The Auburn Prince

by Adam Zmarzlinski

  “You know nothing,” the fox barked. “You’re just a kid.”

  Clementine blushed and looked at the ground in dejection. “I am just a kid,” she whispered so that not even the fox heard her.

  “Vengeance is sweet,” he continued. “It is ecstasy to all senses. It is the one wind that can clear a stormy mind of the fogs of rage.”

  “How do you know that’s true?” Clementine asked. “Have you ever tasted revenge?”

  Her words stunned him. He mulled over them momentarily, his anger growing docile. “Well no,” he said, “but I know it will be sweet. I know it.”

  “Revenge is a fruit that looks sweet but hides in itself a mouthful of thorns,” she said. “Each swallow opens a new wound. Each thorn a new sorrow and soon it is not revenge one seeks, but punishment. Punishment to all and for everything. For laughing at our misfortune, for not waving from across the street, for buying a new car, for being and existing. And deep down, where the thorns have yet to reach, we know that what we wish upon others is vile and wrong. That’s when we become aware of just how difficult it is to be good in the face of all our suffering.”

  The fox gave off a sarcastic laugh and shrunk. “That is such an unrealistic, almost academic, theoretical view of things. Revenge is good,” the fox said, more to himself than her.

  “It’s not,” she said. “My father told me that the worst thing to drown in is our own mind. Are you drowning, Mr. Fox?”

  The fox stared at her, awestruck. “I…”

  Clementine’s bag moved and, this time, she noticed it. Without a moment’s hesitation, she dropped it to the ground and ran up beside the fox. They watched the gray satchel twitch. A puff of smoke oozed out of it and a great pincer, the size of Clementine’s arm, peeked out from with it.

  “What is that?” Clementine asked. Her answer came swiftly as a black, smoke drenched scorpion emerged from the satchel. Its armor glistened. It snapped its pincers, stretched its tail and—after giving off a loud shriek—rushed at Clementine, who dodged its stinger with a quick sidestep. Ignoring the fox completely, the smoky arachnid pursued Clementine, snapping at her feet and thrusting its stinger at her abdomen. She hid behind a tree but the creature was too quick, never giving her a moment to catch her breath.

  As she ran, the scorpion swiped at her legs, striking them with such force that it made Clementine fall into the nettle. The scorpion readied its tail for a strike that never came. The fox jumped on the arachnid’s back and with one bite took out the creature’s eyes. Dodging the stinger, he jumped to the creature’s side and nipped at its legs. The scorpion spun sideways, chaotically swinging its tail. The fox jumped on its back once more, but instead of biting it, he paused and watched the scorpion ready its stinger, raising it as high as it could before thrusting it down with all its might. Waiting until the last moment, the fox dodged.

  Clementine and the auburn acrobat saw the scorpion sting itself before gurgling and exploding into a puff of smoke, leaving behind a scattered pile of coal.

  “You are the only person I’ve met that comes with fine print,” the fox said.

  “Where did that thing come from?” Clementine asked.

  The fox walked up to the smoking coal and sniffed it. “It could have gotten in when we crossed into Mundialis,” he said. “Could be a curse that took on a form of a scorpion. I’m not sure.” They carefully walked up to the satchel. Just to make sure there were no more surprises inside, the fox stepped on it a few times before Clementine picked it up. She looked inside. Beside some raspberries, it was empty.

  “Come,” the fox said. “We better go. This is already two too many surprises for today.”

  The turquoise thing watched from the canopy.

  They passed a stream whose water remained still. They passed trees whose leaves did not wave in the breeze. They passed weigela shrubs whose once vibrant flowers sat dull and gray. The whole forest was still and in its stillness, Clementine’s mind began to wander.

  “When you were yelling about revenge,” Clementine began. “Did you—

  “I’m not sure what I was talking about,” the fox said and stopped to look at Clementine. “I get angry sometimes and I don’t know why. Memories flood back and rage spills out.”

  “I see,” Clementine said. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but I don’t understand what a fox would need to get revenge for. Is that why you’re going to see the Soundsmith?”

