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There was a woman whose sweetheart sailed to a distant land and died there.
There was a woman whose sweetheart sailed to a distant land and died there, or so everyone said. She knew that she should accept his loss, and yet she held out hope. A strange turn of phrase. It was more that she held hope fast to her chest, so nobody could see that she still held it.
Easier perhaps to accept his death if she could only picture the place where he was buried. She knew that it was a great white place where the cold could strike a man dead. When she tried to imagine it, what she saw was a child's drawing: low horizon, vast sky, no detail. Perhaps he was not even buried at all but lay above ground. Some days it was hard to think of anything but his bones lying under that unfamiliar sky.
One day, she heard an insistent scratching at the door. Thinking that it was a stray dog, she opened the door to shoo it. On the step sat a sleek red fox with a pointed little smile like a case of needles. “My dear friend and cousin,“ said the fox, in her sweetheart's voice. “I am home.”
"Oh," said the woman. "Nobody told us you were coming." These were the first words out of her mouth and, the moment she spoke them, she worried that they sounded foolish or cold.
"Did they not?" said the fox. "Perhaps no-one realised. I admit that I'm somewhat changed."
Remembering her manners, the woman invited the fox into the house, so that her family might welcome him too. He paused for a moment on the threshold and sniffed the air warily. She watched in wonder as he trotted in on little black-socked feet. Before following him, she quickly tidied her hair at the glass in the hall and tried, with less success, to tidy her countenance.
It was not very long after his return that the fox asked her to marry him. "I am not a tame fox," he said. "I disappear from time to time. But when I am with you, it will be because I choose to be there. And if anyone ever hurt you, I would bite off their nose."
“Before I answer, please tell me something," said the woman. "Why did you become a fox?“
“Better the fox in the hen-house than the hens."
"Can you ever change back?"
"No," said the fox, and he looked at her with golden eyes that were not a man's eyes.
The woman was rather afraid. But she had loved the man dearly and hoped to learn to see him in the fox. So she said that yes, she would marry him.
The woman and the fox were married and everyone danced at the wedding. The fox was in a playful mood. He whirled and snapped at the air and chased the children, threatening to gobble them up.
After the guests had left, the fox husband and his wife went off to the little house where they were to begin a new life together. As soon as they were alone, she started to feel shy. She was not sure that she knew how to talk to him, now that he was a fox. Tentatively, she asked what he liked to eat. The fox husband said that it had been a long time since he had tasted a biscuit. So she brought him a plate of biscuits and he ate them one by one, tossing and snapping at them with sharp little teeth.
When it was dark, they climbed the stairs to the bedroom. The fox husband went ahead, clumsy on stairs that were made for two legs not four.
She had felt bashful at the thought of changing into her nightgown under that appraising golden gaze, but he sat on the bed and politely focused his attention on worrying a pillow.
When she had finished, she sat down next to him. She hoped that it would not take her too much longer to get used to the distinctive, musky smell. He was missing some of the toes on one of his back paws.
“How did you lose your toes, husband?“ she asked.
“They got so cold that they turned into ice and then melted away when I got warm again,“ said her husband.
She wanted to ask the true reason, but instead she asked if it hurt him.
“Not now. Not really,“ said the fox husband. “Sometimes it makes things difficult. Stairs, for instance.“
He had a stray feather stuck to his head from his fight with the pillow. His wife put her hand out to brush it away. He grimaced like a cat which has smelled something it does not like.
He seemed to see that this made her sad, for he said, "I would like to curl up by your feet and sleep there tonight. In return, I will tell you a story, if you would like to hear it.“
The wife agreed, and so the fox husband began his story.
Once there was a band of soldiers returning from the wars. The campaign had been a long and bloody one. Many men had died, and those who lived were heartsick and bone-weary.
One day, a thick fog fell and separated one of the men from his companions. He wandered for a long time, unable to see more than a few inches in front of his face, his own voice echoing back at him as though he were the last man left alive on earth. Eventually, when he was almost at the end of hope, he stumbled upon a group of men sitting around a pot over a fire. The men were ragged and scarred but not ill-fed.
The men caught sight of him and the smallest of them, who was their chief, called out. “Greetings, stranger. We have carrots, potatoes and onions for our soup. What else does it need?“
“Perhaps a little meat to add some flavour,“ said the soldier. And, at that, the men fell upon him and cut him into pieces with their knives, and then they cooked him in their soup and ate him.
Now, the man's comrades saw that he was missing and feared that some mischief had befallen him, so a second soldier volunteered to look for him. He wandered a while, calling the man's name, until at last he stumbled upon the same band of murderers sitting round their fire.
