The Hazelford Warren had many rabbits who told stories, especially in the late fall. Predators always came out that season; perhaps fattening up for winter, perhaps gathering for some sinister purpose, perhaps meeting friends. The speculation of their intentions was a common pastime, even when I was a kit. Those stories kept the fear outside of the warren. Those stories were my family’s specialty.
In the safety of dusk, rabbits settled into a small clearing, anticipating a story. In the audience, off to one side, I absently licked a minor cut on my foreleg clean, a consequence of leading a fox away from a mother and kit. Any other injured rabbit would make them nervous, but I was Bremen, son of Blackfeather, a trickster albino just like his father. The warren learned long ago that ignoring my family’s strange behavior made their lives simpler.
An athletic rabbit climbed onto a flat, wide rock. She had a strong digger’s build that adapted well to her position as captain of the watch. She gave a light stamp with her hind-leg. When everyone was quiet, she began her tale.
She spoke of her day, and the dangers she experienced. She embellished them for the kits, born that spring and about to see their first winter, but even some of the older rabbits lent her an ear. I listened and attempted to find friends I knew in her stories.
A false grunt, a break in the captain’s voice, startled me. She continued her tale of confrontation. “The snake was four rabbits long, maybe more, as thick as both my paws and coiled, ready to strike. Even the fall wind stopped, afraid of his big fangs and, uh, huge tail.” She waved her forepaws in front of her, trying to demonstrate something related to its size.
I hid a wince. She was definitely trying too hard.
A young rabbit in the back shouted, “If it was so big, how come no one else saw it?”
She let the question pass unanswered in the cool breeze. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is what you have to do here. When a snake coils, it’s too quick to run from. You gotta pounce it or dodge. Bat its head with a paw if it moves and make sure the fangs don’t get you. This one was battle-scarred, blind in its left-eye from a fight with a weasel or a really strong rabbit. Maybe it took down an owl.”
My ears flattened against my head. There was only one snake I knew who was blind in one eye. He was barely as long as a single rabbit and entirely harmless. Poor Lutin.
The captain noticed my distress. “See? Bremen understands how scary such a snake is. When it lunged, I swatted its head into the ground and bit its tail hard enough to drive it away.”
“Him,” I grumbled. There are times when it’s good that my voice carries, that moment wasn’t one of them.
She paused her story. Deliberately she leaned forward, ears pointed at me, nose flaring. “What was that, ghost?”
Albino rabbits aren’t common. My white fur had been a source of insults and jabs my entire life. I had almost learned to ignore them. Almost.
“I didn’t hear you,” she insisted. “What did you say?”
I grunted. “Him! You bit his tail and drove him off. The snake is a ‘he’, not an ‘it’.”
The crowd parted in anticipation; some lowered themselves to the ground, a few kits ducked behind a patch of dry milkweed. They expected a fight, and I wanted to give it to them, for Lutin, for someone who couldn’t defend themselves. Yet, I hesitated; my father had taught me a better way.
Absently, I groomed my foreleg to diffuse the tension. One deep breath and I got my voice composed. “I met a snake with one eye before. He was smaller though, barely a paw in width. He had herbs to trade, because he was a garter snake. Not poisonous and not hungry. If you drove him off, then we cannot trade with him.” I let myself grunt in frustration. “We have enough enemies without making more.”
Captain Pine shook her head and flopped down on the rock. “The kits can’t tell snakes apart. We can’t have them attempting to talk to a rattlesnake if they meet one.”
She had a point, but my heart was still beating in my ears, calling for justice. Clearly, something dramatic was called for. I moved closer and hopped onto the rock with her. “Of course, if he had been poisonous, even a snake that size could harm a kit. Like little lost Primrose this summer. And if the kits aren’t sure, they need to be safe and get a watch member.”
The captain had faced prejudice for her gender. As open-minded as Hazelford was—it let my dad and uncle stay, after all—there were still bucks who believed that a doe couldn’t be a fighter or a trickster. They might have been in the minority, but they were always the vocal ones. Despite that, Pine clawed her way into a position of leadership and respect. She wasn’t my enemy; perhaps offering support with her story would be better than being upset.
I sat up and addressed the crowd and her. “You can tell it again in the morning. Tonight, let’s hear about the time you drove off a bobcat. I never get tired of hearing about that trick.”
She sat up and groomed her paws, but turned one ear my way.
“There was a time you dealt with a bobcat; a big cat, larger than four rabbits, who was hunting the scrublands north of the warren.” I leaned forward and crouched off the front of the rock. “One that thought we would be an easy meal. He’d made his way from the forest further downstream and was quite hungry.”
