Foxen Bloom

  Foxen Bloom

  Parker Foye

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Parker Foye

  Part One: Old Nan Had Two Sons

  The Hand That Reaches From Beneath The Waves

  Part Two: No Hedges Only Oaks

  A Fox In Goat's Clothing

  Part Three: Don't Shake The Mage

  Hunting Two Hares (In Vino Veritas)

  Part Four: He Of Bone And Bark

  Truth And Other Things That Burn

  Part Five: It Must Run In The Family

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Parker Foye

  Sign up for Parker Foye's Mailing List

  Also by Parker Foye

  Love Has Claws

  Nine Years of Silver

  The Burial Club

  Letters from Dark Water

  Other Books

  Beating the Bounds

  Hart of Winter

  Mage of Inconvenience

  Red Between the Lines

  ’Tis Pity He’s a Horse

  Ward & Weft

  Wolf in King’s Clothing

  Copyright © 2021 Parker Foye

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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  Part One: Old Nan Had Two Sons

  The bow hunter came in summer, entering the forest on leaf-light feet. It had been many seasons since any humans crossed the boundary. Fenton had woken to the excited chatter of birds and followed their voices to the westernmost part of the forest, away from the heart of the wood, where he scaled to the tops of the trees to watch the hunter's progress. The hunter riffled through the scrub and examined the overgrown trail, then pushed onward.

  The hunter tracked the white-tailed stag.

  Fenton knew the forest to every root and leaf—he knew the stream and the thicket; the trail and the loam—and he spoke with every creature, all those of feather, fur, and fang. All but the white-tailed stag. He knew the stag only from glimpses seen from the corners of his eyes, in tracks pressed to mutable earth, and in the stories the birds told.

  Most creatures of the forest were like Fenton, remaining within the forest's bounds, but the birds roamed as they pleased, and they sang their stories to Fenton as they would to a chick from another nest. Birds warned Fenton of the humans and their ever-stronger weapons, and of the stories humans told each other about the white-tailed stag. Human legend promised the stag would grant a wish if it were caught, but the stag could not be caught so long as the forest stood. So the birds sang. Though how they knew the forest's inner workings, Fenton didn't ask.

  Summer breathed colour into the forest. Puddles of dappled light dotted the trails made by hoof and paw, and for much of the morning the hunter kept to the paths that time had made. She advanced quietly, carefully, her hands steady on her short, curved bow. Sweat made her skin glisten as the sun grew tall, but she remained alert as she tracked flashes of the stag through the trees. She smelled like metal and wheat.

  Fenton followed from above. Birds chittered when he jostled their branches, chastising and coaxing in equal measure. He was too big to perch in any of their trees for long, but they never chased him away; sometimes he wore feathers to show his kinship, and curled his claws to talons, but the birds always whistled him back to his usual shape. Now, they chirruped as he shifted his weight to leap and land and leap again, calling to one another to warn and celebrate, even as he tried to gentle the impact of his presence. He hollowed his bones with a thought. His company was a burden he wished to ease.

  The hunter glanced up as the birds gossiped in their pretty voices, but she didn't stop. She moved sleek and cautious as she stepped off the trail to follow a glimpse of the stag. What she thought was the stag. She stepped into the inviting gap between rises of the thorny guardian thicket and disappeared temporarily from view, the stave of her bow subsumed by shadow. The thicket closed behind her.

  Fenton gripped the branch he perched on, holding it between the curved claws of his feet, and watched for the hunter to emerge again. He would have to follow on foot, but the thicket liked to play catch with his vines. Fenton scratched his throat where the thin vines tangled, grimacing when his scratching made one of the skinnier threads break at the root. He flicked it away and dropped from the branch, his landing as easy as a sigh of rain. Hunching small and thinking his vines tight-tight-tight, Fenton moved loam-soft and water-quick through the thicket, which deigned to turn its thorns at his entreating. He let his claws skim over the nearest leaves in thanks as he passed and left the thicket behind.

