Crime & Thriller

I don’t understand why they turned me into a lesson for picture books. I only wanted some grapes. You get hungry, you have to eat, which is what nature intends. On good days, I found mice and rabbits. I used to dream of catching a hen but once I did, I did not like it very much; I lost most of my appetite too. It’s a nice hole I’m hiding in, but they might find me soon. Open season brings out quite a number of beasts. You think about who the real animal here is. I’m getting by with bugs but they don’t taste very nice. Having someone so helpless for dinner, I don’t like it a lot. Humans do it.

The air does not hurt. It feels cool against my coat like the water in the stream a few strides from here, although I cannot wade in it anymore. Still, the air does not suffocate me, unlike the forest I grew up in. Even a bug-eater, mouse-muncher like myself hated it. A fire broke out, so bright I could not tell myself apart from the flames. Twigs and needles gave way under my feet as I tried to find a way out. But the sky wrapped itself in orange; the stars were gone even though I was a long way from the fire. I stubbed my knee against a log in the reddened dark of the night. Whimpering, I longed for the earth to wrap its arms around me.

Instead, a man appeared. He looked as if something had died. I saw myself in his glassy eyes. Tears were streaming down my face; funny how I didn’t notice it. I didn’t make a sound: I didn’t want to frighten him. He didn’t say anything either- that is, until he became aware of the shadows that surrounded us, dark entrails that would swallow us whole. Some forests are like that. He ran away and I was alone again – naturally.

I tried to find the stars again. The mossy road grew dusty, then bumpy, then swampy for a few days, until it turned paved against my paws. There I chanced upon a clump of trees that grew into one another; not wild enough to be a forest but green enough to be called home. They overlooked a narrow stream of water- still, beneath a dragonfly-lit air. On the other end, there stood what looked like a sandcastle under a full-moon sky . Stars peeped from behind clouds – clouds that weren’t made of smoke – and I found myself breathing again. The daybreak was bringing life to that mysterious place, and the dead seemed flushed with a feeling I couldn’t name. I found myself getting sleepy at that thought.

I had barely closed my eyes when I heard a morning cry. It pierced through the fabric of dusk and dusted the remnants of exhaustion off me. Shaken awake, I looked around to see who was calling me. There was no else there. The light was creeping up from behind the sandcastle: it stopped being a sandcastle and turned into a town. The voice came from there. It sounded like a bird. I wondered if he was caged. I spent another sleepless day over this. A week went by: the morning cry was sounded everyday.  I soon realized that most things arose at its call. As days went by and I had heard him enough times to be sure that the caller was free- freer than I could ever be- its song began to lull me to sleep.

More weeks passed by, and I had grown back into my curious self that had found grapes: I began to wander the town’s lanes at night to look for them again. The place was almost as dark as the frightful forest, except for a single light that came from a big house with a cross at the top. Beside the light in the window sat a man who talked to Gaud every night without fail. I never saw this Gaud with him. The man cried quietly in between whispers. At the end of it, he always looked relieved. I didn’t understand any of it but as I listened to him talk to himself a couple of times, I found that Gaud existed everywhere around us, only that he couldn’t be seen. But those who believed in him would inherit a beautiful place with many gardens. Gardens sounded refreshing, whatever they were. I had grown tired of the earth and its forests.

I tried to get close to the Weeping Man- that’s what I called him – even though something tells me that I shouldn’t get close to people, lest they catch me and skin me. I wanted to make sure what he said was true, and I, too, would get to see these Gardens if I believed in Gaud. But every time I thought I was getting close, he saw me or sensed me and ran away. It was a maddening task, I just wanted to learn about this Gaud that he loved so much and believed in, even when Gaud was not there. He might have been crazy, I couldn’t know for sure. But then I thought about the Source of the Morning Cry, and I understood Gaud, and the Weeping Man, a little after all.

One evening, just when the sun was about to set, I saw two children on the outskirts of the town, picking rocks and leaves. I couldn’t make out whether they were two boys, or two girls, or a boy and a girl, but they looked very interesting. One of them was calling the other ‘zorrito’. That, too, was a new word for me. I tried to get close but they sighted me and shouted, “Zorro!”. I became frightened and ran away. I avoided that spot afterwards. They looked nice though, and not the skinning foxes kind of people.

It stayed with me, the word ‘zorrito’. It appeared to me in hushed voices whispered from corners of the world I had not seen. Around that time I met some birds who were traveling south. I asked them if they knew what it meant.

The first bird I saw was a shrike. I asked her if she knew what zorrito meant. She looked at me for a second and then flew away.

The second bird I saw was a swallow. I asked her if she knew what zorrito meant. She looked at me for a second but before she could fly away, I grabbed her and put her in my mouth. I hid inside the hollow of a tree as her friends looked for her. After they gave up and left, I threw her up and wailed.

As I wept, I heard hooting. I peeked out of my hole and saw an owl sitting at the branch of the tree. I asked him if he was traveling away too.

‘Owls are okay with wherever they are, hoot-hoot.’