“Greetings,“ said the soldier. “I am looking for a friend, a soldier like me. Have you seen him?“
“Perhaps we can help you find him,“ said the chief murderer. “But first, answer me this. We have carrots, potatoes and onions for our soup. What else does it need?“
“Why, meat, of course!“ said the solider. And the murderers fell upon him as they had fallen upon the first man, cut him into pieces with their knives, cooked him in their soup and ate him too.
("Excuse me a moment," said the fox husband, his ears pricking. He darted into a dark corner of the room and came back with the decapitated body of a mouse, still warm. "Would you mind if I ate this now?" His wife's face must have been an answer in itself, for he said that, on reflection, he would save it for when he was hungry in the night.)
Now the captain of the soldiers had lost two men, so he decided to investigate the matter himself. The captain had a worn old knitted garment that had belonged to a dead man, and he took a loose end and pulled and pulled until he had a very large ball of wool. He tied one end of the wool round his waist and he hammered a post into the ground and tied the other end to it. And he told his men to keep watch over the post. If trouble found him, he would tug upon his end of the wool. When they saw the wool go taut, they must come to his rescue. Having told them this, he set off alone in search of his missing men.
However, there was one man who hated the captain with a secret, bitter hatred, which he had fed and watered in the dark for a long time. And, when nobody was looking, that man came and untied the end of the wool from the post in the ground.
Well, the captain wandered in the fog until he too came upon the same band of murderers. The captain was cautious, for he suspected that his missing men had met violent ends, so he tried to creep close enough to observe without being seen. But the chief murderer heard him. “Who goes there? Beast or man?“ he called out.
“Oh,“ said the captain. “Pay no heed to me. I am but a poor farmer looking for his horses, which have strayed away.“
“Perhaps we have seen your horses,” said the chief murderer. “But first, answer me a question. We have carrots, potatoes and onions for our soup. What else does it need?“
“Why, it needs salt,“ answered the captain.
Then the murderers were angry and they fell upon the captain and beat him and locked him in a cage until they were ready to eat him.
The captain tugged and tugged on the wool, not knowing that the man who hated him had untied the other end. When daylight came, the murderers dragged him from the cage and stood around him with their knives. The captain squinted into the sun's glare as he sought his rescuers on the horizon, but he saw only the dusty road and a lone bird flying. And so the murderers cut him into pieces, salted him, ate him and boiled his bones for soup.
“Did my story please you?“ asked the fox husband when he had finished.
The wife confessed that she had found it rather gruesome.
“Then I will tell another story tomorrow night, and perhaps it will please you better. And now," he added, his jaws gaping wide in a yawn, "I must sleep."
He scratched at the end of the bed until he had made a hollow in the blankets, then he turned in a circle three times and curled up with his nose buried in his brush. From time to time, his ears twitched as though he heard the huntsman's horn in the distance.
His wife studied the little triangle of a face, guarded even in sleep, and tried to trace a resemblance to the man she remembered. It would be easy to tell herself that he was dead and this scowling, watchful creature who spoke so coolly of horrors had nothing in common with him. But when she tried to fix her memories of the time before, they rippled and rearranged themselves like reflections on water.
Eventually she slept too, but not well. She dreamed of dust and knives and a simmering pot, and a long, twisting white string that led nowhere.
The next morning, the fox husband went out without saying where he went, and his wife was left alone. There was a good deal of work to keep her busy in the new little house. She did not know whether she longed for or dreaded the scritch-scratch of her husband’s paws at the door, but eventually he came home.
She had made a thick, meaty stew for their supper. However, after three mouthfuls, he nudged the bowl aside with his nose and asked if he could have a biscuit instead. So she brought him a plate of biscuits and he ate them, and then he asked for more and ate those, until his little white belly was full and round.
Then they went up the stairs to the bedroom. She saw that he did not like her to witness his clumsiness on the stairs, but he was also too proud to follow at her heels like a dog. At length, they sat together on the bed in the gold circle of candlelight.
"Would you like to hear another story?" said the fox husband.
"Will it be as gruesome as the last?"
He answered with a red and white grin. She noticed that he was missing some teeth and asked how he came to lose them.
"I had nothing to eat for a long time," said the fox husband. "So long that my teeth believed they were no longer needed and fell out."
"Tell me another story," she said.
This is the story that he told.
Buried deep in the mountains, there was a little settlement of one hundred and thirty people or thereabouts. Just a few houses, a church and a stone hall. There was only one road through the mountains, which was impassable in winter. The inhabitants were used to spending much of their lives cut off from the rest of the world. They laid in ample supplies during the summer months and then huddled in their homes by their fires, waiting for the thaw.