  The fox stared at her, wondering to himself why he was going to see the Soundsmith. Was it to ask about the boy who isn’t a boy? Was it to tell him about something vile he knew? Was it about that other fox, the vixen? He could not remember.

  “Because if it is,” Clementine began, “just remember that no matter how horrid and vile the actions and words of those who’ve wronged us were, we cannot stoop down to their level. If we do, we’ve already lost whatever battle we were hoping to win. I know it sounds a bit obvious but…”

  Was it the long arm? Was it about what he saw in that castle? But what did he see in the castle? There were eyes and a voice, but whose eyes? Whose voice? Was it the boy who isn’t a boy? He could not remember and it bothered him, angered him. His size changed.

  “Marcus Aurelius wrote in book eight that the world would rather be good tomorrow than be good today. And in book four he stresses that while you live, while you can, be good, do good,” Clementine said.

  “Books don’t reflect the reality of the world,” the fox snapped, returning to the present. “Only silly girls believe that they do. They don’t! And that is a hard fact. People do what they want, they always did. They don’t care about what others think, they act upon their own needs and trample on the hopes of others. That’s why the world is filled with so much agony, so much neglect. But you are too young and too stupid to understand it!”

  Clementine swallowed hard, she was immensely hurt. His words were the opposite of what her parents taught her. After forcing back tears, she said, “Marcus Aurelius said that if something is not right, don’t do it, and if something is not true, don’t say it.”

  “Enough with the quotes!” the fox retorted.

  “You are drowning, Mr. Fox,” Clementine whispered and walked past him.

  Coming from above the trees, they heard a great beat of wings, and quickly, they hid.

  Out from the canopy flew a great black feathered thing with large sunken crimson eyes. The creature lacked a head. In fact, it lacked many distinguishable features, resembling something of a shadow draped amalgam with thin slender arms, hooked fingers and goat-like legs. Great black wings hung from its back and, with loud beats, they cut through the air. The creature gave off a shrill sound, like a subdued hiss. It hovered in the air for a moment, scanning the understory. Content, it hissed again and flew off toward the Other. Clementine and the fox watched the creature grow smaller before vanishing into the distance.

  “What was that?” Clementine asked.

  “I wish I knew,” the fox said and without another word, he walked onwards. Clementine followed. Leaving behind the nettle garbed woods, they entered a part of the forest populated by sycamores. Each tree seemed to bloom with infectious loneliness. The gentle breeze died down completely, leaving the leaves to sit still among the echoes of silence.

  Clementine noticed that the fox’s color, as well as her own, quivered and faded occasionally. She realized quickly that whenever she thought back to the fox’s angry words, a deep sense of loneliness crept over her and a feeling of abandonment held her near; that is when, like a dying light bulb, her color flickered. The silence of the woods only intensified her longing for acceptance.

  “What deep loneliness he must wear to flicker as much as I?” she wondered and her mind turned inwards. She thought of the past: of the way that things used to be, the memories of simple things back then like cuddling with her mother during a storm. Her color flickered. She thought of the future: imagining how things will be, counting the steps toward that promising soon when she would be out in t
he world on her own, away from people who did not understand her. Her color flickered.

  Only when her mind sat grounded in the present: surrounded by gray trees, following a fox, her bare feet treading gently on the mossy forest floor, did her colors stay solid and full. In the now, she was whole, but when her mind craved moments past or moments that have yet to be, a snaking loneliness, tittering on self-pity, grabbed her hand and led her along. “In the now, I’m always with myself,” she thought, “and maybe that is all the company I need. In the past, there is nothing but the shadow and in the future, nothing but illusion.” With the events of the past few days, it was important for Clementine to keep her mind on the now. “Without the now, there is no past, no future.”

  The fox’s color flickered, he turned gray for a few moments before regaining his color.

