The Fox Cub Bold (4 page)

The noise of gunfire, though quieter in here, continued unabated. Bold’s greatest fear now was of the dogs. Would they come tracking him? He guessed that a trail of blood led right up to his hideout. No dog could fail to unearth him if once put on his scent. There was nothing he could do but wait. He had no means of defending himself. If the dogs came it would be the end of him, he knew, and the best that could be hoped for then would be a quick death. Bold tried to remain alert but his weak state induced an uncontrollable drowsiness and he drifted into unconsciousness.

When he awoke it was dark. He had no idea how long he had slept but all was peaceful again. No guns, no dogs. The blood around his wound had dried and his fur was caked with it. He tried to raise himself, eager to test the leg, but it had stiffened so much that he could not even bend it. He sank back again, wondering what on earth to do. He was not hungry but his feverishness had caused a raging thirst. He lay a little longer, feeling unutterably dejected and lonely. It was at such a time, he reflected, that one hankered for companionship – of any sort. Now he wished that his brother cub, Friendly, were with him.
He
would have tried to lift his spirits.

Then he scolded himself for his regrets. Was this the correct attitude at the first setback for a brave young fox who had chosen an independent path – who had
yearned
for complete freedom? Of course not. But then, this was more than a setback. He hadn’t reckoned on becoming crippled in his fine new life. But perhaps he wasn’t crippled – it was too early to be sure of that. And anyway, he should count himself lucky to be still alive. But . . . but . . . what was the good of being alive if one was crippled? For a young fox that would be a living death. Yet . . . this was the first true test of his character. He
mustn’t
fail himself. He must be resolute; determined to overcome his difficulties . . . His thoughts ran round and round in his mind until he dozed again.

The next time his eyes opened, it was still dark. Bold’s thirst was now so pressing that he knew that somehow he must move himself from that place to find water. He dragged himself from the midst of the bramble bush, trailing his bad leg. Once in the open part of the wood, he tried again to stand on all four paws. Again the wounded leg collapsed under him. The pain was too great to bear. Bold gritted his teeth and hobbled forward on three legs. He found a puddle in a dip in the ground and lapped at it greedily. For a long time he drank until his tremendous thirst was assuaged. Then he sat down awkwardly, taking care that his weight rested on his good side.

Well, here was a fine situation! An animal who relied on speed and stealth to catch his prey and who now wouldn’t be able to pounce even if he could get close enough to it! There could be no more hunting trips for a bit. Insects, worms and fruit were the best he could hope for. However, at least his eye no longer hurt him, though it did still run.

Oh, he
was
hungry. He cast around a bit, saw nothing, and then he remembered the bramble clump. He eased himself upright and limped back to his hideaway. The bush was loaded with ripe blackberries. Here, at any rate, was some sort of a meal.

Bold was busy garnering the fruit which really required very little effort when he saw a movement among the thorny stems. A dormouse was engaged on the same errand, sitting on its haunches while it delicately nibbled a berry in its front paws. Oblivious of the large animal’s presence, it systematically turned the fruit round with its little claws to get at the best bits, then discarded the remains to search for a fresh one. Bold held himself still. The creature presented a welcome addition to his meal if only he could catch it. He watched the mouse come closer and closer. At last it was within range. Bold lunged forward, snapping his jaws. They closed on thin air. The dormouse jumped in fright onto the ground in front of him, and then scuttled away. Bold limped hopelessly after it. Of course it was too fast for him and ran up the trunk of an elder shrub. Once safely out of reach it sat, quivering, on a stem and looked down at him with its black, bead-like eyes.

‘You’re lucky I’m injured,’ the fox said grudgingly, ‘otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting up there, I can tell you.’

‘If you can’t catch a mouse, you’ll soon starve to death,’ replied the escaped animal.

‘Don’t you be too sure,’ said Bold. ‘I’ll search you out in the daytime when you’re asleep.’

