Scary Stories for Young Foxes
Page 20
Mia buried her on the riverbank.
“Sometimes,” she said, “there’s a fire in the fields. A lot of foxes will breathe the smoke. And some of them will d—” Her voice broke, and she had to wait a moment before she could continue. “But from the ashes, the trees will grow back greener, better than before. And there will be lots of good things to eat. And even though the fire was scary, and even though it took some foxes away … the other foxes will remember. They’ll remember the foxes who died. They’ll remember the smell of the smoke. And they’ll tell all their friends and siblings and kits about it so that it never has to happen again. And all the foxes will live happily ever after.” She sniffed. “Or as happy as they can be, at least.”
Mia laid a paw on the little mound in the mud. “I love you, Bizy.”
When she looked up, she saw two gooey eyes staring at her from the opposite bank.
“Goodbye, Roa,” Mia said.
She took one last look at the river, then left the pine grove and returned to the den. There she found the three other kits—Alfie, Uly Junior, and Roa Junior—all whimpering for her warmth.
There was a pile of mice waiting for them to eat.
SIXTEEN
MIA PASSED THE long winter nights by telling stories. She told the kits about the yellow stench and the six cruel sisters. She told them about the old witch of the wood and the Golgathursh of the swamp. She told them why to beware of foxes with moon-bright fangs and pretty scents. And she told them why some horrors aren’t as scary as they seem.
Once her paw was feeling better, she was able to hunt again, though she never strayed too far from the den. Whenever she was outside, she kept an eye on the horizon, hoping to see a three-legged silhouette and a smaller one beside it.
Winter finally died with a howl, and the sun rose back to its rightful place. The snow melted, and the ice cracked. Streams trickled, and green sprouts crept up through the soil. The trees that edged the valley lost their winter coats. Their dripping branches almost resembled antlers …
Once spring had come in earnest, Mia led the kits out of the den for the first time. She watched as Alfie, Uly Junior, and Roa Junior bounded through the field, trying to catch a grasshopper. The kits kept bonking heads, stumbling onto their muzzles, and chasing their own tails instead of the insect.
Mia winced, laughing. She was tempted to guide their noses, to tell them everything they were doing wrong … but for now it was too cute.
“Mom! Mom!” Roa Junior shouted, tail wagging. He marched up to Mia and triumphantly plopped a piece of bark in front of her. “Look what I caught you!”
She sniffed at it. “Mm! This smells delicious!”
His little nose wrinkled. “Aren’t you gonna eat it?”
“I…,” Mia said, “am going to save it. For when you and your brothers aren’t looking. A hunt this special has to be relished.”
“Okay!” Roa Junior said, romping back toward his brothers. “You’re welcome!”
Mia quickly pawed some dirt over the bark. Then she sighed, contented, and sniffed at their new home. The open sky. The warming grasses. The cool air whirling off an unseen creek.
It was a few hairs shy of the Eavey Wood, but it would do.
THE AUTUMN MOON sank behind the Antler Wood. The sky grew rosy with sunrise.
“Is that … the end?” the little one asked.
“It’s the end,” the storyteller said.
The little one waited for something to step out from behind the trees. Miss Vix. Mr. Scratch. Miss Potter. Roa … But as dawn seeped between the branches and birds began to sing, the thought no longer put a chill in her paws.
“What happened to Uly?” she asked.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
The little one whirled, expecting to see a three-legged fox hopping toward her. But the wood was empty.
Her head whipped back around. “That wasn’t funny.”
The storyteller sighed. “It wasn’t meant to be. He was supposed to jump out and scare you. But … he’s late.”
The little one wrinkled her nose in amusement. “Oh.”
“MI-A!” a voice called from the edge of the wood, making the little one jump.
“COM-ING!” she called. She turned back to the storyteller. “Guess I gotta go.”
The cavern was silent.
“Hello?” the little one said.
“Your name is … Mia?” the storyteller asked.
“Yep!” the little one said, pawing at the mosses. “That’s how come I stayed till the end, even though it was scary. That fox has my same name. I had to find out what happened to her.”
There was a sniff in the cavern. And the little one couldn’t tell if the storyteller was crying … or smelling her fur.
“MIA!” her mom howled again. “YOU GET HOME NOW!”
“Be right there!” she called. Then, into the cavern: “I was named after my great-great-great-great-aunt, who got stolen by a human and then died. Or at least, my great-great-great-great-grandma thought she died.”
“And who is your great-great-great-great-great-grandma?” the storyteller said.
The little one wrinkled her nose. “I never learned her name. But her front paw was all curled up like this.” She lifted her paw up off the ground. “You’d think that woulda made her easier to tackle. But it didn’t.”
The storyteller chuckled. “Maybe you shouldn’t be tackling old vixens.”
The little one sighed. “Yeah, I guess not.”
“And how did your great-great-great-great-great-grandmother break her paw?”
“It got caught in a trap one day. She would’ve died, but her daughter saved her life. That kit’s name was Mia, and there’s been a Mia in every litter since. That’s how come I got the name I did.” The little one quirked her head. “That story was about her, huh?”
