A Black Fox Running Read online

  The raven said cork in his deep, cheerful voice, while Stormbully and Fallbright soared above him to an immense height. Rain had beat down all day, but the evening was clear and warm. The moorfowl led their second brood across the pond. Romany had killed a few of their tribe but this family had nested safely in the lower boughs of an alder.

  The dipper popped out of the Becca Brook and sat on a stone and watched the moorfowl. His nest was in the bank nearby. At dawn Romany had come close to seizing the dipper as the bird strode through the current like a tiny man walking with head bowed into the wind and rain.

  ‘Have you seen the Yank?’ Lugg said.

  Scoble yawned and said he hadn’t. The shearing crew had visited Sedge Brimley. The grey-faced Dartmoors from the border grazing, and the hardier Scottish Blackfaces driven down from the moors, had surrendered their fleeces. Lugg and his son were on the ‘shorts’, pouring double Johnny Walkers into themselves and trying not to look smug.

  ‘Well, this Yank lives down Beckaford way,’ the farmer continued. ‘He was a bomber pilot, so they do say, and he’s taken up with Jenny Shewte.’

  ‘And he idn all there,’ George cawed. ‘Dang me! – if he idn more than a bit crazy.’

  ‘Anybody who’s sweet on the Shewte maid have got to have some thatch loose,’ said Scoble. ‘There’s more tit on a grasshopper than her’s got.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ said Lugg, ‘but Yanky’s always trapesin’ about the moors at night, talkin’ to himself and singin’ and what have you. That’s what they’m sayin’ all over.’

  ‘He’s against huntin’, too,’ said George. ‘Bugger! – you should have heard un sounding off at the Kestor the other evening. He’s against hunting, shooting, fishing, trapping – every-bloody-thing. He went white as a sheet when Ernie started jawin’ about the otter hounds.’

  ‘Probably a vegetabletarian,’ his father growled. ‘Bleddy foreigner.’ He glanced slyly at Scoble and added, ‘Be you goin’ to have a short, Leonard?’

  ‘I’ll have a rum with ’ee, maister.’

  Using the fat tip of his forefinger he stroked his wart and thought about the newcomer and the smashed snare-stake. The wisps of dark fur had been Blackie’s, he felt it in his water. He recalled the stink of fox and the broken dandelions, and he had been worried in case it was hunt folk who had set the beast free. The rum was a trickle of warmth in his stomach. Thank Christ it was the Yank. His upper lip curled. Blackie had the luck of Old Nick. It was black looking after black, but luck only took you so far. Ted Yeo went right through the war – the Somme, Ypres, the lot – and not a scratch on him. First day back on the farm he slipped on the muck in the yard and cracked his head on the water-trough. Scoble snapped his fingers and smiled. Dead as a doornail.

  Wulfgar sensed Stargrief’s presence before the air confirmed it.

  ‘I’m not alone,’ Stargrief said.

  He hesitated among the reed tussocks.

  ‘I can smell dog,’ Wulfgar growled, puffiing out his fur and lowering his head.

  Queenie the collie crept nervously from the reeds and crouched beside Stargrief.

  ‘Calm down and let me speak,’ the old fox said.

  ‘Next time speak before you run off on your bardic quests,’ Wulfgar said. ‘I’m not interested in the ancestral stuff. I want the lurcher dead.’

  ‘Would tomorrow morning be soon enough?’

  Wulfgar sat up and glanced down his muzzle at the collie.

  ‘And will “it” help?’ he said pointedly.

  ‘Queenie will help,’ Stargrief said. ‘Without her it won’t be easy.’

  ‘She has been Man’s thing. Why should I trust her?’

  ‘I trust her. She is an animal now.’

  ‘But the lurcher is a dog. Could you betray a fox? Could you betray one of your own kind?’

  ‘There are dogs like the lurcher who slave for men and there are dogs like Queenie who live in the sacred manner.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Queenie.

  ‘Has the lurcher ever done you any harm?’ Wulfgar said.

  ‘Not yet – but he might. And Stargrief has been good to me.’

  ‘Queenie will bring the lurcher to the ponds,’ said Stargrief.

  ‘What if she crosses us and joins forces with the dog?’

  ‘What if I turn into a sheep and offer you my scats?’ Stargrief said impatiently. ‘What if the Tor got up and ran?’

