same time he felt the sharp stab. He sat panting with the stunning pain for a long moment. Finally he pulled his foot free and unlaced his boot, wincing at each motion. He eased down the wet socks, and what he saw made him gasp: his foot was swelling so fast that he could actually see it.

  Peter rolled his socks back up, nearly crying out at the pain it caused, then gritted his teeth to work his foot back into the boot before it could swell any more. He crawled to a tree and pulled himself upright. He tested his weight on his foot and nearly collapsed again. The pain was far worse than anything he’d felt before—it made the broken thumb feel like a mosquito bite in comparison.

  He couldn’t walk.

  Pax squirmed in pleasure at the solid, warm weight of another’s body nestled against his. Half awake, he sniffed to draw in the comforting scent of his boy. Instead of human, though, he found fox.

  He woke fully then. Curled against him, snoring, was the vixen’s brother. Runt whimpered and fluffed his tail over his snout, still asleep.

  Pax pulled himself up sharply. He had no practice at dominance, but the situation left him no choice. Go back to your den. When Runt tried to nestle into his chest, Pax nipped him on the shoulder.

  Runt shook himself awake and rolled to his feet. He didn’t duck his head in submission, and he made no move to leave. Play, his position invited instead.

  In other circumstances, Pax would have welcomed the good-natured little fox’s company. But he had no interest in tangling with Bristle again, and in fact he had no interest in anything besides getting back to his humans.

  Pax fetched the plastic soldier he’d cached and dropped it as an offering, then warned him away again. After a final pleading look, Runt took the toy in his mouth. Pax followed him out and watched until he slipped into a hole a few tail lengths away.

  When the thunderstorm had hit—short but violent, with whole sheets of sky splitting open in wrathful cracks—Pax had worked his way into the shallow entrance of an abandoned den not far from the one Bristle shared with her brother before taking measure of his surroundings. Now, in the pale light of the half-moon, he took a moment to survey them.

  The hillside faced south. Here the roots of the trees seemed to claw at the sandy soil like the brown knuckles of clenched fists. Tucked among them, Pax saw three den entrances.

  Above this hillside, the forest rose to the north and west, back to the road. Below, a vast grassy valley sloped away. It was an ideal location: the hillside perch provided little cover for approaching predators, while the line of trees protected the foxes from the north winds. The meadow smelled abundantly of life.

  As Pax took all this in, a tension deep within him loosened. It was the same way he’d felt as a kit when, after he’d pushed his food dish to the farthest corner of his boy’s nest room three times, Peter had finally understood to leave it there. Away from the cold north wall, and with a view of the door where the father entered, sometimes in anger. Safe.

  But this place was not safe for him. Bristle had warned him that in this same meadow lived an older fox and his mate. He was already facing a challenger from outside and would not tolerate the presence of another lone male. And just then Pax saw a movement below him—a broad-shouldered alpha with black and gray fur emerged from the brush halfway down the slope and marked a sapling beside him. The big fox began to groom, but with a paw still to his ear he suddenly pricked his snout into the breeze. Pax bolted up the hill and plunged into the forest undergrowth.

  He picked up his own scent easily although it had rained hard. Stopping only for quick licks of water from the leaves, he followed it back to the road.

  There, Pax caught the lingering scent of the military transport caravan from the day before, but no other traffic had passed since then. He settled himself on the fallen oak trunk again to wait.

  Morning brought the shimmery buzz of insect clouds and the chatter of waking birds, but still no traffic sounds on the road. As the sun rose hot and dry, it burned off the rain droplets that had hung from every green shoot.

  Pax was aware of his hunger now, but his thirst was worse—he’d had nothing to drink since leaving his humans’ house. His throat was parched and his tongue swollen and thick. He felt dizzy whenever he shifted his position. A hundred times a thin scent of water drifted past him, but he never considered abandoning his post for its promise. His humans would come back here. He dug his claws into the wood and strained for the sound of a vehicle on the silent road. An hour passed, and then another. Pax dozed and woke and remembered, dozed and woke and remembered. And then the wind brought news of something approaching.

  A fox. The same male he’d seen earlier, the one Bristle had warned him about. The fox’s gait was deliberate, showing neither hesitation nor wasted energy. The way his grayed coat draped his frame announced that he was old. As he drew close, Pax saw that even his eyes were clouded gray with age.

  After offering his scent, Gray settled himself on the grass beside the fallen trunk. He made no move to elevate himself, indicating that he meant no threat. You carry the scent of humans. I lived with them, once. They are approaching.

  A sudden hope rejuvenated Pax. Have you seen my boy? He described Peter.

