The little fox hit the chain-link fence about half-way up, and his scrambling paws tried to obtain a purchase. He slipped. He fell on one of the dogs below, rolling off its back. There were canine teeth on his hind leg, trying to get a firm grip. He wrenched his leg free without the bone breaking. A second set of jaws went for his abdomen, but he rolled over a dozen times. They snipped like metallic incisors, catching only a few belly hairs.
Gasping for breath, Camio ran again for the fence. This time the two dogs came at him from different directions. He swerved and turned, and they crashed into one another. The fox saw his chance and running full circle, used their backs as a launching pad. He took off from their tangled bodies, gaining extra height. The dogs were furious when they realised they were being used to leap-frog the fox to his escape.
It was a supreme jump, worthy of a springbok antelope, and Camio’s front paws caught on the top of the fence. He hung there, suspended for a moment. He felt weak and drained, and almost fell backwards. Below him, the two dogs were jumping, snarling and snapping at his hindquarters. He could feel their hot breath on his fur.
Having got this far he was determined he would either escape or die in the attempt. He was certainly not going back to that cage to wither away, his brain atrophying in his skull, and all sense of time and energy dissipating into the foul atmosphere of the lunatic asylum.
Employing the last of his reserves and with a tremendous effort he managed to scramble on top of the fence, revealing almost as much agility as a monkey. He fell to the ground the other side, hurting his right forepaw, and the Alsatians hurled themselves at the chain-link fence in fury, their red mouths wide and their eyes blazing hatred. Camio was triumphant.
‘You brainless brutes, you’ve let me get away. Maybe they’ll put you in my cage, to take my place?’ he said, but a weariness descended upon him, which did not allow for further comment on his part. For one thing he realised he was now in a street, with traffic roaring past and people hurrying along the pavements. He took to his paws, limping along the edge of the road, hoping to find a place where there were fewer human beings.
He need not have worried overmuch. City people, especially those using the streets at the time Camio had jumped the fence, are notoriously blind. They have set purposes and walk with glazed eyes and determined tread from one place to the next. They like nothing to interfere with that purpose and even a murder amongst their own kind has them faltering only when they cannot avoid it. Most of them, if they noticed him at all, took him for a stray dog and barely glanced at him. Those who did notice something unusual about him, or even recognised him as a fox, merely paused for a second in their stride, before going on. They were not interested in anything but their destination. A newsvendor pointed to him and barked something, but it was not a sound of alarm, merely of curiosity. The newsvendor had no doubt seen many foxes in and around the city where he worked, since there was quite a colony of the redcoated animals in the vicinity.
Having eaten earlier in the evening, Camio was not interested in the smell that issued from restaurants and cafés during his walk, and contented himself with making his way down to the river that ran through the centre of the city. There he found a place under one of the bridges, where he could rest his injured leg and lick his belly wounds. He was very pleased with himself. Now that he had escaped there was no possibility of going back again. He was out and he would stay out. Had he been a lion, or a cheetah, they would have sent out hit squads to shoot him, or net him, never resting until he was caught. Had he been an eagle, the news broadcasts would be flashing his picture on the screen. Since he was a fox, and not at all dissimilar from several thousand other foxes in the city, they would quietly count his loss as unfortunate and set about getting some other poor creature to take his place in the cage. He was lucky. He was neither rare, nor valuable, nor dangerous to humans. He was just another fox.
Camio was not unused to city life. In his former homeland he had lived on the outskirts of a city, enjoying suburban surroundings. The traffic had not been as fierce as it was here, but he knew enough to stay off the road whenever possible, and that one could live quite well on hamburgers and sausages thrown away by drunks with eyes stronger than their stomachs. He knew that though the city was crammed with people, they were not as dangerous as humans out in the country, because if they did carry guns it was to shoot each other, and not the foxes that robbed their trash cans. They did not ride you down on horseback in the city, or send highly trained packs of dogs to rip your guts out. There were dogs, but most of them were on leads and those that were not could be evaded very easily. The most dangerous thing about the city was the road and its traffic, which indeed accounted for many deaths amongst the short-sighted foxes. You took your chances with cars and trucks, however, and at least they were not malicious. They were not out to get you. If they killed you, it was an accident, and they never came up on the pavement to get you, or jumped a wall, or climbed a fence. They remained on that hard black river.
Camio stayed under the bridge the whole of that night, watching the riverboats slide by in the dark, glistening with bright berries of light. The air stank with the fumes of engines, but at least there was not a jaguar pacing up and down a few feet away, swearing under its breath that it was going to kill every living thing in existence once it got out. At least there was not some poor creature breaking down every five minutes and keeping him awake with pitiful cries for freedom. The air stank but it was a clean stink and could be borne. Camio added to the odours by marking the area under the bridge. He might only be there for a short time, but that was no reason not to define his squat for the benefit of passers-by.