  ‘If the lurcher is mad I’ll be in danger all the time,’ Queenie said. ‘He may kill me before we get halfway to the ponds. I’m gambling my life. For my sake I hope he sees me as a bitch, not a victim. Being an animal I don’t feel safe with him loose.’

  Her obvious sincerity brought a smile to Wulfgar’s lips.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ he asked.

  The collie nodded.

  ‘Come and drink,’ Wulfgar said. ‘The otters will be busy in the pond soon. It might be better if they met you now rather than tomorrow. The sight of two dogs coming down the hill unannounced would be a bit too much.’

  He had eaten more than his usual amount of red meat, finishing off with a couple of frogs whose back legs had been devoured by a stoat. He sat cleaning himself beside the Becca while the dipper flitted in and out of the water.

  The last remnants of daylight faded. Moonrise silvered the sky, and the moon edged up and cleared Holwell Tor. In the heronry below Great Houndtor Scrag tucked his beak under a wing and slept.

  Wulfgar looked at Stargrief and said, ‘If you had told me what you were up to I would have greeted Queenie with more than raised hackles.’

  ‘I had to find her and speak to her,’ Stargrief snapped. ‘I couldn’t prophesy her willingness to help.’

  ‘Why not, you’re a prophet aren’t you?’

  ‘He’s not always this stupid,’ Stargrief told Queenie as they came to the water. ‘He gets irritated because I am what he will become. Sometimes he peeps at me and sees himself five years from now.’

  ‘Only if Tod’s got a weird sense of humour,’ Wulfgar laughed.

  Queenie certainly smelt like an animal and, unlike the lurcher, no Man odours clung to her. She settled as the foxes settled among the alder roots and told them about her life on the farm.

  ‘I wasn’t an animal,’ she said. ‘I really was a thing – like the mowing machine and the threshing machine, like the horse, the sheep and the cow. I was given very little to eat and worked from dawn to sunset. Then the farmer took away my pups and beat me when I howled for them at night. Now I make my own life according to the seasons.’

  ‘It was the way when Tod stalked the moors,’ said Stargrief.

  They all spoke the canidae argot. Out in the pond the otters whistled and splashed.

  ‘To walk in freedom is enough,’ said Queenie.

  ‘It’s the only thing,’ Wulfgar said.

  ‘You were born to it,’ Queenie smiled. ‘I returned to it. It is my great adventure.’

  Romany came lolloping out of the water and shook himself. Then he laid the trout at Queenie’s feet.

  ‘Dog eat trout?’ he said.

  ‘I eat anything,’ said the collie.

  ‘Trout isn’t anything. Trout is otter food and otter eats only the best.’

  ‘Damned good fish,’ Queenie agreed, taking a mouthful.

  ‘Later on I’ll get you a coney,’ said Wulfgar.

  BY FOX CRAFT

  Stargrief and Queenie left for Yarner Wood at daybreak. The collie bitch was fit and lean from living wild and Stargrief had difficulty keeping up with her. They ran along the old granite tramway as far as Haytor Ponds and cut across the heath to pick up the Manaton road. From Ullacombe way a dog barked incessantly, and the east wind that usually meant fair weather carried the noise far over the in-country.

  The animals did not speak as they took up their positions. The vague, dark world of early morning opened to the flood of sunrise. Slates glinted on the roof of the cottage, and a glimmer of leaves spread over the wood. Birdsong s
welled and the first bees burrowed into the foxglove bells.

  Stargrief jumped onto the top of the hutch, surprising the ferrets who started to snake up and down, more curious than alarmed. Stargrief jerked back his head and let out a tomcat screech that seemed to hang on the air and fade away like smoke. Ceaselessly he repeated the cry until Scoble appeared at the bedroom window. The trapper ran his tongue over his lips. One shot would lift that skinny old fox clean off the hutch onto the collar of a lady’s coat, but a few stray pellets would also take care of the ferrets. Stargrief looked up at him and barked. You’re asking for it, boy, Scoble thought. A kamekaze fox, like them bloody mazed Japs.

  ‘Us won’t disappoint un, Jacko,’ he whispered.

  The lurcher followed him downstairs and stood raking fleas from behind his ear. The stiff hind foot moved in a blur.

  ‘Fox, Jacko,’ Scoble said, flinging open the door. ‘Get ’im, boy. Show un who’s boss.’

