Reynard's Grin

The forest floor was a tapestry of rustling leaves and snapping twigs, each sound a tiny drumbeat in the growing quiet of the evening. I shivered, not from the cooling air, but from a knot of fear tightening in my tiny belly. The trees loomed taller now, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching for the darkening sky. Every shadow seemed to writhe with unseen creatures, and the friendly chirping of birds had been replaced by the hoot of an owl, a sound that sent a fresh wave of prickles down my spine. I missed the warm, familiar scent of my mother, the comforting rumble of her purr, the soft, safe haven of our little burrow. I had chased a butterfly, a flash of iridescent blue, ignoring Mama’s calls, and now, the blue was gone, and so was everything else I knew.

Just as a tear threatened to spill from my wide green eyes, a pair of gleamy eyes, like twin embers, flickered in the deepening gloom. They were low to the ground, and I froze, my fur bristling. A low, rumbling sound, not quite a growl, but something else entirely, slithered through the air. Then, a shape detached itself from the shadows, a creature of sleek, russet fur and a tail that swished like a silken banner. It was a fox. I had heard Mama’s hushed whispers about them, about their cunning ways and their sharp teeth. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“Well, well, what have we here?” a voice purred, smooth as river stones, yet with an undercurrent of something sharp. The fox stepped fully into the faint light filtering through the trees, his grin wide and showing off a row of pointed white teeth. His eyes, I now saw, were a startling amber, and they fixed on me with an unnerving intensity. “A little lost kitten, all alone in the big, wide woods. Are you sure you’re not supposed to be somewhere else, little one?”