  Rabbit warrens vibrated with activity beneath his feet and Fenton listened to their heartbeats as he stalked forward, in case any messages needed to be carried across the forest. He often passed days and moons that way: noting the gossip of birds, scenting the news of foxes, watching for the stag's white tail. Blood-warm sunlight seeped through the forest as he listened to the rabbits and set roots. The day grew long.

  Fenton blinked slowly as he returned to himself. The hunter. The stag. Fenton sent his shadow to search ahead of him, stretching across the forest floor, as day bowed to evening.

  He caught up with the hunter kneeling by the stream that tripped over a cluster of rocks into a wide pool, near the spot where sunset flowers grew thickest. She had laid her bow down. Her hands were raised to her lips. Fenton watched the hunter drink from the cup of her hands until they were empty. He willed his vines to lift in turn, mimicking her. He shifted his weight, trying to move as she did, but unexpectedly she turned toward him. Her eyes grew wide. She cried like a fox in the night and blood bubbled forth with the sound. Blood slicked her chin and the sweat sheening her face stained red as her veins spidered to the surface of her skin and burst free. She shuddered and made the fox noise again, and blood burst in her eyes and wept from her ears and then she was dead. The stream continued to rush into the pool.

  Fenton's shadow curled around his trunk like another one of his vines and tightened. Crossing to the dead hunter, Fenton crouched and traced the shape of her with his eyes. He inhaled the death-blood-sweat stink of her, letting his mouth hang open to gain a fuller scent. For a time, he sat and breathed in the place where she did neither. Night came. When he knew her, as best anyone living could, he waded into the stream. Fish butted his legs. Reeds tugged his claws.

  By the time Fenton waded out the other side, he could smell wheat. He glanced over his shoulder. Reddish gold sheaves fluttered in a tender breeze, a great stretch of them, in the space where the bow hunter had been. Moonlight limned them.

  Fenton turned away. Ahead, the flash of the white-tailed stag.

  Summer passed in a long stretch of warmth as the new wheat grew tall. When days were at their hottest, Fenton dozed beneath the shade of the golden stalks; there was always a breeze whispering in the wheat. Little paws pattered over him from time to time, bringing berries and stories to share. His vines flowered. When he walked through the
wheat, he left petals behind.

  The next hunter came in autumn. He wore a long knife at his belt and a rope wound over his shoulder, and his footfalls crunched dry leaves as he stalked the white-tailed stag. He kept to the trails, but his eyes flitted over the hedgerows and through the trees, his head tilted to the side as if one ear were better than the other. When birds chattered overhead, whistling to Fenton, come and look, come and see, the hunter paused, one heel lifted. Listening.

  Called to the boundary from his slumber, Fenton stood among the trees and looked as he was bid, his vines coiling and flexing. A sharp wind rushed through the forest as he watched, making the birds raise their voices in response. The hunter started forward again, moving faster but just as guardedly. The white-tailed stag skulked ahead.

  Leaves didn't crunch beneath Fenton's feet. As his shadow passed over them, they curled into crescents of red and gold, then crumbled to dust as he moved on. Trees shuddered in the growing cold of the year and Fenton pressed his hands to their trunks as he followed the hunter, listening to fragments of slow stories as he wove his way through the forest. He left a trail of dust behind him.

  The hunter came to the field of wheat. He paused, his fingers twitching at his sides, then ducked his head and threaded through the stalks toward the stream. Fenton slowed, his vines coiling tight, but the hunter didn't pause to drink. He followed the course of the stream toward the pool and the sunset flowers. There, his progress slowed, as if a weight pressed upon him. He had stopped looking through the trees and stopped listening to the birds. They were whistling to him, now, don't go and see, don't go and look, but the hunter didn't heed their song.

  Fenton watched the hunter near the sunset flowers. Idly scratching the inside of his elbow, Fenton plucked a vine that had started to itch. Thorns bristled on the vine. Blood beaded on their tips. The hunter reached toward a sunset flower.

