LITTLE FOX

CHAPTER 1

BRAVERY

 Cadden Little Fox, face down in the dirt of the road, gritted his teeth and refused to cry out. He would not give his uncle that much satisfaction. 
The thud of the heavy feet of ten draft horses vibrated in his ear as the five leading wagons continued down the road, riding the spokes of the Wheel of the World. His older brother swore at their horses. One of his sisters laughed.

"A few more tricks like your last one and we'll sell you to the next hadlar!" his uncle shouted, as the jijada branch landed again. Most hadler, the rooted feet, hated the travelers and would be only too pleased to make him a bondslave.

"You're just like your namekin, making trouble at every turn," his uncle continued, punctuating his words with another lash of the branch. Tears of pain burned Little Fox's eyes. Answering back would make his beating worse, but hot words pressed to leap out. His namekin, Fox Rogue, hadn't been tossed out at all, he had left! Little Fox knew this from the uncountable times he had snuck away to listen to hadlar stories. The tale of Fox Rogue was a popular with the hadlar; he'd heard four versions of it since the first. The first time his hearing had been accidental. 

The storyteller leaned forward and lifted his arms, catching the gazes of his audience: first with the flutter of his wealth of long, white, beaded fringe—

In one of the last Logan villages, on his uncle's orders, Little Fox had been waiting for a chance to steal pouches from the crowd around a storyteller.

Scanning for his first potential benefactor, he had ambled, with studied casualness, from the shadows of a nearby alley into the back of the crowd. 

The storyteller's voice had risen dramatically. Little Fox had barely registered the words, his gaze had snagged on a fat purse hanging at a baker's waist. He shook his treachery dirk down from it's arm sheath, readying it to cut the purse strings, and veered around the edge of the crowd to enter just behind the baker.

Little Fox had taken a single step into the crowd, when the storyteller's tale ended. He halted mid step and averted his face, hoping fervently no hadlar would notice a clahdag boy, stood among them. At the best the hadler named them wild Logan Rovers, usually they added: treacherous, black-hearted thieves as well. He didn't want a beating from both crowd and uncle. 

The Fates loved him: a wave of awed comments rippled through the crowd and everyone's attention stayed riveted on the storyteller. Little Fox risked a glance to see why. 

At the front of the crowd, a young, tow-haired boy gazed raptly up at the storyteller. Beside the boy, what was obviously an older brother covertly inspected the man-high staff the storyteller held. The storyteller's head was bent to the young boy so Little Fox couldn't see his face, but hair to toe he was the most amazing person Little Fox had ever seen. Fine white hair danced in the light breeze and swirled around the storyteller's shoulders. Draping those shoulders had to be-but Little Fox could hardly credit it-Amethyst goddess cloth. White, still it shuddered with a myriad of colors each time the storyteller moved or the wind whispered, and from the garment, nearly everywhere, hung long, silky, beaded fringe. The beads glinted in the morning sun like dew or diamonds. The storyteller smiled and lifted his head, breaking his gaze with the young boy and Little Fox found his breath trapped in his throat. His first and totally ridiculous thought was that one of the Fair Fates had turned storyteller for the day. Or one of the Wild Fates. The storyteller's features were that fine and exquisite. No wonder his audience was abuzz.

"Once," the storyteller said softly, "once a long, long time ago, a young Logan Rover-much as this boy here-" 

Little Fox had started, but the storyteller hadn't been indicating him, just a boy with black hair. Still, he eased a bit further behind the large baker with the fat purse . . . and took a half step closer to the purse side.

The storyteller continued, "-stole away from his clahdag-" Little Fox had been surprised to hear his people's name for themselves from a hadlar. "-mid a dark and moonless night. And his name, my story- friends, was Fox Rogue." 

Hearing his namekin's calling had riveted Little Fox in place. Only his uncle dragging from the crowd could have moved him after that, until the tale ended. 
The tale had barely resembled the one the clahdags told of Fox Rogue. Only the bones of the story and the names had been the same, the interpretations of his namekin's actions and deeds had been radically different. The clahdag version portrayed his namekin as a destroyer of and betrayer of clahdags and Gallimaufry, the country he had betrayed them to; the hadlar tale as hero and savior of that same country.