Once, during the night, a lean feral cat came under the bridge (obviously ignoring the fox marks) looking for mice, and Camio snarled at it. There were a few moments when they eyed each other, trying to burn their opponent with sheer power of will, and then the cat pretended it had seen something beyond the bridge. Cats were like that. They would never admit defeat, and certainly Camio had yet to meet a cat which was afraid of him. Cats, despite their size, had quite an array of weapons which they were not slow to use, and they were quick: he had to admire their speed. When you met one you had to face it out, until it went away. If you happened to be sitting near a litter of feline kittens, however, your hide wasn’t worth a damn.
No doubt he would run into a raccoon or coyote next: they were town dwellers too, these days. He had seen more and more of them enter the suburbs before they took him away.
The next morning Camio’s leg felt better. He tested it out by walking along the river bank and back again. The limp was still in evidence but most of the pain had gone. Within a day or so it would be forgotten completely.
Traffic had begun thundering over the bridge in earnest, and humans were clip-clopping in that city hurry way of theirs, going everywhere and nowhere. Camio stayed where he was until midday before venturing out again. The tide had ebbed and the river had retreated a little, so he went down on the mud and chased a seagull, mostly for fun. There were bits of food in the mud, which could be got at with the minimum of fuss, keeping him interested until the evening. People on barges and boats could see him and gestured occasionally, but those on the streets above were at the wrong angle. He enjoyed a day of running around in freedom, getting strength back into his bad leg on the soft mud and generally having a fine time of it. By the time it got dark, he was ready for the streets again. There was a flurry of snow in the air, and though the city was warmer than the country it could still be bitter if you were caught with an empty stomach. He followed his nose to a restaurant and went round the alley at the back where the waste bins were.
Each of the bins had a lid, fastened securely, so he had to wait in the shadows until someone came out. In the meantime, cats and rats slid in and out of the shadows, also intent on finding scraps. They took little notice of him. He might have taken a rat, if one came close enough, but there were easier pickings to be had if he was patient.
At one point someone came out of the back of the restaurant and opened a bin, tossing stuff inside. The lid was thrown back on casually, the human being in a hurry to get back into the kitchens. Camio went forward as soon as it was safe and nosed the lid off. It clattered to the floor and he leapt inside the bin, gobbling down the mess inside. Then he heard a barking and before he could escape, the lid was slammed back on the bin again, and jammed tight. He pushed with his head, but it would not move. He contented himself with eating his fill for a while, but eventually realised he would have to wait until the someone came to put more scraps in the bin, before he could get out.
They came out all right: he heard them. But they went to other bins, leaving his alone. Once, someone tried to open it, but the last person had obviously done a good job, because it would not shift. He was trapped inside until something else happened.
It was a long, tiresome wait. Camio used it to dream of better places, of his lost mate, of new freedoms and exciting times ahead.
Chapter Eight
Camio was awakened by the clatter of bins and the grinding sound of something mechanical. From within the bin the noises were terrifying and for a few seconds he tried to gnaw his way through his metal prison. Then the bin moved and the lid was raised. Camio sprang, from a sitting position, out into the day, narrowly missing a human face. There was a startled bark, and the bin was dropped. He did not wait to see the results of his sudden appearance, but raced away down the alley and over a fence at the end. He could hear yaps and barks behind him as he continued out into another street.
Without thinking, still being spurred on by a certain amount of panic, he walked out into the road. He felt something strike his shoulder with great force and he went spinning, head over foot, into the gutter. His mind whirled with dizziness and when he tried to get to his feet, he fell over again. Around him were the muted barks of humans and eventually he felt someone lifting him bodily. Although the hands were soft and gentle, and exuding a sweet perfume, he tried to bite them. Then he was aware of being placed on a soft surface and shortly afterwards, a sensation of motion.
Gradually, his senses came back to him and he was able to lift his head. He was in a small room with a human being. The human was facing the front, looking through one of the windows that surrounded them. Beyond the window to Camio’s left, the world was racing by in a blur of light and dark. The sensation brought back the giddy feeling, and he lay back again, feeling sick, his head on his paws. The human in front glanced back once or twice and Camio could see the black around the eyes and the red lips. From studying them in his zoo days, he knew this was the female of the species, since the human young were always more attached to them than to the pale-faced ones. He knew that females, providing they were not keepers, were often a soft touch. The females, and very occasionally, the males, sometimes tried to disguise themselves by wearing the coats of other creatures, such as minks. This kind were unpredictable and Camio was glad to see that this human female companion had adopted no such affectation.
Finally, the motion ceased and the female turned right round in its seat to look at him. He snarled into the painted face, which went white with fear. The human opened a door and jumped out, closing it before Camio could follow. For the next few seconds he tore around the inside of his new prison, trying to find a way out, getting snagged on projections on the floor. When that failed, he went to one of the windows and was aware of someone other than the female looking in at him as if he were back in his cage. He recognised the human type, well known to him at the zoo, by the white coat. It was one of those that held you as if they knew what they were doing, and then stuck needles into you, or sprayed you with some foul-smelling thing, or forced hard pellets down your throat: a white torturer!
Got to get out of here! thought Camio, before this one sends me to sleep. They did that when they wanted to take you away somewhere – and he knew where he would be going: back to the zoo.
The white torturer was shaking his head at the female, who was gesturing now, and unbelievably the door was opened and the way left clear for him to escape. He did not run out immediately. He suspected some trap. Then he realised it was now or never and hopped down on to the pavement, to walk away in a dignified manner. No one chased him and when he looked back, the female was waving an arm at him.