My gaze flitted from kit to kit as they came out of hiding; one tried to dig a small scrape to escape my gaze, another ducked back in the milkweed. My claws scraped against the rock. “The bobcat was stalking, as cats do. With long claws, hidden until the fatal strike and teeth larger than a kit’s paw. He hid in the long grass. But the Captain was too clever.” I flicked an ear at Pine.
“Well...” She turned to the reforming crowd. “Lord Twilight, prince of luck and tricksters, has graced us with a seer. No one knows where a seer’s visions come from. When they arrive, they grab the poor soul and make them see terrible violence and sometimes death. Some seers have a little control, but most don’t. Before we began, Acorn had a vision of the bobcat; she saw it leaping after me, clear as you see me now. Worried, she sought out, well, a still-inexperienced watch-rabbit. But she wanted to help, so I put aside my mistrust and listened to her. We used details from what she saw to make a plan to drive the bobcat away and protect the warren.”
She swiveled her ears forward, and the kits leaned in. “Trusting something dangerous is best left to adults. Acorn isn’t dangerous, but that doesn’t mean all seers are good. Just like one snake being harmless doesn’t mean all snakes are safe.” She grunted. “Or crows!”
“That’s fair,” I responded with a dip of my head. To the crowd I added, “My uncle is safe, but he’s adopted. More than one crow has tried to pluck my eyes out.”
Pine gave me a nod, and continued, “Acorn led me north of the warren, and we found a clearing that was the same as her vision. At least, she thought it was. So, we looked around, and we spotted the cat.” Tentatively, she sat up and looked around, prompting some of the kits to do the same. Cautiously, her eyes and ears found me, head tilted to get a better look.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“I wasn’t looking behind me and wasn’t expecting prey to sneak up on me.” I flopped my ears and gave a yawn. Turning my back to the crowd, I wiggled my tail.
She took a slight nip of the fur and I hopped up with a youch. “How dare you, a mere rabbit, bite the tail of one such as I!”
There was a round of giggles from the audience.
“And we ran, but the cat followed me.” Captain Pine made some fake bounding motions. “And who can tell me where I headed?”
“River Leap!” a few kits shouted. “The rock in the middle of the river.”
I shifted behind Pine and gave chase, swiping lightly at her back. She leapt off the rock into the middle of the crowd, hesitated a moment, and jumped again. She led a chorus of kits, “One bound to the rock and one bound to the bank!”
My claws scraped on the rock as I lurched forward and came to a halt, leaning over the edge. “Good thing I stopped. I almost fell in! As a predator, I always focus on what’s ahead of me when I give chase.”
Captain Pine sprinted around the crowd, and came up from behind. “And Acorn rammed him! Always watch your tail.” She bumped my back, firm but careful.
“Oh noooooo!” I wailed, slipped off the rock and made a splash noise as I landed. The kits cheered; I let the pretend current wash me to the side. As Captain Pine finished the story, I snuck away. She had the attention of the crowd and could handle the rest. I’m fairly certain she flicked her ears to acknowledge me before she began her next tale.
Waiting at the edge of the crowd was Russet, a small rabbit wearing a woven grass sack on his back. A head shorter than me, his fur was a dark, warm tone. His nose twitched as he fidgeted, grinding his teeth a little heavier than was healthy. As I approached, he calmed and led me away from listening ears. “For a moment, I thought you were going to toss her in the river.”
“Yeah, well, my father would be disappointed if I did. After all, everyone is a friend, no matter how different or how they’ve wronged you,” I grumbled. “It’s a different world than the one she grew up in.”
“And I know how much you hate that story, since what happened.”
“Maybe we should teach her some others; invite her into our world?”
“Do you think your father would be okay with that?” Russet flattened his ears. “He really doesn’t like watch-rabbits.”
“I don’t know if my word would be enough. She’s putting her heart into teaching with stories. Surely, he could see that. And she knows the importance of keeping fear under control.”
We recited the storyteller motto together, “Though friends may die by fang and claw, the warren lives on through hope and stories.”
I shrugged and changed the subject. “I assume Lutin made it to the briar-circle? How bad was the bite?”
“He’s well enough to trade. I got some good runner’s herb and something to add to my poultice, which I used on his wound.” Russet let out a small giggle. “It’s a bruise, although he keeps insisting it’s more. I don’t want to dismiss him, but he sounds more like a rabbit who got bit by a snake.”
“At least you made sure he was okay,” I said. “Have you heard from Twitch? There’s only a quarter moon before the Storyteller’s Gathering, and I haven’t seen him in almost two seasons. Not since he went looking for his own adventure. I miss the three of us being together.”