Little Fox had come away from the crowd sick with the certainty that the hadlar version was the true account . . . and the baker's fat purse, which he didn't remember taking. He was still amazed he'd had sense enough not to confront his uncle about the discrepancies in the two versions of his namekin's tale.

Ever since hearing the tale, Little Fox had tantalized himself with leaving his clahdag as his namekin had, an act of daring and bravery that had as yet been beyond him. 

He put that thought between himself and the fourth sting of the jijada branch against his back . . . and concentrated on remembering the true tale of his namekin, called Fox Rogue, the Betrayer by the clahdag and Reyhard Earthmover, hero by the hadlars.

The storyteller had paused and settled back on the bench in front of Sindotown's general store. He lifted his hands briefly and cupped them as if he held the tale between his palms. "After many difficult months of walking and hiding from the clahdags," the storyteller said, "Fox Rogue, wearing only rags on his back-and a Retrieve wizard bird on his shoulder, staggered up to the gates of Gallimaufry's Guild Complex, called Bird Release by some and Retrieve by others." 

The beating stopped at the fifth lash but Little Fox didn't move. As long as he stayed still there was a better chance the beating wouldn't resume. He heard the creak of the wagon as his uncle leapt up into the seat, then the snap of the jijada branch over the backs of their draft horses.

The storyteller's hair had looked white, but his features had been young. Much younger than the quality of his storytelling and voice had indicated. How curious. How curious that it had taken him this long to realize.

His uncle broke into his thoughts, "Catch up by a double dragon length or we'll leave you behind." An empty promise. If he didn't catch up, someone would come back and drag him back. Had Fox Rogue's family ever done that to him?

The storyteller had gone on to speak of Fox Rogue as brave and honest and extremely talented in earth magic. Little Fox had perked up to hear that. Could he be as well? Could that be why he got into so much trouble all the time? He had tried to be good at first, tried hard, but nothing he did ever seemed to satisfy either uncle or father, aunt, brother, or older sister.

The hadlar storyteller had smiled as if he knew more secrets than his story would tell and continued, "At Retrieve, Fox Rogue learned quickly and become strong in magic. Strong enough to catch the eye of the Gallimaufry High Lord and the twin heirs-"

The heirs had been daughters in another story, sons in one other, and one of each in the first storyteller's. 

"-and there was much love and respect between them." The storyteller stroked a finger over one of the symbols on his walking staff but Little Fox couldn't see the symbol from where he stood. "And this love and respect grew strong between Fox Rogue and the High Lord's Heir, Tajet Jansar, and in this love they both grew strong and brave."

Little Fox sighed. Neither strong nor brave defined him. Forgetting where he was and why, he moved. Pain ran his vision red. He sucked in a hard breath, gritted his teeth, and waited for the pain to recede enough to re-immerse himself in the story.

"And between them, the love grew strong and full enough to promise their lives to each other." The storyteller paused and set two stones on the ground between his feet. "One day Fox Rogue said to his promised lifemate: "My love for you is so powerful, with it I can move earth and stone." And with nothing more than love he moved two stones together and then moved earth to hold them in place."

 The storyteller poked the two stones together with his fingers and tamped dirt around them, then lifted his face and smiled almost shyly, adding as an aside, "But I am still learning to love so I must use my fingers to demonstrate."

Little Fox didn't realize he had moved to the front of the crowd until someone complained. Instead of retreating, he squatted so they could see over him. The storyteller continued the tale, "Tajet Jansar replied: 'And mine for you is so strong, with it I can join the two stones together forever as you and I will soon be joined.'? And he did." The storyteller had slanted his listeners a quick, mischievous look and, with his fingers, stroked the two stones. Between them, joining them, appeared a clear crystal streak. 
" 'And,' Tajet Jansar continued," the storyteller said, as his fingers moved across the joined stone like a caress, " 'I can make flowers sprout and grow in the earth around it, as my life-joy and love for you has grown with your presence.' And the land heir did that as well."? The storyteller brushed a circle with a single finger in the dirt around the joined stones and tiny, light-green shoots sprang up around the stones. 