One year, however, the thaw did not come at the usual time. Worse, much of the food was found to be spoiled. Rats got into the stores and ruined some of the remaining provisions. Then a party set off down the mountain to find help but was caught in a blizzard or perhaps eaten by wolves. By the time the inhabitants realised the series of small but fatal errors that had brought them to this point, they were staring into the face of starvation.
The villagers all met in the great hall to discuss their predicament. One man had lived through a siege during the long-ago wars, and he spoke chillingly of the ways in which empty bellies will make animals of men. Another man noted the dwindling number of dogs in the village. However, nobody was able to suggest a plan, and soon a quarrel broke out.
It was then that there came three knocks on the great wooden doors of the hall. When the doors were opened, a tall man stood on the threshold. His looks and dress were unremarkable. However, a kind of shiver went through the assembly, for they all somehow knew that Death stood before them.
Death told them not to fear him, for he had only come to propose a wager. These were his terms. He would give them three days to guess his name. Not any of the names by which men know him, but his true name. He would return on the third day and, if they could tell him his name, he would save every inhabitant of the village from the fate that awaited them. If not, he would leave them to wait out the long, unappeasable winter alone.
The villagers argued between themselves. In the end, they concluded that they had no choice but to accept Death's wager. And so Death left the village and the villagers fell to their task. For three days, they pored over every book in the village trying to find Death's name. However, it was to no avail, for what they sought was not written in any book.
As the hour of Death's return approached, one of the young men of the village grew restless. He told himself that he would be of greater use to his friends and family if he went out hunting with his gun. This high in the mountains, there was little chance of finding anything to eat. But the truth was that he could not bear another moment in the house with nothing to do but wait for Death.
It was true that, as he walked, he began to feel better. The stark whiteness of the world was so beautiful that it was hard to believe that he was dying. Suddenly, there was a movement on the path ahead of him. He raised his gun and fired. Bright blood spilled hot over the snow.
As he ran up to collect his kill, he saw that it was a large white bird. To his amazement, the bird raised its head and spoke to him. For the young man had shot no ordinary bird, but rather Death in the guise of a bird. The bird told him that it could not be killed, but that he had earned the right to learn Death's true name, which it spoke. Then it returned to the sky in an explosion of dazzling white wings.
The young man ran back to the other villagers and told them the news. When the hour came, everyone gathered in the great hall to tell Death that he had lost the wager.
Death listened to them and then nodded once. They had learned his true name and he would keep his word. As promised, he would save them all from the slow and gradual death that awaited them.
Then some of the villagers guessed what he intended and tried to run, but Death had locked the doors of the hall so they could not escape. He lit a brand from the great fireplace and set little fires all over the hall. As the hall filled with smoke, panic set in. Some of the villagers tried to break down the doors, but the wood was too solid. The crowd pressed close behind them. Body struggled against body like fish flailing ithemselves to death in the net. The heat choked them. And so the fire burned until everyone was dead.
When the passage opened in the Spring and villagers came up from the valleys with supplies, they found only ashes and silence in the great hall.
“Did my story please you?“
“It must have been terrible. For those who were there, I mean."
"Fortunate for them that they were only characters in a story," said the fox husband.
"There is never any way to win in your stories, my husband."
"Is there a way to win outside them?"
Then the fox husband curled up with his nose in his brush and slept, his ears twitching fitfully in his sleep. His wife slept too. She dreamed of a ceiling of snow and ice so thick that it muffled all sound, and of footprints on a carpet of ash.
The next day, she went visiting her brothers and sisters. When they asked whether she was happy, she said yes, very much so. She admired their babies and ate their cake. (Better that than admire their cake and eat their babies, said her husband's voice mockingly in her head.)
Later, she sat with her husband and told him the family gossip. She did not tell him that a neighbour had come by while he was out to complain that a fox had got in amongst his chickens and slaughtered more than it could carry away. She shook her head to scatter the image of the spotless white fur at her husband's breast stained with blood, his dainty black socks blood-soaked.
Nor did she mention that she had found a shallow scrape of earth at the rear of the house filled with dead mice, chicken bones and biscuits. She was beginning to understand that there were things her husband needed in order to feel safe, or at least prepared.
She had found him a little cushion so that he might see over the table more comfortably. The fox husband listened to what she said and sometimes commented through a jawful of biscuit. If he did not always meet her gaze, she began to think that his sidelong glances were not sly but rather shy, as she recalled them in the time before. Once or twice, he pounced and snapped at a corner of the tablecloth in playful mock outrage at something she had said.
The thought jumped into her head that they could be happy, and she thought please let us have this.