‘Weird, weird, creatures,’ he said to himself. ‘First they capture you and carry you off …’ he could see now that his ‘prison’ had been a car ‘… and then they let you go.’ There was no fathoming such behaviour and he did not try. He had long since given up trying to understand human behaviour. They were all unpredictable, fur coats or not.
He walked the length of the street and found an area with a tall boarded fence around it. There was a small gap in the boards, through which he squeezed his pliable body, and he found himself standing on the edge of a great square hole. Inside the hole and around the edge were huge mechanical devices, all lying idle. Not a human in sight. He heaved a sigh of relief. Time to gather his faculties and reassess his situation. He walked down an earth ramp into the hole itself, the bottom of which could not be overlooked by the surrounding houses.
There were puddles down there, one of which he drank from, satisfying an increasingly irritating thirst. Then he put his nose to the wind and scented a fellow fox: a female. Following the scent, he came across the vixen who was lying asleep on a pile of rags. She woke when he nosed her.
‘Hello,’ he said.
She opened one eye, and replied, ‘Hello yourself. What do you want?’
He was taken aback for a moment, expecting a more friendly reply, but then he was a stranger in this place. It was up to him to make the overtures towards friendship. Of course the locals would be suspicious of uninvited foxes. ‘Nothing really – it’s just that I haven’t talked to another fox in a long while.’
‘You’re wasting your time,’ she said in a bored tone. ‘Despite the funny accent, I’m not interested. Wrong time, wrong place.’
He did not know what she meant at first, then realised she must have thought he wanted to mate.
‘Hey, look – I just wanted to talk.’
‘Really?’ she yawned. Camio noticed how ragged her coat was, and that she smelled a little, of unlicked fur. Clearly she did not take care of herself as well as he thought foxes should. ‘And you woke me up for that?’
‘I told you – I’ve been out of circulation. Humans trapped me a long while ago, took me on a long journey, then stuck me in a cage to be gawped at by them and their young. I haven’t contacted another fox for … I don’t know how long. What gives around here? Where are all the coyotes and raccoons? All I’ve seen so far are cats and dogs.’
She was awake now and looking at him strangely. Her bleary eyes took in the details of his appearance.
‘Coy-what? Raccoons? I don’t know what you’re blabbering about. I came in here to get a rest, not go through some sort of interrogation. Go look for your raccoons somewhere else.’
‘I’m not looking for them – I just thought … look, what is this place? Why aren’t there any humans in here?’ He gestured with his nose at their surroundings. Clearly men were working to build something over the great square pit. In which case, where were they?
‘Part-time gerflan,’ she said. ‘You don’t get humans in here all the time. They leave the place empty at nights and every seventh day for some reason. Don’t ask me why, because on the other days the place is crawling with them, but it’s a fact. Every seventh day – empty. This is it. Now can I have some peace?’
‘Gerflan? That’s a new one on me. I’m obviously a long way from home. Are there more places like this? More part-time gerflans?’
‘Lots of them in this part of the city. Places where they put their cars on five days and almost empty on days six and seven …’ she seemed to be enjoying the conversation now, now that it appeared she was teaching a green fox about the ways and wiles of the city. ‘You from the country?’ she asked. ‘You have a strang
e way of talking. I’ve never heard anyone talk like you. And your fur – it’s darker than … you’re not from around here, are you?’
‘Not exactly. As I said, I’m new to these parts.’
‘Not exactly,’ she mimicked his dialect. ‘How can you be inexactly from these parts?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, I know I’m not from here, but I’m not sure quite where I am from – in relation to this city.’
‘Well, don’t get fooled by these holes the humans dig. They’re not always what they seem. There are some which are gerflans for five days of the week and have humans in them on the sixth and seventh. Sounds confusing, eh? You have to be in the know, friend. You see, in holes like this they use big shovels and those machines, but in the five-day gerflans they use tiny shovels, no bigger than their hands, and in those pits they work very slowly, digging it out almost by the mouthful, and use little brushes to blow away the dirt from anything they find in the holes. Here, in places like this,’ she gestured expansively, ‘they just dig as much out as they can and don’t worry about what they find in the holes. Far from being precious, the stuff they find here is just thrown away with the rest of the clay. Confusing, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but interesting. How can you tell the different types of holes apart?’
‘Well, mostly your one-day gerflan is BIG – like this one. But your five-day gerflan can be a lot smaller, and broken up into several different sized pits. Usually, there’s a lot of string and tape about on the second type, though you get some of that around here too. You just have to have a nose for it. You’ll learn – or get a shovel around the backside – one or the other.’
She rose lazily to her feet and went to one of the puddles for a drink, returning to his side a little later. For a while she stared at him, then said, ‘You got a mate?’ He noticed that her mouth and teeth were stained yellow – not a dull shade, but vivid – and he wondered if she had been eating yellow-staining mushrooms, which he knew could sometimes be poisonous. Not always, but they were risky. Out of politeness, he remained silent on the subject. He would ask when he knew her better.
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