A startled gasp had risen from his audience.

The storyteller's expression had brightened and turned happily smug, then he had leaned back and surveyed his listeners, picked up the joined stones and held them out on the palm of his hand. 

Not every storyteller told that part, and certainly the first storyteller had been the only one to demonstrate how Fox Rogue and Tajet Jansar could move and join stones together. Little Fox assumed the stone joining a slight of hand. Each telling, however, had included the next, best, and most exciting part wherein Fox Rogue, the High Lord and his four heirs had closed the fault that threatened to cleave the country of Gallimaufry in two. Little Fox held his breath each time to hear of the struggle to seal the fault and found tears burning his eyes for the part after. The struggle had succeeded, but three of the heirs had died, including Fox Rogue's life-promise-mate, Tajet Jansar. Three had lived: the High Lord, Tajet's sister, and Fox Rogue. For a season afterwards, his magic seriously depleted, Fox Rogue had battled to stay alive, to detach his magic from the fault, and to overcome his great sorrow at losing his promised lifemate.

The tears stung. Little Fox blinked them away and opened his eyes to dirt, stones, and a bumbling chikker-bug. He jerked away from the bug instinctively and a sheet of stinging pain washed down his back. With a caught back cry, he took a careful breath and held it, thrusting between himself and the pain, the reminder that his namekin had withstood the unceasing agony of losing his promised lifemate and of the fault pressing on him for the balance of his life.

The hadlar tales never said how long that life had been, nor spoke of his namekin's death, but that death must have been many years ago, since it had been fifteen World Wheels, plus the two and a half spokes of the Wheel his clahdag had traveled since his own birth. A Spoke, if he had figured rightly, equalled six hadler years and a World Wheel held fifteen spokes.

The tale's end always made Little Fox's heart swell with satisfaction, for not only had Fox Rogue escaped the clahdag's limiting cruelty, but lived, became a hero, and gained much honor with a new naming: Reyhard Earthmover. The end of the tale, this time, dumped him out into his pain. 

"Fox Rogue would have been on his feet by now," Little Fox told himself severely, "and creeping away from the clahdag." He made it to his knees before he had to rest and suck in small breaths against the burn of pain. The beating had been worse than usual-but he had no idea what he had done to deserve it. He had been trudging along behind the wagon as his uncle had ordered, nothing more. He closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath-and the certainty gripped him that he must leave the clahdag now if he ever wanted to leave it alive. The knowing was as strong as his surety that the hadlar tale held the true account of his namekin. Little Fox shuddered from the strength of the knowing, and tried not to think that he, as opposed to his namekin, would never make it, would never be able to escape the clahdag's pursuit. He was not so clever. Stupidity, in fact, was one of his older sister's constant complaints in his regard.

The storyteller's smile had widened as his listeners stared in awe at the joined stones. He continued to hold the stones in his palm while he resumed the tale, "Seeing what they had done, the two knew they could do no less than share this love and their joy in it by closing the fault that threatened to cleave their country in two. Thus they went to the High Lord and told him their plan. At first, loving them both much and fearing for their lives, the High Lord tried to dissuade them. When he saw they could not be moved, he joined them, and so did his other three heirs."

Six people daring to brave the impossible. And him still on his knees. Little Fox made it to his feet, then had to rest again and catch his breath. When he could, he blinked his vision clear. Which direction he should go in? Not back the way they had come, the Dancing Mule clahdag followed them by a day. Not to the east, a week that way and he would hit the sea. To the west, then, into the setting sun-despite that direction would be the first one his cousin or brother, who would be sent after him, would check. Not yet, though. He couldn't move yet. 