“Yes,” the storyteller said. “That story was about her.”
“And Uly,” the little one said.
“And Uly,” the storyteller agreed.
“MIA! HOME THIS INSTANT OR I’LL HAVE YOUR HIDE!”
“Okay!” the little one howled back. Then, to the cavern, “Guess I gotta go for real this time or else my mom’s gonna stuff me. I don’t want to end up like Mr. Tod.”
In the faint dawn light, the storyteller smiled. “Thank you for visiting me, Mia. Come again soon.”
“I will!” she said as she romped back toward her den, paws crunching the leaves. “Thanks for the stories! Thanks for making the end good! Er, kinda good!”
“It couldn’t have ended any other way,” the storyteller whispered.
* * *
The old storyteller stepped out of the cavern, the morning light shining on her gray fur and the missing tip of her tail, which had never grown white. She sniffed after the little one’s sweet-apple scent.
Mia smiled.
She’d been telling her and Uly’s stories for years. She’d told them to the kits they’d adopted and to their kits and their kits. Mia never thought she would be lucky enough to tell the stories to kits outside of this line, let alone her mother’s great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter.
“Did I miss the jump scare?” a voice said above her.
Mia looked up and found Uly, standing atop the cavern, sunlight streaming around him and the rabbit he’d hunted.
“You did,” Mia said, smiling. “But that’s all right. Only one kit made it to the end this time.”
“I told you not to tell them about the Golgathursh,” Uly said, hopping down from the cavern’s top. “I still can’t go near a puddle without getting the chills.”
Mia studied his dark whiskers, slowly turning gray. She remembered the way her heart had thawed that bright summer morning when Uly and Marley returned to the den. Uly had told her the story.
Once the river had slowed, many, many miles away, he’d picked the kit up, leapt off the ice block, and swam to shore, using the technique Mia had taught him. Marley was so little and Uly so n
ew to hunting that it had taken them months to follow the riverbank all the way back. But there they were.
When he was finished, Mia told him what had happened to Bizy, her voice shaking.
Uly had listened and then licked her ears. “If we hadn’t found that den,” he’d whispered, “none of the kits would have made it.”
Mia had sniffed and said nothing, but she’d carried Uly’s words with her ever since.
As the sun broke over the trees, Uly and Mia left the cavern and returned to their valley. They were about to slip into the dark comfort of their den when there came a terrible sound in the distance. It buzzed and whirred like a giant insect, and soon they heard the creaky tipping of a tree, which collapsed with a great smashing of branches.
The Antler Wood was changing, right before their muzzles. Veins of light were creeping through the trees. The humans were tearing down their home.
“There will be new stories soon,” Uly said, staring where the tree had fallen.
Mia sighed. “And you and I won’t be around to collect them.”
He licked her cheek. “Or to suffer them.”
The buzzing started again, and Mia sniffed. What new horrors would the future bring for tiny kits? How would she protect them if she didn’t know which stories to tell?
“They’ll have to learn themselves,” Uly said, as if reading her thoughts. “Like we did.”
She gave him a lopsided smile. He gave one back.
There came another sound—a giggling from the other side of the wood.
“Look at my tail!” the little one called to her brothers and sisters. “It’s already turning white!”
“Nuh-uh! You just dipped it in bird droppings!”
“I’m not the one who left behind a pee puddle, scaredy-paws!”
The sound soothed Mia’s whiskers.
“Come on,” Uly said. “You can tell me the part of the story when I heroically tackled my dad on the ice.”
She smirked. “Was that how it happened? I seem to remember you accidentally falling off the bridge.”
“What? No I didn—” He caught himself. “Oh. Ha ha. Very funny.”
He dragged the rabbit into their den, and Mia took one last look at the valley.
The kits of the Antler Wood knew the stories she had to tell. And while the world was changing, growing scarier with each passing moon, that thought brought some small comfort to her heart.
For the time being, at least.
SLEEP TIGHT, LITTLE FOXES.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christian McKay Heidicker is not responsible for the lives of fox kits. They are adventurous little rascals that get themselves into trouble, despite his efforts to keep them safe. Heidicker once saved a selfish kid from video game rehab in Cure for the Common Universe and a young woman from a 1950s monster-movie marathon in Attack of the 50 Foot Wallflower. He’ll see about the foxes.
Visit him online at cmheidicker.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Miss Vix
One
Two
Three
Four
Six Sisters
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
House of Trix
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Creeeaaak THUMP! Creeeaaak THUMP!
One
Two
Three
Four
The Slither Out of Darkness
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
The Lilac Kingdom
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
The Paw
One
Two
Three
The Snow Ghost
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
About the Author
Copyright
Text copyright © 2019 by Christian McKay Heidicker
Illustrations copyright © 2019 by Junyi Wu
Henry Holt and Company, Publishers since 1866
Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC
120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271
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All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018038309
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First hardcover edition, 2019
eBook edition, July 2019
eISBN 9781250181435