  But Gray had seen no humans at all since the time he had lived with them in his youth. And that was in another place—a dry, stony land of long winters and low sun, distant. The approaching humans are coming from the west. They are bringing war. The crows who have seen them do not describe any youth.

  The news weakened Pax. He swayed and nearly lost his grip on the trunk.

  You need water. Follow me.

  Pax hesitated. His humans could come at any time. But his need for water was urgent. Is it nearby? Can I hear the road from this water?

  Yes. The stream passes beneath the road. Follow me.

  Gray’s manner—confident but not threatening—calmed Pax. He dropped from his perch and followed.

  Soon they came to a deep gash in the earth, from which rose the scents of water and of things that grew in rich mud. Pax peered over the edge and saw a silver brook, studded wit
h black stones, glinting between green reeds and purple blossoms. Gray began to angle down cautiously. Lured by the scent of water, Pax scrambled past him, straight down the cut. Halfway there, he lost his footing and skidded the rest of the way.

  When he righted himself, he stared. The water tumbled past him as if from a vast faucet, larger by far than even the spout that poured water into the great white tub his boy bathed in. He dipped his head. The water was cold and tasted of copper and pine and moss. It rushed into his mouth as if it were alive. It stung his teeth and drenched his mouth and throat. He drank and drank, and he didn’t step away until his belly was taut.

  Gray joined him, drank, and then invited Pax to rest with him.

  Pax cocked his head to listen intently to the still-silent road above the culvert. I must be at the road when my humans come for me.

  Gray eased himself to the ground and stretched out. That road was blocked yesterday by the war-sick.

  Pax thought back to the vehicles that had passed the day before, the ones that smelled like his boy’s father’s new clothing. It was true that the road had been unused since then. But it didn’t matter. My boy will return for me there.

  No. The crows report this: the road is closed.

  Pax paced from stone to stone, thrashing his tail as he worked the puzzle. The answer came: I will go to my boy at our home.

  Where is your home?

  Pax circled to be sure, although there was no question: he felt the pull of his home strongly from only one direction. South.

  Gray did not seem surprised. There are vast human colonies there. When the war-sick arrive here, my family will have to move nearer to those colonies or go north, into the mountains. Tell me about the humans there. How they are to live beside.

  Again, the old fox’s comportment soothed Pax. He came back and sat. I have seen many from a distance, but I know only two.

  Are they false-acting, like the ones I knew?

  Pax did not understand.

  Gray rose to his haunches, agitated, and shared the behavior he had seen: A human turning away a starving neighbor, acting as if there were no food in his larder when it was full. A human feigning indifference to a mate she’d chosen. A human enticing a sheep from its flock with a soothing voice and then butchering it. Your humans do not do these things?

  Immediately Pax thought of his boy’s father pulling him from the car, his voice mimicking a sense of regret Pax knew was false by the burst of lie-scent he’d given off.

  He turned back to the brook. As it spilled over a pair of stones, the current split and then reunited in a liquid silver braid. Pax was struck by a memory.

  Not long after his boy had rescued him, when he was still a skittish kit, a stranger had come to the door. Pax had watched from under a table as his boy’s father had greeted a woman with a long silver braid streaming over one shoulder. His smile showed all his teeth, which Pax had come to understand meant, Welcome; I am glad to see you; I wish you no harm. But beneath the smile, the man’s body was rigid with anger and fear.

  Pax had been confused by this fear—the small woman was projecting nothing but kindness and concern. She kept repeating the word Pax had already come to associate with his boy—“Peter”—in a pleading tone. The man’s full-teeth welcome smile remained frozen in place, but the room had flooded with the bitter scent of deception as he answered her. His chest had been puffed out in threat as he shut the door hard against her.

  Pax turned to the older fox. I have seen it. Not in my boy, never in him. But it’s true of his father.

  The old fox seemed to age as he took this in. With visible effort he rose on his haunches. Are they still careless? They were careless where I lived with them.

  Careless?

  They plow a field and they slaughter the mice living there with no warning. They dam a river and leave the fish to die. Are they still careless that way?

  Once, when Peter’s father was about to cut down a tree, Pax had watched Peter climb it to take down a nest and move it to another tree. On cold days, Peter brought fresh straw to Pax’s pen. Before he himself ate, he always made sure Pax had water and food. My boy is not careless.

  The old fox seemed relieved by this news. But only for a moment. When war comes, they will be careless.

  What is war?

  Gray paused. There is a disease that strikes foxes sometimes. It causes them to abandon their ways, to attack strangers. War is a human sickness like this.

  Pax jumped to his feet. The war-sick—they will attack my boy?

  War came to the land where I lived with humans. Everything was ruined. There was fire everywhere. Many deaths, and not only of the war-sick, the adult males. Children, mothers, elders of their own kind. All the animals. The men who were sick with the disease spilled their chaos over everything in their path.

