As a nearly full Lady Moon sunk low in the sky, preparing to rouse Lord Sun for the day, Russet and I followed the stream until the forest gave way to a rock-strewn hillside. The stream continued, but my father said we needed to climb directly up the slope. We were exhausted from the trip—rabbits are not made for long travel—and slumped in the shade of the last tree before the exposed slope.
Russet wheezed and shrugged his backpack off, looking for some anisette to help his breathing. I fared little better, forcing my breaths to be even and deep to keep myself aware. Despite that, the thought of seeing Twitch and the memories of our childhood adventures, be they transporting herbs to cure an illness or leading a hawk into a mob of chickadees, kept us going.
I managed a laugh. “We did it. Three nights. With any luck, we’ll have this fixed today and make it back, with Twitch, before we miss the storyteller reunion.”
With a wheeze, Russet pulled a folded leaf out of his bag with his teeth and pawed it open. He licked at the clear sap inside.
“Storytellers from all the nearby warrens. Our friends together.” The thought helped me recover.
Russet managed a few words between gasps for air. “Twitch should be there. We’ll get him.”
“Yes,” I said. “And I couldn’t have enjoyed myself knowing he was in trouble.”
“Same with your father,” Russet offered. “He trusted you to handle it.”
“My father would have convinced a hawk or an owl to carry him here.” I grunted. “He’d already be home.”
Russet shook his head. “Your father is the only rabbit in the warren–No, the only rabbit who wouldn’t die of fright if they did that.”
“He really is crazy; no wonder we make the warren nervous.”
“Nervous? That word I know.” A light cooing voice echoed from somewhere along the tree line. It dropped into a low growl as its owner got closer. “You bad luck?”
Russet and I looked around, ears perked. He spotted her first, a badger slowly making her way along the edge of the forest. She was our size, her striped face and menacing form visible through the sparse grass. She sniffed for grubs in a slow, plodding gait from forest tree to hilly rock and back again. As she made a crooked path toward us, her gaze only casually flicked in our direction.
“Friend.” I slipped into a mustelid language, although with a weasel dialect. Hopefully, it’d be easier to understand than her broken rabbit. “We are certainly bad luck to eat.”
“Spent time with our kind, have you?” she observed. Her lazy search ended only a bound from us. “Tell me, strange ones: are you from Foxvale?”
My ears perked up and forward. “What does a badger care of a rabbit’s home?”
“The foxes who claim that territory declared all rabbits are theirs. Even the dead are not to be touched. Unless they run. No one leaves alive.” She absently clawed at the ground in front of her. “Not that it matters to me; I only eat small game. How would I even kill a rabbit?”
“Forgive me, friend,” I said, and took a hop-step forward, away from Russet. “We seek to enter this warren and drive off the foxes. What can you tell us?”
“Sounds like you’re not from Foxvale, or not known to Foxvale? Traveler-tricksters perhaps?” She laughed and snuck a little closer to me. Her comforting tone broke, and she dug her claws deep into the ground. “Those rotten foxes killed my friend. Why would they care that a raccoon swiped at a rabbit? She was hungry. For that, they tore her apart, left her body as a warning in the woods at the top of the hill. If you have the strength to stop them, I wish you luck.”
There is danger in talking. Familiarity becomes sympathy, and sympathy for something that wants to eat you is a good way to get killed. Still, that danger goes both ways; one cannot eat a friend. I hopped closer. “We will stop them. We’d welcome your help if we speak later.”
“Strange should be avoided. You’re all bad luck. Foxes who care about rabbits. Rabbits who talk like weasels.” She gave a wide, toothy smile as she slowly crept closer.
It was a trick.
Her lunge was quick, but I was ready and jumped over the snap of her jaws. She reared on her hind legs to catch me.
And forgot I wasn’t alone.
Russet had used the conversation to find a Pepperpuff. Throwing those awful things was a trick I was no good at, but he was an expert. The stinging ball of ground dust struck her solidly in her upturned nose and rained down over her face.
We fled up the nearby slope. Perhaps I should have kicked her or tried to stomp on her back when I landed, but it wasn’t needed; she didn’t follow.
“Terrible bad luck!” She coughed, eyes watering, and shouted after us. “You kill each other! I’ll finish off whoever is left!”
The hillside was a long climb up a relentless slope. Lady Moon slipped below the ground as we made our way, inviting a pre-dawn mist that made the grasses and moss slick with dew while hiding sight and scent. Large jagged rocks broke through the slope at odd intervals and created a maze of potential predator dens and dark unknown openings.
Eventually, the sky lightened as morning twilight arrived. The rocks towered over us in places, creating small cliffs we had to go around. The abundance of hiding places would be a comfort if we knew which were safe. As we clambered up over a difficult series of rocks, a stomp let us know we’d been spotted.