‘You’d never find me,’ chirped the dormouse. ‘I’ll be way out of your reach.’

‘Just you wait till my leg’s mended. Then you won’t be so cocky!’

‘Oh yes, I’ll sit around here until that happens, shall I?’ the dormouse said derisively.

Bold scowled. ‘You’ll be my first mouthful when I’m fit again, I promise you that,’ he snarled. He was furious at being on the defensive before this tiny creature.

But the dormouse continued to look steadfastly at him as if he were of no more account than a piece of dead wood. Bold turned away and had the mortification of having to display his awful limp in all its detail as he went. He had to content himself with settling down again to his meagre meal of blackberries.

A shower of rain in the early morning brought out the worms and snails and Bold was really quite glad of the chance to gobble up a number of them. The cool dampness of the day refreshed him and seemed to soothe the constant nagging pain in his right leg. But with the onset of daylight he crept back to his lair amongst the thorns to nurse his hurts, his misery and his pride.

For at least a week, Bold confined himself to the same small area in the wood. His activities consisted of sleeping, limping a few yards to grub up some insects or slugs, and burying himself under cover at the slightest sounds of human voices or dogs. The weather was cooling rapidly and there was a distinct nip of frost in the air at night. Bold’s leg hurt him less but he knew now that the muscles were damaged irrevocably. He would never again stretch or bend his leg as before. The best he could manage was an accentuated lurch as he moved along while he tried to put as little weight on it as possible. The young fox was beginning to feel very sorry for himself.

The worst of it, to his mind, was the attitude of the other denizens of the wood. Despite the fact that Bold was now its largest inhabitant, the smaller animals had soon realized he posed no threat at all. So he was exposed to the total disregard of even the weakest of them as they hopped or scurried around his feet. Indeed, they snatched up from before his nose the very insects that he had been reduced to collecting.

Soon, even the insects and snails were hard to find as the temperatures steadily dropped. Bold eagerly ate any berries, bulbs or nuts he could find but, for a large animal, they simply were not a sufficient diet. From time to time he discovered scraps of carrion, but these were few and far between and could not be relied upon. He knew that eventually he must leave the wood to search elsewhere.

Autumn had settled in with a succession of bitterly cold nights, when the young fox was forced at last to make a move. By this time, he had developed his habitual lurching limp into a regular method of locomotion which he adopted automatically as he moved around. Although he no longer thought about it, it made pitiful a comparison with his previous vigorous, supple and tireless lope. He never thought now about live prey and the idea of ever tasting game again was long forgotten. His aspirations rose only to discovering enough invertebrate or vegetable life to sustain himself, while the bonus of a fresh piece of carrion was a treat indeed. This was the existence to which he had been reduced; the robust, confident young cub who had wanted to live in ‘the real world’.

But, in spite of it all, Bold never once thought of returning to the protection of the Nature Reserve and the help of his old friends. He had made his choice on leaving the Park. Now there was no going back. He left the wood in the middle of November and at once established a routine of hiding during the day and scavenging for whatever was edible at night. On some occasions, when absolutely nothing could be found, he swallowed mouthfuls of grass, but they usually made him retch.

The scarcity of nourishing food made his already weakened body weaker still. It was as much as he could do to drag himself around and, with little hope of things ever improving for him, Bold began to wonder if it was worth bothering at all. He could never again look forward to the savour of meat, or the thrill of a hunting foray in the crisp, nocturnal air. The effort of lugging his useless leg over a large area in an attempt to find sufficient scraps of food to last until the next night seemed increasingly pointless. So, one night, he just remained in the ditch he used for cover and never stirred at all. Two days and nights passed in the same way. He lay unmoving and uncaring, heedless of the sounds around him. He was quite simply waiting for his end.

