Vixen's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Vixen crouched at the edge of her burrow and stared at the dead rabbit the poacher had left three steps from her door. It smelled sweet. Too sweet. She knew that smell now. Sleeping herbs, crushed into the meat. One bite and the man would carry her off in a sack, the way he'd carried off half the fennekins in Nettlegrasp. Her mother had raised her to trust no human male, and this one had proved every warning true. Her belly ached. She had not eaten in two days. The poacher knew her scent, so he baited every trail with poisoned treats. Vixen backed away from the rabbit and bit her own paw to stay awake and angry. She climbed the strange apple tree instead. Its branches held no fruit, only glowing glass rectangles the old foxes called "phones." Vixen tapped one with her nose. It lit up. She had learned to make it answer questions. She pressed her paw pad against the glass and searched: what do humans hate? The answers scrolled past. Loud noise. Cold water. Then one line stopped her. Humans quarreled over smells. Some men treasured dirty socks. Most men gagged at them. A single foul sock could empty a room. Vixen's ears lifted. She thought of the poacher, tracking her by scent, nose pressed to the ground like a hound. His nose was his weapon. She could turn it against him. She dropped from the tree and dug through her den until she found them. Her socks. Two weeks unwashed, stiff and striped and reeking. She had kept them on purpose. The smell made her grin. Vixen dragged the rabbit bait toward the poacher's own trail. Then she stuffed both socks deep into the meat, packing the wet wool against the poisoned flesh. The sweet herb smell vanished under a wall of stink. She rolled the whole mess into the middle of his path, where he would kneel to check his work. She hid in the brush and waited. The poacher came at dusk. He was tall, and he walked with a coiled net over one shoulder. He knelt to sniff his bait, the way he always did. His face hit the sock cloud full on. He reeled back. He gagged. He clawed at his own nose and stumbled off the trail, coughing so hard he dropped his net. He could not smell her now. He could not smell anything. He staggered away, retching, and did not look back. Vixen crept out and picked up the net in her teeth. The poisoned bait no longer scared her. She had ruined his tool. His nose was useless, at least for tonight. But the net in her mouth told her something colder. He carried more than herbs. He carried rope and steel. Tomorrow he would come blind, and furious, and hunting by hand.