The Year Turn Fablist

The lord rode through the wood. His green eyes greedily gathering the sum of his ownership. ‘This house?’ he barked.  ‘Yours and rent paid’ his man replied.  They rode on counting and detailing houses, farmsteads, huts and cotts. Until they came to one secluded behind a hedge of yew. From their lofty mounts, they could see the garden behind the hedge. Roses climbed around and against the wall and gourds sat plump amid a litter of golden leaves. Herbs grew stickly in rows and hung dry in the eaves. The smoke billowing from the small chimney stack was scented sweet. ‘Who is my tenant here?’ the lord demanded. ‘Not one for your concern,’ his man replied for the cottage was outside of the lord’s estate.

At this the lord felt angry, feeling a limit to his reach and power and he became greedy to own the pleasant building. Swinging from his saddle, he strode through the gate. Heading directly for the cottage, his boots trampled and stamped, unmaking the beds and breaking the trailing stems. He hammered his fist upon the wooden door. A young woman opened the door and stood in the shadow of the lord. She squinted through the autumn light and cupped her hand over her brow. She looked into his face, her eyes flashing at him, as green as his. Flicking her hair, blue black and tied to hang over her shoulder, the young woman asked smoothly why she had been disturbed.

‘Tell your master I will buy his house,’ the lord commanded the young woman. She laughed a loud, proud bark of incredulity and insolence. Her eyes glittering and her mouth opening slightly to reveal her rows of small white teeth, she said, ‘ There is no master here and I will not sell my home.’  Well the lord was riled in fury at her defiance. He offered more money but yet again her braid shook. Becoming stubborn in his conceit, he offered more and more money and each time she shook her dark hair and her eyes grew wide and her smile more taunting. Eventually the lord, quivering with anger, turned a heel and left.

That evening the village was full  of noise and merriment as lanterns were lit, masked guisers sang and danced and a huge bonfire blazed on the hill. The air was filled with the smell of burning wood, cackling wetly as it spat out the old year. In the morning, as the scent of smoke lingered in the mist, the villagers were roused rudely from their ale soaked heads and beds. The cry went up and the bell tolled -‘The cottage has burned, the rafters are blackened, the timbers are charred and the young woman is nowhere to be found!’ For during the previous evening’s festivities, the cottage at edge of the bounds had been set ablaze and in the noise of the night, no one had noticed.

The lord called his huntsmen, ‘We will still hunt’ he declared brazenly, not needing to ask the reason for their distraction and unease. The horses were saddled and the dogs brought. The party departed in a rush of ignoble entitlement; the lord impervious to the village in that mourning.  

They rode unspeaking, unsure. Then a flash. A brush. A fox. But not the expected autumnal red, gold and white instead bold, blue black, lithe and audacious, teasing – come and catch me if you can. Hard they rode, and fast. But achy and tired from the night’s revelries, the huntsmen became unable to keep the relentless pace. They soon slowed and stopped, whistling for the dogs to circle back with them. But the lord, he rode harder and faster. Flint clashing against hooves, splashing through streams and ditches, saliva, sweat, stony expression in his own dogged pursuit. Until rounding a corner, he pulled hard at his reins for there, in the clearing, was the fox. Still and staring. Green eyes glittering. And in the hazy half light, he saw her flick her blue black tail and stand right up on her hind legs and look into his face. And then she was gone.

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Story by Amelia Gledhill based on a Dartmoor folktale​

Original illustration © Jenny Harris, 2022 @jennyharrisart

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‘The Black Brush Fox’ © K. Amelia Gledhill, 2022

The right of Amelia Gledhill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without the prior permission in writing of the author.

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