  Dizziness climbed to the dome of Jacko’s skull. He saw the fox on the ferret hutch like an object seen through the wrong end of a telescope. He flew towards it and leapt the wall as the white-tagged brush vanished into the leaves. A jay looped up through the branches, its sudden chatter perforating the dog’s brain. Agony was driven hard into each tiny hole, making Jacko whine and bang his head on the trunk of an oak. The fox was running down the path where it curved and became lost in shadow. Jacko raced after him. He would bring the fox back dead to his master, lay it at his feet and get the ‘Good Jacko – Lovely Jacko’ treatment.

  The bend surprised him. He fought the camber without success and skidded hard into the foxgloves and nettles. Anger screwed back his lips. Red is dead. When a creature turned red it had to die, it was the sign. The stars said so.

  He regained the path effortlessly. A creature sat on the mud ahead of him. Jacko snarled and raised his hackles. The fox had changed into a collie dog.

  ‘How you do that?’ he cried.

  ‘How I do what?’ said Queenie.

  ‘Turn into dog.’

  For a moment Queenie was tempted to pretend she had magical powers, but maybe Jacko wouldn’t be sufficiently impressed. If you are crazy a fox is a fox no matter what it looks like. Queenie shuddered. To think logically was to place her life in the lurcher’s jaws. Keep it simple, she thought, think mad dog.

  ‘I am dog – collie to be exact. I always have been,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Jacko. ‘You fox. Stars tell me. Stars don’t lie.’

  He crept towards her with the terrible, deliberate gait of a hunter preparing to spring.

  ‘Stars don’t lie,’ Queenie agreed. ‘But we don’t always hear them correctly. There was a fox. He went down rabbit hole. You’ll never catch him. Come and smell me, Jacko. I really am dog. Nose don’t lie.’

  ‘How you know my name?’ the lurcher said. Queenie noted with relief that his hackles had dropped.

  ‘Every dog on the moors has heard of the mighty fox fighter. You have killed more foxes than I’ve had bones. I bow to your bravery, cunning and speed.’

  She inclined her head and Jacko trotted up to her and made a thorough examination.

  ‘You dog all right,’ he said, licking her under the tail. ‘Why you come looking for me?’

  ‘Stars tell me to. They say Jacko lonely. He need a good mate – a dog to give him plenty little Jackoes.’

  ‘Lurcher mates with lurcher,’ Jacko said haughtily. ‘But you a good bitch. I let you be my friend.’

  ‘It’s a great honour. My name is Queenie.’

  ‘OK – we run together, Queenie. Stars say we go to open places. You do as you’re told and everything will be like the puppy time.’

  He escorted her out of Yarner, across the tableland of furze and heather to the slope that swept up to Hay Tor. Jacko was happy. His master had given him freedom, and the stars were kind, not like white hot claws digging into his mind. Queenie was O.K. – maybe later he would kill her and send her to the stars. They’d like that, for he had never sent them a dog to play with. Endlessly the larks shrilled. The lurcher and the collie loped along, following the sheep paths through the deep bracken.

  When they drank at Hay Tor Ponds they saw newts among the jumble of sunken roots. Swiftly a cloud passed over the sun, then another. Jacko cocked his leg against the rusty iron winch and watched the dragonflies whizz past his head.

  ‘There was a black fox at the big pond before daybreak,’ Queenie said. Despite her courage and sagacity her voice shook. Jacko flashed her a malevolent glance.

  ‘He wasn’t like ordinary foxes,’ she went on. ‘He sat by the water and just stared at me.’

  ‘And you did nothing?’

  ‘I was scared, Jacko. I’m only a simple collie.’

  The red gut burst behind his eyes and inundated the world. The red dog stood shivering beside an expanding pool of blood. Not yet, the stars crowed. Wait, Jacko. Good boy, Jacko.

  ‘Show me black fox,’ he said.

  ‘But he’ll be gone by now.’

  He uncoiled and caught her off-guard at the end of a spectacular leap. Queenie lay staring breathlessly up into his mouth.

  ‘Stars tell Jacko what to do,’ he growled. ‘Jacko tell you what to do. Take me to black fox.’