"Do you have a story for me tonight?" she asked the fox husband, when they were sitting in the little bedroom.
"Of course," said the fox husband. And he began.
There was once a merchant who had three beautiful daughters. One day, a suitor came to the house asking for the hand of one of the three (he did not particularly care which). The suitor was wealthy but two of the daughters found his looks so unsettling that nothing could induce them to marry him. The youngest daughter was soft-hearted and she told herself that the man could not help his peculiar appearance. After she had spent some time in his company, she concluded that he was a very amiable man and that they could be happy together.
The man and the youngest daughter were married and everyone danced at their wedding. They went to live in the man's great house, which had one hundred rooms and carpets of gold.
The husband gave his wife a key ring with keys for all the rooms in the house. He told her that she could use any of the keys except for the smallest of all, which was made of gold. The door to which the little golden key belonged was at the end of a passage and it was always locked. The husband told his wife that he asked only one thing of her: she must never open that one door, no matter how great her curiosity.
They were happy together, for a while. One day, the husband announced that he was going on a long journey. Before he left, he reminded his wife that she could go anywhere in the great house except for the one forbidden room.
The wife did not mean to go against her husband's wishes. After a week, however, she had explored everything else in the house and was bored. And, she thought, it was not as though her husband could possibly find out. So she made her way through the corridors to the little locked room. Then she took out the little golden key, turned it in the lock and swung open the door.
The room was windowless and carpeted in black. As her eyes became used to the gloom, she saw that what she had taken for a carpet was clotted black blood. There was not an inch of the floor that was not sticky with it. Sitting in the blood were three heads without bodies. The first two heads were terrible to behold, for their eyes, teeth, even their hair seemed to bleed. But the third was the most terrible of all, for its eyes were wild and its face was pierced with golden chains.
("Are you crying, husband?"
“It is just the smoke from the candle that stings my eyes.")
The woman ran down into the garden and dug three holes with a spade. She took the three heads by their coarse hair and flung them into the holes, and she covered them with a thick layer of earth.
The next morning, a tree had grown overnight at the spot where she had buried the heads. As the leaves on its branches rustled in the breeze, they seemed to sing. And the song was this:
Be bold, be bold, but not too bold
Lest that your face be decked in gold
The wife took a little axe and chopped the tree down. “There,” she said to herself. “It is finished.“
But the next day, when the wife looked out the window, there was a little brown bird sitting on the stump where the tree had been. The bird opened its mouth and it sang this song in the sweetest voice that she had ever heard:
Be bold, be bold, but not too bold
Lest that your face be decked in gold
The wife tried to catch the little bird in a net, but it flew out of her reach and carried on singing. At that moment, she heard the wheels of a carriage and realised that her husband had arrived home unannounced. She stood frozen in horror holding the bird net.
"I can mend this, husband," said the wife, as her husband approached. "I will get a ladder and catch the bird. Or we can leave this house and never speak of this again."
Her husband said -
"It is no use."
The wife looked at the fox husband, startled by the change in his tone. "It's no use," he growled again. "Christ, none of it is any bloody use."
His lip was curled in a snarl, but his wife recognised that whatever he wanted to fight was not in that room. There was more bewilderment in his voice than she could bear.
"Let me help you," she said. "Please. I want to help you."
"No," said the fox husband.
"Then let me share this with you."
The woman knew that you must let wild things come to you of their own will. So she sat very still. After a long moment, the fox husband came and nudged her leg with his slender nose, then rested his head on her knee. His voice was muffled so that she had to strain to hear what he was saying.
"Sometimes I dream that I am back in that place. Close to the end. I dream that I am sick, delirious, and that a friend of mine comes and kneels beside me. He was dead by then, of course. Sometimes I'm a fox in the dream, sometimes a man. It does not seem to bother him when I am a fox. He just says, "Oh, are you a fox now, Dundy?" You would have liked him, I think."
Slowly, very slowly, so that he would have the chance to pull away if he chose, she put out her hand and rested it on the fur of his back. He did not pull away.
"In the dream, I ask him if he has come to take me to Hell. He says that he doesn't really have anything to do with Hell, or the other place. He says he wanders, but that it's hard to explain. I always want to embrace him but, if I do, the dream ends."
"My darling."
"I ask him: will I ever leave this damned place? His answer is always the same. Yes, and no."
"You are here, my love, my husband. Not there."
The fox husband did not reply, but nor did he flinch from her. She held him fast and feared him not. She could not remember how the song ended, but that one line ran over and over in her head. She held him fast and feared him not.
She bent down and buried her face in his fur so that, for a few minutes, she did not know whether she would look up to see the eyes of a fox or a man.