The hairs on the back of her delicate neck stand on end, singed by the intense heat chasing her through the elm wood. Trailing, chestnut hair blurs into the mix of thick fog and pitch smoke.
The sky is burning.
The clouds are outlined with harsh moonlight on one side and flame on the other. A deep, monotone roar floods through the trees, pushing the girl onward, as fear tears at her clothes, at her hair, and at fingers that bleed from the bramble hedge. But she runs, and fear loses its grip as she sprints through the undergrowth.
Her eyes are fixated ahead; feet barely make contact with the barren dirt as she weaves silently through the maze of bough and trunk. Her dress, once pale blue, is streaked with soot, and snags on the ragged surface of the crippled roots as she stumbles; dry leaves rattle through the aching boughs of the ancient elm.
*
The trees are growing denser; it’s difficult to run. She slows to a walk, caring not to trip on the rough, bark-clad serpents, rising and falling into the black earth.
The trees subside, abruptly. Claustrophobic dark is replaced with naked, vulnerable space. A clearing as large as her garden… fenced with forest and blanketed in fog.
The sky still burns.
A fox is sat, blood-hued, casting a bold shadow on the scuffled twigs and dirt. The fur blazes defiantly, fire-like in the crashing waves of sharp moon-glare. A small locket hangs from its neck, nestled in its rich, warm coat, glinting as a precious jewel, liquid silver in the midnight light. The fox stares at her briefly; eyes mirror the flame climbing, reaching, over the tree-line behind her, before it turns and scampers across the clearing, merging into the shimmering mist.
She barely hesitates before leaping after it. Milky fog swirls excitedly, spinning in graceful, lazy spirals, contrasting against the midnight black. She barely has time to negotiate the dense wave of trees as the the shroud curtain opens to reveal the border of the clearing. She bursts through, determined.
Where are you?
Pinprick glimpses of red fur blink through narrowest of gaps, carrying her onwards.
Faster. Closer.
She can make out the most delicate twinkle from the locket, as it follows the erratic path set by its carrier.
It is close. Faster!
The trees break open, white light pouring forth into her widened eyes. She halts, and shields herself, and the glare melts away. She hears a gentle trickling, and her head falls to face the source. Crystal water washes over neatly buckled, moss-stained, bramble-scratched shoes. It cools her ankles. She crouches, perfectly calmed, and unbuckles one black shoe; then another. The stream caresses her pained feet, and soothes, rushing between her toes.
The red glow on the trunks has dimmed to an ambient warmth.
She knows this stream, and looks fondly over the creek she had only two days-past visited with her mother. She can see her perched on that stump, laughing at her daughter as she splashes amongst the pond-grass and polished pebbles. The willow fronds sway, languid, teasing at her hair.
The girl blinks, shaking her head to and fro, shaking free that stubborn memory. White beams pierce the canopy, penetrating the blanket of calm; shunning the hopeful dream. The water ripples, light refracting, splitting as it passes through the mixture of stream and tears. She shakes loose the final, resistant droplets, and looks up the creek.
Fox… locket! Please don’t run!
He runs.
She darts, swift and silent as an errant breeze. She slips over wet-stone and moss-clad root barefoot, toes gripping the innocent, fallen willow tufts as she scrambles around the shallow waterfall. Her dress is soaked; the soot has all but washed free; the ragged hem instead coloured a navy blue by the stream. Her hair has been caught in the frantic dash through the water; it clings wetly to her cheeks, droplets slipping diagonally away as she gives mad chase, once more, to her fox.
He has to stop. He’s scared. I’m scaring him.
But he is gone.
She is lost, but keeps running, regardless.
*
She is crushed by the pitch-dark of the dense elm; solid trunks draw closer together with each long leap. There is no sign of her fox, anymore. No silver glint from the locket. Clawed boughs grasp her face and exposed shoulder; her dress has a tear, running its length and continuing down her calf. There is no more red glow from behind.
No more tears.
She bursts through a final wall of foliage; it is soft. She falls; knees collide sickeningly, the deep-red and pale-blue tattered remains of her dress offering no protection as the skin is ripped into by bone-cold gravel.
She gasps, but bites her lip. Teeth clench solidly, holding back a cry; her face screws up.
No more tears.
A clearing has opened its arms, once more, to her. It is dissimilar to the other. The air is clear and light, and there is no fog to curtain the light green foliage dotted around the distant edges. The clouds no longer burn silver and red, but are pastelled a delicate pink, thrown by the face of the rising sun. The harsh moon is muted in the warm rush of near-morning.
A pool lies in the centre of the silent space; it adopts many shades, as light cascades from the sky, leaping from lush green tree-leaves and silver from the shining rocks.
It’s him.
The fox lies, curled, on a bed of rich, soft grass. His head lies still, sad eyes peek over the thick fur of his tail as it wraps around his harmless form. His silhouette is bordered gold, luxurious red fur catching the warm light – glowing. His tail sweeps slowly outwards, revealing a pearly glow in the shadows…. The locket.
He’s calm now. He’s not afraid anymore.
She steps forward tentatively.
We’re not afraid anymore.
She kneels down, wincing ever-so-slightly as her raw knees press on the earthy bed. The fox edges his snout towards her leg, and gently cleans the blood from her wounds. She reaches down to his neck, and unclasps the locket from the narrow collar nestled in the tufts of long, warm fur.
She firmly clicks it open.
Two ornate silver patterns frame two pictures. One shows the girl crouching beside her fox, sitting, his tongue tasting the air. They’re in front of her beautiful, thatched-roof cottage-home.
Before….
No.
The other was taken by the stump at the creek. Her mother…
She sniffs. No more tears.
… her mother, beaming, hands clenched by her daughter’s. Happy.
She closes the locket, clips it back onto her fox’s collar and lies down, pulling herself close to him. She buries her head with his, and cwtches him as the sun smiles across the pool.
The BeachHutt 