  Don't go and look, a fat little robin perched on a nearby branch sang to the hunter. Don't go and see! the robin cried with all its might.

  Startling, the hunter looked toward the robin, and saw Fenton for the first time. A sunset flower fell from the hunter's open hand. The hunter touched his hand to his chest and opened his mouth. Fenton raised his own hand but kept his mouth closed. He licked his fangs as the rope around the hunter's shoulder unspooled itself and threaded rabbit-quick around his throat. Though the hunter wrestled with the rope until his nails broke bloody, his efforts were in vain. The hunter dropped to his knees, then to his side. His movements slowed. Something popped. Something cracked. His flat teeth smeared in blood. Fenton looked away.

  The fat little robin went quiet. Fenton flicked aside the vine he'd pulled from his elbow. He touched his finger, as light as breath, to the robin's bowed head. He had no claws. Claws would have offered no comfort.

  Wheat whispered as Fenton passed through the rows. He brushed his hands over the stalks in apology. When he reached the hunter, Fenton rolled him onto his back. He didn't look anything like the summer hunter. He smelled like blood and leather. Crouching, Fenton cupped the fallen sunset flower in his hands and blew softly on the fist-sized bloom. Petals scattered on the obliging breeze until only the two largest and glossiest remained. Those, Fenton placed over the hunter's glazed eyes.

  Fenton's shadow passed over the hunter. Dust sighed in its wake.

  Winter came, and with it, snow. The white-tailed stag slept. Fenton, too, dozed beneath the loam, spreading roots as his shadow carpeted the forest floor. Winter fed darkness, leaving all else lean and hungered. Old Nan had taught Fenton about the dark. She'd told Fenton stories then sent him off with a pie hot from the stone.

  Someone else had been there. A bright slash of lightning.

  Sleepy-eyed, Fenton worried thorns from his sides and lined them across his torso like ants marching home. He hadn't thought about Old Nan in a very long time.

  The third hunter came in midwinter, when the days were dark and short. She shivered. Though Fenton had passed innumerable winters sleeping in the roots of the forest, the recent turn of seasons had left him restless, exquisitely aware of their passing. He already watched the boundary when the hunter came to cross. Her moon-pale face was gaunt and her hands were fisted tight in the threadbare fur of her cloak. She strayed from the trail almost immediately to follow old tracks through the trees. The sour scent of hunger dogged her heels.

  There were no birds singing. No rabbits drumming. No white-tailed stag to tempt her, and yet the hunter ventured deeper into the forest and deeper. Fenton shadowed the hunter, stepping where she stepped, leaving snowdrops and bluebells in the indentations from her boots.

  When the hunter reached the wheat, still lush and gold even in midwinter, she didn't falter. Her shoulders stiffened but she pushed past the stalks with nary a glance. Behind her, Fenton made a silent game of leaping from boot print to boot print.

  Next came the stream and the sunset flowers. Frost made petals glitter like stars across the blanket of night. The hunter paused, and her hands twitched at her sides, but she didn't reach for the blossoms. She mumbled something, a quick burble of water, and passed the flowers, heading to the other side of the pool and into the thick of the forest once more.

  Fenton rubbed the heel of his hand against the throbbing beneath his eyes, then let out a sharp hiss when something prickled. Lowering his hand, he discovered blood painting the thorns of his palm. He'd caught his vines on the hooks. Had that happened before? Raising his hand a second time, more guardedly, Fenton ran his fingertips across his vines. They bristled. The sensation itched. Fenton dug his nails into his vines and tugged, but no vines came free. He pressed harder to his face. His skin. Where there had been a tangle of vines, his fingers found only flesh, sore where his thorns had struck.

  A white flash. A glimpse of antlers. Fenton dropped his hand and frowned at the forest. When he didn't see the hunter, he sent his shadow in pursuit and followed after. He could smell something unusual, something new, that made his roots twist. The trees moaned and reached their branches toward him, nearly catching his loose vines as he passed, oblivious in their distress. Fenton's thoughts were rabbit-nervous and cuckoo-odd. His shadow unspooled like an inky river before him.