  This same thing is coming?

  Gray raised his head in a howl that turned the air itself to sadness. West of here, where the war is already, where the humans are killing each other, the land is completely ruined. The crows carry the news. The rivers are dammed. The earth is scorched bare; not even briars will grow. Rabbits and snakes, pheasants and mice . . . all creatures killed.

  Pax leaped to the path. He would find his boy. Before this war came.

  Gray followed. Wait. I will travel south with you to search for a new home. Follow me back first.

  Back to the meadow? No. The vixen warned me not to return.

  The vixen will never welcome you, because you have lived with humans.

  Pax then caught a quick flash of the same scene he’d watched pass between the vixen and her brother: a cold, howling wind; a mated pair of foxes in great distress; a cage of steel clamps; blood staining snow. And then, abruptly, nothing.

  But she’s not dominant. Follow me back. We will rest and eat, then leave tonight.

  The sound Peter most loved in the world—the leather-to-leather smack of ball in glove—was so real in his dream that he smiled as he opened his eyes. And then yelped in shock.

  A woman stood over him, tossing a baseball into a glove. She wore patched overalls with faded bandannas knotted along the straps, and her hair was a spiked mess that shook as she cocked her head to study him.

  He scrambled backward along rough wooden floorboards, crying out again, this time at the pain shooting up from his right foot. It all came back fast. In rising panic, he looked around for his pack. There it was, behind the woman, its contents strewn across the floor.

  She came closer and thumped the ball into the glove a little harder.

  His ball, and his glove, Peter realized. The ball that had been in his pack. The glove he’d been sleeping on. He strained up. “Hey! That’s my stuff! What are you doing here?”

  At that, the woman threw back her head and barked something between a laugh and a snort. She pitched the ball and glove away and crouched down to eye him, one hand wrapped around a clutch of feathers she wore on a rawhide strip around her neck.

  This close, Peter could see that she wasn’t as old as he’d thought. Not much older than his father, anyway. A single gray streak bolted through her hair, but her skin was smooth. When she narrowed her eyes and snapped her fingers at his face, it dawned on him that the woman might be crazy.

  “No. No, no, no. This is my barn you broke into, so ‘What are you doing here?’ would be my question.”

  Peter scooted back. Crazy or not, the woman standing over him had a wall full of hatchets and scythes behind her, and he was one foot short of a running pair. “Okay, right. I hurt my foot last night. I’d passed your barn, and I needed a place to stay, so . . . Look, I’ll go.”

  “Not so fast. What do you mean, you passed my barn? This is private property and I’m in the middle of nowhere.”

  The woman straightened to her full height, and Peter edged back even farther.

  “I . . . I was taking a shortcut home from . . .” The practice he’d been to the day before flashed before him. He nodded to his ball and glove. “From b
atting practice.”

  “You were coming home through my land from batting practice? Then the first thing I am wondering is why you don’t have a bat.” She tossed a hand toward his stuff. “Why you carry a roll of duct tape, garbage bags, and a charm bracelet, clothing, food, and water . . . but no bat. Eh, boy?”

  The way she said “boy”—silky and stretched out to two syllables—made him realize she had the hint of an accent. Only a hint, as if sometime in her childhood, people around her had spoken a language that was close to singing.

  “Well, I . . . I left it. A bat’s heavy to carry around.”

  The woman shook her head again, and this time she looked disgusted. She yanked up the left leg of her overalls. Below the knee, her leg was a rough wooden post. She stabbed it down beside Peter. “Now, this leg. Oh, this leg is heavy, boy. Solid heart pine. But I carry it around, don’t I.”

  The woman peered down at it and seemed to discover something she didn’t much like. She pulled a knife from her belt and, with a flick of her wrist, shaved off a chink from just above where her ankle would have been. Then she straightened to face Peter again, the knife jabbing directly at him. “So let’s try one more time, because I am very curious now: If you were at batting practice, how is it you don’t you have a bat?”

  Peter dragged his gaze up to the woman’s face and then back down to the knife. The blade gleamed long and thin, with an evil-looking curve to it. She was probably crazy, all right. Probably worse. His heart stuttered in his chest, and his mouth was a desert, but he managed to answer. “I don’t own one.”

  The woman flashed half a grin and a quick wink. “Better. Yes, that has the feel of truth. What’s your name?”

  Peter told her.

  “So, No-bat Peter, what’s this about your foot?”

  Peter kept his eyes on the knife as he peeled the sweatshirt from his foot. The pain of just that slight movement shocked him. Shudders racked him, and for the first time he realized how cold he was. “I twisted it.”