“Maybe...” Russet took a quick look around to make sure no other rabbits were listening. “There was a sparrow asking for you. Well, he was asking for a white rabbit, but he didn’t want to land in the warren. He’s north of the stream, and I told him I’d get you and head back. Had to bribe him with some berries to get him to stay; hopefully he hasn’t flown off.”
I resisted the urge to hop for joy. “Maybe. But my father’s also a white rabbit. Let’s be sure.”
We headed through the warren, to the field by the river with hazel trees that gave Hazelford its name. Even this close to winter, the land was still bountiful, and many rabbits grazed in the dwindling light. Sprinkled among them, the watch was ever vigilant. Eyes, ears and noses open for threats, such as predatory birds or tricky storytellers with white fur.
The river was a good two bounds across near the warren, forming a natural barrier that helped keep us safe. The single, well-used rock in the middle provided a convenient method of escape when needed, and a useful shortcut when not. On the other side, set into a forest, a brush-filled glade came up to the waterline and made getting to the rock a blind leap from that direction.
Once in those brambles, I kept my ears open and Russet sniffed for any trace of predator-scents. As we broke into the surrounding woods, the underbrush quickly opened up under the canopy of majestic trees. We’d passed through the area many times and knew where every nest and lair was. It was as safe as a forest could be and it was there that the sparrow flapped down.
Many birds can be a threat, but he was a quarter my size. The songbird had light toned feathers with streaks of dark under his chest and darker wings. He spoke in a mixed-avian pidgin, “You are white rabbit, yes?”
I casually switched to a crow-dialect; it was a little backwood, but should be understandable. “Yes. My name is Bremen. Can I help you?”
“Not me. Foxvale, a northern warren.” He took a breath and switched into the same dialect. “Foxvale needs stories. Sorry to miss the meeting. See you soon, brother.”
As he finished, he switched into a more formal songbird tongue, “I recited before the first payment. He said you’d have berries for me? A second payment of many berries to answer your questions.”
Russet spoke first. “Yes, I can offer you berries. I have three with me and I already gave you two to wait until I got the white rabbit.” He shrugged off his woven backpack and rummaged through it.
The sparrow chirped. “Of course. Maybe you have seeds to give me strength for the trip south?”
Russet grunted, but continued looking through his bag.
“So, my friend,” I interrupted, “where is Foxvale?”
“Just fly toward the unmoving stars, between the–”
“How would we walk there?”
“Foxvale is near the mountain where this river starts. Just follow the water until the rocky hills and you’re sure to find it. He said it was a quarter-moon of travel.”
Russet pulled some seeds and berries from his bag, dropping them on the ground. The bird pecked the seeds until they broke open, chirping lightly.
The message was from Twitch, who was Russet’s and my brother by blood if not birth. Still, I needed more information. “Why is the warren called Foxvale?”
The sparrow pecked and swallowed the center of the seeds before eying the berries. “Everyone calls it Foxvale. They’ve had foxes in the warren for a few seasons.”
“In the warren?” Maybe I misheard, maybe there was something lost in the dialect he used. “The foxes live there?”
“With them. Underground; in the burrows.” The sparrow ruffled his feathers, then scratched a line into the ground. “They only eat rabbits and those who take rabbits. It’s not good to speak of them; it is a rare good silence.”
“But...” My ears twitched. “Are the foxes part of the warren?”
“No one knows. No one has seen them. They’re a bad song. A thing you see in flight, but is not there when you land.” He waved me off with a wing and went back to the berries.
Russet and I huddled a short distance away. He said, “Sounds like they need help. But, it’s only a quarter moon until the grand Storyteller’s Gathering. We’ll miss it if we go and everyone will be here, except Twitch.”
“Maybe we can trick someone into carrying us. Get there in a day or two, trick the foxes into leaving, and be back in time for the meeting.” I gave an excited hop. “With Twitch.”
“I’ll get the running herbs together.” Russet tried hard not to get excited. “It’ll be worth it if we can be together again.”
“I’ll let my father know.” I flattened my ears. “Maybe he’ll know more about the warren; he might have been there before. Let’s ask him and go.”
I’m ashamed to admit, the thought of helping Foxvale was almost secondary. This would be a true adventure with a lost childhood friend that would outdo any from my father’s youth. I’d have a story of my own, not just tricking an average predator, but something exceptional, outside the shadow of my family. Perhaps only other storytellers would know, but it was a good thought.
I knew nothing of real adventure, nor the terrible cost it hungered for.