The low thump of a large rabbit foot hitting the ground carried through the earth. It wasn’t hard; the watch-rabbit was announcing his presence, not sounding an alarm. Russet sniffed the air and gestured at an outcropping of rock, perhaps three or four bounds up the slope. Narrowing my eyes, I discerned a dark shape hop out from underneath.
Through the distance and the fading mist, the form stood on its hind legs to get a better view of these newcomers, ears pointed forward to hear if anyone else was with us. His ears stayed focused as he turned his head, taking us in with both eyes. After a moment, he hopped toward us.
Russet slumped lightly on a large flat rock, backpack flopped to his side. He wheezed and tried to catch his breath. “I didn’t put my running herb back in my pack.”
“Maybe the badger will save it for when we see her again?” I flicked my ears with a slight chuckle while I rehearsed our story. Omit Twitch and the message, replace with rumors heard from… “If rabbits can’t leave, we must’ve learned about Foxvale from birds. We’re still here for stories, though.”
As the watch member drew within two bounds, a proper shape formed out of the mist. He was a well-built rabbit, a little larger than me. Dark-furred, his form was almost black in the pre-dawn twilight. He stopped a bound away, close enough to be heard, but far enough to leave if we proved to be a threat.
His voice was rough and quivered from long-term stress. “You, ghost and companion, identify yourselves.”
“We are two mavericks. I am Bremen and my adoptive brother is Russet. We’ve come to trade stories with the local storyteller.” It was a gamble, but rabbits without a warren were less of a threat. A familiar oddity that was a useful cover.
“Then you’ve come to the wrong place. Our storyteller was killed a season ago, and the last maverick who was here for stories went missing yesterday.” He hopped closer and sniffed us. “If you know stories, then you know these are cursed lands. There are no stories here.”
“Then we are needed most desperately. I collect tales from many warrens, and the history of a cursed warren should make a powerful cautionary tale.” I’d like to say that the conceit was an act. It was an exaggeration, but regrettably, I thought we could save them all without consequences. That all they needed was hope and the scars of the warren would heal. Yet alienating the watch would not help anyone. “I’m sorry for my callousness. If my experience as a wandering storyteller is not needed, then perhaps my companion’s skill with herbs can earn us a warm burrow for a day or two. Surely trading herbs would be okay, even if it’s a poor substitute for stories.”
The watch-rabbit glared at us and flexed the stubby claws on his front paws. I didn’t budge. He grunted and turned away. “Come on,” he mumbled, kicking some dirt at us as he hopped back to his post. Not the worst reception we could have gotten.
Back under his original rock, he flopped heavily on the grass. “My name is Fig, and once my replacement arrives, I’ll take you to King Oakbud. He can decide if two extra bodies for the foxes is worth the trouble of outsiders.”
“Thank you for this chance, Fig,” I said. “We’ve been traveling for some time; may we graze for a short while?”
Fig didn’t answer; he simply sat up and resumed looking and listening for predators. As the mist faded before the coming dawn, the view down the slope extended almost to the forest at the base, and once Lord Sun rose, that’d likely be visible as well. Russet and I hopped down the slope, within sight, but outside the reach of Fig’s ears.
“Fig seems in a foul mood,” I observed. “Hopefully, sacrificing us to the foxes was a joke.”
Russet started grinding his teeth but caught himself and took a mouthful of thin drying grass. “If the foxes have been here over a season, they’re under a lot of stress.” He wheezed a little from all the exertion. “A maverick who was here for stories. Do you think he was working with Twitch?”
“That’d be my guess. With luck, we can find our brother and figure things out. If we can get it done by tomorrow, we won’t miss any of our friends back home.” I grazed slowly between sentences. “So, do you think Fig’s going to threaten us again when we head back up there?”
“He has to, doesn’t he? I mean, he already said the land was cursed; he has to say we’ll die if we stay.” He chuckled a little. “This will make a good story if we solve it.”
“The Mystery of the Warren Foxes,” I pondered. “A story my father will be proud of.”
After a short graze in the thin grass, we rejoined Fig at his watch. I took a bit of time to examine our host. His fur wasn’t solid, but had flecks of lighter and darker shades, like fig bark. He was taller than I was, and more muscular. There were a number of small scratches on his nose that were in the late stages of healing, like he ran through a thorny briar a little too fast—one of the ones with thorns like claws, maybe a blackberry. His eyes were intense and weary; I guessed he’d been awake for longer than he wanted to be.
“Can you not look at me like that?” Fig grunted in frustration, and ran up and over the rock, checking for his replacement. He ran back down. He sighed, closed his eyes and whispered, “Please, there’s still time. If you run, one of you might make it.”
I laughed, which only got him to glare at me. “Sorry. Go on.”
“Please, I’m trying to save you,” he whimpered.
He made a low growl before his voice went back to gruff and stressed. “Fine! If you want to die, we can make that happen.” He looked me over and reared back to swat me.
