The Repentance of the Fox

The weak dawn light was filtering through the trees of the wood to the clearing where the fox and the pheasant were in conference. The fox hadn’t eaten for two days – he was trying to put thoughts of his intense hunger to one side.

He spoke with feeling. ‘I am so very sorry for everything’ he said, ‘… so very sorry.’ He licked his paws thoughtfully.

‘But every creature on earth has made a mistake or two,’ said the pheasant. ‘Would you like to tell me what’s causing such pain to your conscience?’

The old fox’s muzzle was grey, and the glorious red of his fur was flecked with white hairs and bald patches that gave witness to his numerous battles. His breath had an odour – and it wasn’t the fragrant scent of roses.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ he said, ‘but once, when I was in my prime, I raided a hen coop and killed and ripped apart every single hen that was inside it. There must have been a dozen of them, at least. I dragged one off. I ate it. But why did I kill the others …?’ He shook his head.

The pheasant was silent, but her eyes were fixed on him with a look that suggested that she wanted him to say more on the subject.

‘I’ve always liked hens. The smell of them. Their feathers. And, as you’d understand, I have to eat. But that night, their fear and shrieking made my heart sing. I can’t explain it.’ 

The pheasant’s wings moved a little, but her face showed no particular expression. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ she said. ‘Sometimes animals are guilty of murder and horrific deeds, but if we knew all their circumstances, we would be able to forgive them.’

It was obvious to the fox that the pheasant was a kind and caring bird. But she was also beautiful in a way that was making his mouth water. 

Once upon a time, he had been a good hunter. But he had grown old and weak – the strength of his legs had deserted him. All he had left was his cunning – that was as good as it had ever been.

And he was very, very hungry.