He looked old, like the toil of time had got lost somewhere in his feathers. I thought he must know what ‘zorrito’ meant.

‘Zorrito? That’s Spanish, I think. It means fox, hoot-hoot.’

‘What’s Spanish?’

‘It is a type of tongue, hoot-hoot.’

There is more than one tongue?’

‘There are more tongues than you can count. Both spoken and otherwise, hoot-hoot.’

It was getting late; I asked him if he was going to sleep. He looked at me funny.

‘Owls don’t sleep at night, hoot-hoot.’

‘Oh? I don’t sleep either. At night, I mean.’

‘Of course you don’t. You’re a fox: foxes don’t sleep at night. You’re quite silly, fox., What is your name?’

‘What’s a ‘name’?”

‘It’s something that your parents give you so others can know what to call you, hoot-hoot.’

‘I don’t have parents nor anyone to call me.’

‘You can name yourself too. I call myself Hooty. You know, because I hoot a lot. Hoot-hoot!’

‘I think I’ve been called Zorro once. Is that an okay name?’

‘It’s a wonderful name, Zorro.’

.~.

Hooty and I talked all night that night. He told me about his family whom he had lost during an eclipse, how they had been separated, and that he never found his witch mother, his titan brother and his human-witch sister. He said that most of all he missed his witch best friend who wore glasses and knew a great deal of things. I had no idea what he was talking about, but he looked so sad that I did not want to interrupt. In return, I told him about the Forest Man, the Weeping Man, and the Two Children Who Called Me Zorro.

‘Oh, I haven’t talked to anyone in so long I forgot I could talk this much. And now I’m tired. I didn’t even know I could get tired. Do you think the rooster’s running late today, hoot-hoot?’

‘What’s a rooster?’

`It is a bird. Opposite of hen. You must know about hens, hoot-hoot?’

‘No, not yet. But I think I will know what a hen is once I see it.”

‘Well, I’ll tell you. A rooster is much more beautiful, with green and red feathers. Not prettier than peacocks but certainly less annoying, and has a great singing voice too. I’m sure you’ve heard him sing.’

‘No, I’m not sure I have.’

‘You know! The bird who calls in the morning when the sun rises; that is a rooster.’

I spent the rest of the day in a trance. Hooty went to sleep as soon as the call sounded. I slipped away and followed it for the first time. It came from a brick-red house, almost as red as me, under the shadow of a walnut tree. There was a small hen under it. I knew it was a hen as soon as I saw her, just like I had thought I would. I didn’t want her to run away so I slowly crept towards her.

‘Hello, do you know where the Rooster is?’

The hen’s eyes bulged.  She didn’t speak.

‘I really want to see him. Can you ask him to come outside?’

Her eyes teared up. I realized my paw was on her throat.

‘Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t mean that. Really, I am not here to hurt you. Can you please tell me where the Rooster is?’ 

She gave out a cry. but I didn’t understand what she was saying. Hooty said about there being a lot of languages. It didn’t make any sense because I understood Hooty fine; I understood the Rooster without even knowing what he was.

‘I promise I’m not wild. I- I even have a name! It’s Zorro…Can you please tell the Rooster that? Does he have a name too? Can you tell me what it is?’

~.

It gets blurry after that. All I remember is that I did not see the Rooster. He still sings but now with a note of lament. Or maybe my days or the fear of getting caught is getting to me. It is crampy here: hours morph into each other and you lose focus.  Hooty visits sometimes. I like his company, but most days when the earth is warm, I want nothing except for it to cradle me and take me to the Gardens the Weeping Man talked about. I’d like not to end up as someone’s fur coat. Please do not turn me into a fur coat. Hooty might join me too, being ancient and all: but I hope he finds his family first. I would like to see my Rooster there too someday and hold his wing in my paw. Perhaps where nature doesn’t govern us, we will talk in words we both understand.

Afterword:

‘Zorro’ has been inspired by the song ‘Tomcat Disposables’ by Will Wood. If the story were have an epigraph, it would be the following line from the

chorus:

‘Do I belong in right or wrong? Nature, I guess.’

There are a lot of allusions within the story:

●                   Aesop’s fable of ‘The Fox and the Grapes’.

●                   Forest Man is Hozier in ‘In the Woods Somewhere’.

●                   Weeping Man loosely mirrors the priest from BBC’s Fleabag and his fear of foxes.

●                   Hooty is the name of a character in Disney’s The Owl House but aside from references to the show, Hooty in ‘Zorro’ and Disney’s Hooty are different.

There is foreshadowing in the first paragraph towards the incident with the hen. Embodying Hemingway, the writer has repeated certain phrases throughout the story: they have also tried to narrate the events following the example of The Little Prince. There are a few shifts in narration in the first and the last paragraphs.

‘Zorro’ is intended to be a queer allegory, exploring themes of loneliness, spirituality and “laws” of nature: the reader can add to this their own interpretations.

Zorro, the fox, bears no semblance to the writer or anyone they know. Similarity to any real life person is purely coincidental.

Thank you for reading. Hope you liked it!