On the third day, a warm, sunny, autumn morning revived his flagging spirits and he staggered to his feet. He suddenly thought of the sow badger he had rescued in the coverts and who had pledged to return his good deed. Perhaps she could help him if only he could get to her? He pulled himself out of the ditch, but by now he was so weak that he collapsed in exhaustion with the effort. He cursed himself for not trying to reach her set before when he might have had sufficient strength to do so. He lay panting on the ground until he had recovered a little. Then he tried again. He lurched forward a few metres and collapsed again, his breath coming in hoarse gasps. His poor, wasted body shuddered in the extremity of a final fatigue. He knew he could never make it.

In the air a black bird circled nearby, watching his futile movements. It wheeled to and fro, waiting patiently for the young fox to expire. Finally the fox seemed to lie quite still. The bird coasted down and landed a little distance away. It walked slowly forward.

Bold watched it approach with his one good eye, aware of its intentions. ‘You’ll . . . have to wait . . . a little longer,’ he croaked.

The bird came up to him and examined him critically. Then it uttered a harsh ‘caw’ of surprise. ‘This can’t be the bold young fox lying in the dust!’ it crowed.

Bold opened his weak eye and blinked as he tried to focus properly. ‘So it’s you,’ he muttered. ‘The Carrion Crow of the hawthorn tree.’

‘The same. And what’s happened to you?’

‘I’ve an injured . . . leg. Can’t walk.’

‘So you’re starving to death?’

‘I certainly shall . . . die soon unless . . . help can be brought.’

‘Help? For a fox? Who would bring help?’ the crow said scornfully.

‘One that
I
helped . . . not so long ago.’

‘
You
helped? Whom have
you
helped?’

‘A sow badger . . . caught in a trap.’

The crow rustled its coal-black wings. ‘Well, she doesn’t seem in a hurry to remember,’ it remarked sarcastically.

‘She doesn’t know I need her,’ Bold wailed miserably. ‘If only I . . . could reach her.’

‘Too late for that,’ said the crow. ‘She won’t even know of your death.’

Bold tried to raise himself, but sank back again helplessly. A thought passed through his mind. ‘I need . . . a messenger,’ he gasped.

The crow stared at him in amazement. ‘Preposterous!’ it exclaimed. ‘You haven’t the audacity to think that I – ’

‘I
was
thinking that,’ Bold admitted.

‘Well! You have some strange notions in your head! Carry a message for a fox indeed! You must have come from a strange place with ideas like that. I never heard of such a thing. And from you – who boasted to me you could look after yourself!’

‘So I did . . . until I got shot.’

‘Aha!’ the crow cawed triumphantly. ‘So the humans caught up with you, did they? I warned you about them, but you paid me no heed. You knew better!’

‘I was unlucky. I made a mistake,’ the young fox groaned.

‘Yes, well, you can’t afford mistakes where they’re concerned,’ answered the bird. ‘The way you went around, puffed up with your own cleverness – I’m surprised you weren’t accounted for long ago.’

‘I don’t need a lecture,’ Bold muttered. ‘I’ve learnt . . . my lesson. Will you help me or not?’

‘Why on earth should I?’

‘You were grateful . . . to me once. Remember the lark’s eggs?’

‘Absurd animal! You didn’t even see them . . .’

‘I haven’t got time to argue,’ Bold said. ‘If you won’t help me . . . I shall die. That’s all.
You
can
fly
– how long would it take you?’

The crow shuffled its feet. ‘Where does this badger hang out?’ it asked ungraciously.

‘Not far . . . in the pheasant wood . . . the coverts.’

‘What?! I’m to fly in there under the nose of a gamekeeper? Oh yes, and then present myself as a target for his butcher’s collection, I suppose? I’m to risk all that for
you
? You’re mad, my young friend. I thought as much before.’

‘Then you won’t do it?’

‘Never! What are you to me?’

‘Nothing, I admit. But . . . my death . . . will be on your conscience.’

‘
I’ll
have no conscience!’ the bird exclaimed angrily. ‘Your pride has brought you to this, nothing else.
I
say you deserve it.’