  The red mist billowed and gaped to reveal the sun. They climbed the path out of the quarry and ran shoulder to shoulder to Holwell Tor. A panic-stricken flock of Scottish Blackfaces stampeded before them, with the pale, embarrassed look of all shorn sheep. And quite casually the stars ordered Jacko to kill, so he cut his way through the animals, using his fangs like a saw-edged knife, making fierce, slashing strokes. One ewe stood her ground to protect her lambs, and Jacko tore out her throat and grinned at Queenie. His lips were crimson with the blood that dribbled down his muzzle.

  ‘Stars need lots of sheep,’ he gasped.

  A man shouted. The dogs turned towards the sound and saw a distant figure running though the whortleberries under Hay Tor.

  ‘Pity the stars didn’t see the man before you killed the sheep,’ Queenie sighed. ‘Sheep-killing means plenty trouble.’

  ‘I am magic dog,’ the lurcher cried. ‘No man will ever harm Jacko.’

  ‘I believe you – but let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Now Jacko show you how to kill fox.’

  From the reeds and marsh grass they were able to scrutinise the big pond. A fish rose and ringed the surface. Fat summer clouds sailed over Greator Rocks, higher still were the mare’s tails of stratus, but in between lay broad patches of blue sky.

  ‘OK, collie bitch,’ Jacko whispered. ‘Where’s fox?’

  ‘He was down there by the willow,’ said Queenie, feeling her innards slowly somersault. ‘I thought he’d be gone.’

  ‘If he don’t come pretty damn quick Jacko send you to stars.’

  The lurcher flattened his ears and grinned. The red collie grinned back, and red of many hues marbled the sky. Leisurely he gathered the cuckoo-spit off the grass stems with the tip of his tongue. The frog-hoppers had left small white gobs of it everywhere.

  Queenie regarded him in disgust.

  Rain fell hard and cool but the shower did not last more than a few minutes. Half the sky remained blue and sunny, and while the drops splattered on the pond the house martins visited it by the score, hitting the surface with a splash time after time.

  ‘Maybe black fox turn into bird,’ Jacko laughed. His mind was on fire, cooking in his skull.

  The shadow grew legs and slid from under the trees. Small leaves silvered in the wind that blew away the last of the shower. The shadow had pointed black ears and a bushy tail. It stopped on the sward where the otters came to roll and play.

  ‘Die, black fox,’ Jacko snarled.

  A jolt of anger numbed his brain, and ten strides brought him to the sward. The agony fell away from him and instinct measured the distance between himself and his prey, but the black fox was curving out over the reeds into the pond. Jacko splashed after him, the blood-l
ust eclipsing all his fears and anxieties. He knew he had the strength and the speed to overtake the fox who was swimming with head held high. O how his master would love him and give him the good tasty things off his plate, and the stars would sing lullabies and make the pain go for ever.

  The water was soft and cool. The deep thrusting of his forepaws carried him closer to the fox. Kill the fox, kill the collie, kill the sheep. Kill-killy-killy. O Jacko do cracko the old foxio. Sharp and savagely relentless, like gin traps, the otters’ jaws clamped on his hind feet and the sunny world vanished. Jacko twisted and fought to bite the animals as they pulled him down. Water filled his windpipe, and he coughed and writhed and tried to kick for the surface. Briefly the sunlight flashed like a shoal of silver fish above, then he was choking and gulping more water. One by one the stars exploded and vanished, leaving a warm and inviting darkness.

  Jacko stopped struggling and sank into it like a puppy dropping into sleep, his mouth and eyes open wide. His legs no longer twitched. He stared from nothingness to nothingness, and the otters swam away trailing little bubbles.

  ‘I thought it would take longer,’ Wulfgar said.

  The dim shape of Jacko’s body was visible just under the water, grey and still.

  ‘It probably wasn’t so quick for him,’ said Stargrief.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Wulfgar said, remembering the snare. ‘But one moment he was there behind me then he was gone. I had imagined a great fight.’

  ‘Like the fights in the clan sagas?’ Stargrief grinned.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When they turn this into a saga it will become a great fight.’

  ‘Poor Jacko,’ said Queenie.

  The foxes looked at her.

  ‘He was mad,’ the collie continued. ‘But perhaps I’d be mad if I had lived with the trapper. Don’t misunderstand me – he had to die. If he had killed any more sheep we would all be wiped out. But he was born an animal. Man made him a thing. It saddens me a little.’