  The hunter recoiled when Fenton stepped into the clearing, and he quickly shrank himself to hunter size. Her acrid scent eased. She sat on a large stone with her hands outstretched toward a small bundle of sticks and the flames dancing over them.

  Fenton hadn't seen fire for a very long time. His vines coiled away from the heat. The deadwood of his heart creaked.

  The hunter spoke in her waterfall voice, scarcely blinking as she pointed her face Fenton's way. She paused, as if awaiting a response. Fenton didn't know how to tell her she was going to die. When he stood silent as the stones in the circle in the heart of the forest, the hunter gestured toward the fire and burbled again. Though her body was held tight, and her face scarred with winter, her eyes were gentle as dew.

  Fenton eased into the clearing. The hunter watched him with all the caution she should have given the forest. Fenton's shadow tucked underneath his feet as he crouched by the fire and watched the hunter in turn. Her skin burnished gold as wheat in the firelight. He studied the movement of her hands, the tilt of her face, the way her legs hinged. Sometimes she burbled at him, or perhaps to herself. She held her hands toward the fire. Once, she flashed her teeth at him.

  Fenton stayed until the fire went out. Until the dew of the hunter's eyes cracked with cold.

  When Fenton dreamed, he dreamed of stone hearths and clay ovens and the scent of fresh bread. His roots stretched out like searching hands. Thorns prickled through his tongue and eyes and ears and fingertips. He had no claws in his dreams.

  He had a sibling, though. He knew their laughter. He knew the hummingbird flicker of their expressions and the mutable storms of their temper. The agile tricks of their shadow. They fought one another, in Fenton's dreams. In Fenton's dreams, he lost.

  Winter began to wane. The
forest thawed. The white-tailed stag ran.

  The last hunter came on the first day of spring. Fenton sat astride a high branch in the trees at the edge of the forest, looking out through the unfurling leaves, a sunset flower in his hands. He had been spending more time on the edges of the forest of late. The hunter was winter-lean but his stride was strong, and he held his longbow easily in his hand. He smelled like fern and fear. His hair shone like river-slick wood. He kept to the trail. Fenton watched him until the hunter took the bend of the trail, moving deeper into the forest.

  A squirrel scampered up the tree trunk and chattered at Fenton about the hunter, as if Fenton hadn't noticed his presence. He snapped his teeth at the squirrel. The squirrel flicked their tail at him and used his legs as ballast for their jump. Fenton let the petals of the sunset flower float down from his fingers. Rustling in the canopy of leaves, the wind brought a question. Fenton could not answer.

  Fenton dropped from the branch and landed soft as a leaf on the forest floor. He followed the hunter on the trail, his shadow stretching behind him.

  When the white-tailed stag flashed through the thicket, the hunter paused. He stood strong, planted like an old tree, and watched the forest for a handful of slow, measured breaths. Unseen behind a friendly tree, Fenton watched the hunter likewise. One of Fenton's vines broke through the skin of his wrist, curious; he nipped it between his fingernails and dragged the vine from his skin like a wriggling worm from the earth, tugging it free in a hot splash of blood. The vine writhed on his palm.

  The hunter stepped off the trail.

  Hissing between his teeth, Fenton followed the hunter in the direction of the stream. Fenton moved soundless as an owl in the night, walking in the clever-mouse steps of the hunter. Rich scents filled the air: ripe wheat, clear water, and the heady musk of sunset flowers. Fenton's insides crawled like insects over carrion.

  The hunter met the wheat. He brushed his hands over the stalks, his eyes and mouth pinched. Fenton's fingers flicked at his sides. When the hunter moved on, Fenton hurried to press the same stalks, soothing in the same motions, seeking the hunter's touch for his own fingers. Wind tousled his hair and made the vines in the strands shake.