  When night came, they took shelter under a cluster of large trees. Lying silently at the root base, they watched the overcast sky, ever so often catching a glimpse of the crescent moon. Their mutual silence screamed resentment from the argument earlier in the day. They both recalled their feelings: he through a haze of anger, she through a fog of confusion. As is often the case in arguments, the two of them thought of what it is they should have said on top of what they already had said.

  The actions they took in the silence acted as an appendix to their thoughts. By not building a fire, Clementine wished to share with the fox a coldness that stirred inside of her. She expected an apology. He, of course, expected the same. Facing the dark woods, with his back to her, he illustrated a chivalrous childishness; he wished to show alertness to the potential danger they faced, at a cost of being independent from her. Stubborn, he wanted Clementine to acknowledge that she overstepped her bounds when lecturing him. The deep chill of the night and his wish for a fire to warm them reminded him they were both suffering and gave him hope for reconciliation. The unnecessarily dramatic silence made the whole situation seem a little more awkward, a little more theatrical and a bit lonelier that it really was.

  Sleep came hard to their troubled minds. It crept up to Clementine in the depths of night. For the fox, however, whose mind was a maelstrom of chaos, sleep became a distant wish. He pondered over his identity, knowing only a silhouette of who he really was. His mind replayed images of people smiling at and shaking hands with a young man, images of that same young man draped in blacks crying tears in solitude. There was a boy who wasn’t a boy. A hunt. A vixen.

  The man stood in front of a mirror, his cheeks torrents of tears. Bloodshot eyes stared back, begging their own reflection for help. Suddenly, along came an angel: a woman dressed in soft blues and vibrant yellows, who wiped away his tears. She held his hands gently in her own, and softly kissed him on the cheek. He smiled. There was a boy who wasn’t a boy. A hunt. A vixen.

  An arrow, shot by a shadow garbed in white, pierced the angel and she burst into a cloud of colorful petals. Rage engulfed him and the fox stood up. Confused, he looked around in the darkness. Making out Clementine’s shape in the night, his anger subsided, replaced with sorrow and deep loneliness. Tears streamed down his long whiskers. To keep his mind from consuming itself, he walked up to Clementine and carefully pulled out Meditations from her jacket pocket.

  Carefully, he read and reread many passages, repeatedly reminiscing on the meaning of the words of this stranger, Marcus Aurelius, whom he had never met. “So much melancholic honesty,” the fox said aloud and reflected on what he knew about himself: his being, his emotions and his will to find the Soundsmith. A single conclusion echoed through his mind, “I shall be good today and tomorrow. I cannot wait for goodness to come to me. I must be the good and the force for change.”

  After placing the handkerchief back in its pages, he tucked the text back in Clementine’s pocket and tenderly observed her for a moment.

  “Never has there been a person such as you, who with a sentence can alter the soul of a creature,” the fox said. After gently stomping around in a circle, much like a dog, he lay down and curled up next to her. Sometime in the night, she put her arm around him and together they became the warmth they craved.

  The Seeing Man arrived at the border of Mundialis just after midnight. After taking a moment to observe the swirling blackness of the wall with his many eyes, he rode the horse along its edge for several miles. With his beak sliding out from the cluster, he put out his hand to the wall and like water, the shadow glided gently along his fingers.

  “You’re not welcome here,” a voice thundered from within the wall.

  “I don’t care,” the Seeing Man responded and rode into the shadow, which parted before him like an archway.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Gecko and the Hound

  Clementine awoke with a start and sprang to her feet when a beagle with a pink heart shaped nose shoved its muzzle into her hair, sniffing away ecstatically. “Oh my god!” she screamed out, waking the fox, who, upon seeing the beagle, bared his teeth, grew in size and prepared to attack, but not before stating the obvious, “The huntsmen are here. They’ve found us. Run, Clementine!”

  The fox lunged, but the beagle swiftly dodged the attack, jumped back and sat down to watch with a dumbfounded look as the fox spun around to ready himself for another attempt to best his enemy. Meanwhile, Clementine observed as the beagle tilted its head, much like a curious cat, and smiled. Surprised by the dog’s demeanor and lack of malice, Clementine realized her fault.