The storyteller paused, his eyes sparkling as if to say: here is a part you won't believe, but must be said, then he said, "Here I must tell you the names of the other three heirs, for Fox Rogue becomes quite irritated when they are not named or are misnamed, and one thing I do not want to do is irritate him unnecessarily." Mischief danced momentarily in the storyteller's eyes and Little Fox noted what an odd color they were: the pale, milky-green of unrolling spring leaves. "?Besides," the storyteller continued seriously, "whatever Fox Rogue did, and though this is his tale, he did this not alone, and the others gave their lives, so they should at least be honored by being named correctly. "High Lord Durr, Tajet's father. Savanay, Tajet's sister and twin. Locan, their female cousin. Kirling, their male cousin. All were brave and all were necessary to the closing of the fault."

Two of the brave people had been girls even. Little Fox drew in a long slow breath, steeled himself and took his first step west-and stopped. A figure topped the horizon headed toward him. A cousin or brother come to drag him back already. He had wasted too much time dreaming of being his namekin-an entirely impossible feat for someone as fearful and stupid as he-to escape. His shoulders slumped. To run at this point would be worse than stupid, his cousin-or brother, he couldn't tell which yet-could move that much faster than he. Besides, he would be lucky to make it to the edge of the woods before he collapsed. Clenching his fists, Little Fox thrust them deep in his britches pockets and made himself take his first step toward the approaching figure. Blackness edged his sight and he stumbled and slowed, and, for once, his cousin-or brother; it looked like his second up brother from this distance-didn't call to him to hurry. 

With each step, Little Fox's sense of urgency to flee grew stronger until he barely could restrain himself from bolting into the woods and letting the Wild Fates-or Pale Fates more likely, considering how his brother would react to that nonsense-take him as they would. 

Little Fox kept his head down and his eyes on the road beneath his feet. Stones littered the hard packed dirt. A tumble now would see him dragged through them without a chance to regain his feet. 

His brother still didn't call to him. 

Little Fox finally looked up to find a dusky-haired hadlar headed toward him. He blinked at the man as if that would turn him into the brother he had expected to see. The man slid one hand closer to his knife and the other to cover his wallet. Little Fox answered with the twisted grin he reserved for hadlars that was neither reassurance nor, really, threat. The man veered to the far side of the road to pass him. Little Fox eyed him and did the same.

The man was well past before Little Fox realized that the Wild Fates had blessed him. Not his brother. Not his cousin. Freedom! He veered instantly into the woods and paused to lean on the first tree he came to and rest. A wild surge of excitement skirled through him. He had done it! He had committed himself to escape, to go to Retrieve as his namekin had . . . despite he had no bird to wear on his shoulder to guide him or gain him entry. He had heard that one could earn one's way into the Guilds. Even though his uncle and brother maintained him a poor worker, he could at least try. It would be enough just to be in the place his namekin had done his wondrous deed, even for a week or two, just to be there. 

The shrill of coin-bird overhead yanked Little Fox from his thoughts, and the time span of being there felt fearfully long. He pushed from the tree-and paused, frozen by the sight of the dark-shadowed, trackless forest that would be his path west. 

The road, on the other hand, offered an open path to the horizon. It wound dusty, rutted from the passing of his clahdag's six wagons, and downhill to the south along the sea-edge of the country of Imbroglio.

Wide, clear roads were a clahdag's domain, not forests. Forests were places to avoid, to camp at the edge of, places to ward oneself against. All manner of aberrations were said to dwell within. Little Fox could well imagine there must be a great many. Many nights he had lain awake in the wagon, parked at the edge of the forest, hearing keiler wolves howl, grotesques wail, and the high, bone-chilling cackle of yelpers. The trees stood large and close. Between them rampaged plants at every height from fern to bush to tree, and vines all the way between, all with deep, dark shadows offering endless places for long-toothed, thick-clawed creatures to hide. Oh, Dark Fates! How dare he even consider defying the clahdag! All the tales of those who had tried and failed rushed into his mind. 

He drew in a ragged, deep breath and took his first step into the forest anyway.

Story copyright Sara Ryan 2003

All rights reserved. No portion of this chapter may be copied in any manner. Thanks.

Note: The teal paragraphs represent an altered state of awareness. The book contains several other colors of  type.

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