  “Stop!” she yelled but it was too late. The fox lunged once more, this time successfully tackling the enemy. The duo spun thrice in a barrel roll before landing in a pile of leaves. Using his paw, the fox pinned the dog and just as he was about the sink his teeth into the beagle’s neck, a deep voice rang out from behind them, “Stop!”

  Clementine and the fox turned to see, sitting on a mossy mound, a tiny rainbow colored tokay gecko. “Please don’t harm my daughter,” it said.

  “More talking animals,” Clementine said with a sigh.

  “Please,” the beagle began—its voice soft and gentle, “I didn’t mean to wake your friend.” The fox stepped back, glancing from the gecko to Clementine. The beagle quickly sprang up, darting behind the gecko.

  “You two have color,” Clementine said.

  “As do you,” the gecko replied.

  “Your color is wondrous,” the beagle said. “It is beautiful, that yellow and green.”

  Clementine smiled.

  “We’re sorry; my friend didn’t mean to attack you,” she said, glancing at the fox as to insinuate to him that he needed to apologize, but he sat motionless and silent, intently observing the beagle. “There’ve been some unpleasant folks chasing after us and we thought you were one of their hounds.”

  The beagle sprang up, its tail wagging energetically. “No worries,” she said. “I don’t know how to hold grudges.”

  Smiling, Clementine looked back at the fox, who persisted on his stoic statue impression.

  “My name is Clementine and this is Mr. Fox.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the gecko said in a leisurely tone. “I am Nir and this is my daughter, Mika.” He paused for a moment, looking at the dog. “At least those are the names that we recall. Remembering anything these past few days has been a chore.”

  “How can she be your daughter?” the fox interrupted. “She’s a dog and you’re a lizard.”

  “The same reason that you’re a fox,” the gecko said. “We’ve been cursed.”

  With amazement and curiosity, Clementine glanced at the fox. “Of course,” she thought. The feelings of understanding and compassion cradled her as she realized that the arguments of yesterday had a much more personal tone to them than she originally perceived.

  “Who cursed you?” Mika said as she skipped over to the fox, sat beside him and sniffed his fur. “It smells like the same sort of magic that cursed us, Papa.”

  “The fox is not a fox,” Clementine thought. “Who is he then?”

  “I haven’t been cursed,” the
fox said, his size diminishing. “I’ve always been a fox—

  “Your memory is fading much like ours,” Nir said. “Perhaps, we were cured by the same villain.”

  “And who’s that?” the fox asked.

  “I wish we knew,” Mika said in-between her sniffs of the fox. “But then again, we do know.”

  “What do you mean you know, but you don’t know?” Clementine asked.

  “We don’t remember,” Nir said.

  The fox looked down at his paws. Clementine looked at the fox.

  “At one point we did know,” Nir continued. “But we’ve been cursed with memory magic, a forgotten and deleterious sort of sorcery that makes beast of Men. The longer we are in the guise of an animal, the more of an animal we become. My daughter and I have begun to forget, and as the old saying goes: when we begin to forget, we begin to become beasts.”

  “Papa’s right,” Mika said as she skipped over to and circled around Clementine, sniffing her as if she was the rarest of treasures. “Memories that are not our own begin to seep in, memories of the animals that we are soon to become.” She stopped sniffing Clementine and looked up at her in amazement.

  “She smells different, Papa,” Mika said. “She smells like pinecones dipped in sea water, like a plant, a flower, not like a girl.”

  “It is strange, I would say,” the gecko spoke while examining Clementine’s facial features, “that a girl and a fox, no relation I assume?” The duo shook their heads no. “Are blessed with color in a land where being blessed is a curse.”

  “What are you implying?” the fox asked.

  “We are in Mundialis,” Nir said. “Color fetches a high price here and—

  “Are you saying one of us is trying to sell the other to some color poacher for gold?” the fox said. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, he’s not,” Mika said. “He’s saying that you two need to be extra careful. The auburn of your fur and the green and yellow of her clothing are worth a great deal to vile men of this land.”