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“Fig!” a voice shouted. The new rabbit hopped under the rock. He was smaller, a lithe running build, with medium toned fur, like a well-worn path after a rain. “Fig? Brother? What are you doing?”
“Please Mulberry, I was just trying to scare them off before the foxes got them.” He winced and sulked low to the ground.
“You didn’t tell them we were going to feed them to the foxes? Again?” The new rabbit, Mulberry, gave his brother a nudge with his nose. “That’s how the warren got that horrible nickname.”
“But it’s what will happen if they stay,” Fig objected.
Mulberry sighed and turned to Russet and myself. “He’s right about that. Even if his methods aren’t acceptable. You aren’t safe here. The foxes kill frequently, and they take those who try to help first. It’s like they’ve got ears everywhere.”
“They’ve killed every four days for two seasons,” Fig explained. “Except yesterday, but Herb went missing. I’m sure his body will turn up.”
Mulberry flattened his ears at the thought. “Herb traded, well, herbs and sometimes stories. The foxes kill anyone who tries to leave, so he was trapped here for a while. We don’t know how the foxes know who arrives or leaves, maybe some traitorous fox’s-paw selling out their own warren.” He shuddered. “This helpless anticipation is terrible. We’re not even safe underground.”
“That is why we’re here, I want to understand the truth of these foxes,” I said. “Besides, as travelers, we’re used to sleeping in scrapes and in places that are less than safe. At least let us understand the danger for ourselves.”
“It sounds like your mind's made up.” Mulberry sighed. “Fig, can you introduce them?”
Fig hopped away. He paused after a bound and called back. “Let’s get this over with. Come on.”
Mulberry frowned. “He’s been under a lot of stress. Don’t think too poorly of him. Perhaps we will talk later, white-fur.”
The warren wasn’t far. Fig navigated the rocks of the slope with practiced precision. The many false openings and hidden hollows were their River Leap; outsiders and predators were lost while the local rabbits knew every boulder, every hop, and every shortcut. I picked out a few, a rock wall one could bound off of to get to the top of a nearby boulder, various places where one could leap downhill without falling too far, and one stone that teetered ever so slightly when we had to climb it.
Warrens were the largest source of safety for rabbits, a territory one knew every inch of, all the escape routes and hiding places, filled with familiar faces. It was stable, and to these rabbits, travel was as unthinkable as flying. Once or twice in a generation, a rabbit embraced change and became a maverick. They could be heroes: the tricksters of epic tales, herbalists who searched for rare plants, or those who spread stories and history. They could be villains: selfish rabbits driven from their homes, paws for a predator who found their victims, or the rare anti-social rabbit to whom the warren felt too enclosed. Regardless, they were change, and change was bad. Bad, but mostly tolerated.
The hill leveled off a little, and Fig ducked under a rock that looked like all the others. With only a slight pause to make sure he wasn’t coming back out, we followed. Russet first, with me behind.
About a bound underground, Russet froze. In the dark of the tunnels, I couldn’t make out his form, but my whiskers could feel him shaking.
“Brem,” he whimpered, “there’s blood down here.”
Fig called past him, “We cleaned it up!”
“Hey, Russet has a nose like a wild boar,” I shouted back. “If he says there’s blood, then you missed something.”
“A little residue from the cleanup,” Russet mumbled, still shaking. “Was it recent?”
“A quarter moon ago.” Fig continued down the run and grumbled, “There’s no way you can smell anything.”
The king’s chamber was a large burrow, with a solid, echoing ceiling. It must’ve been dug under one of the rocks in the hill. There was the smell and warmth of rabbits, but also an undercurrent of acrid worry. Fig entered first and caused a strained sigh from one of the occupants.
“Did someone find him?” came a hushed whisper.
“No,” Fig replied, then addressed someone else. “Sir, there’s two new mavericks.”
“Greeting,” a deep resonant voice said, “Come in, newcomers. Let me meet you.”
Despite the darkness, my whiskers felt that the sides of the run opened up into a large chamber. The rock ceiling allowed it to be bigger than usual; we all entered, past Fig and another watch member. The king sat up as we entered; I sensed a thinness of frame, perhaps a worry-sickness from continued fear.
“I am Oakbud, king of what used to be called Rockspring.” He projected a confidence that defied his own illness. “I regret that you have visited in these times, when I cannot speak to your safety inside or outside the warren. I will not order you to leave; those who flee are killed as well.”
I sat on my haunches and flicked my ears. “Thank you, sir. I am Bremen, a wandering storyteller and my companion is Russet, an herbalist. Fig said that you have been without a storyteller for a long time; despite the danger, I wish to stay.”
“You know nothing of the curse,” King Oakbud objected. “Those who bring hope are targeted first. Tell a story here and you will die.”
“Without hope, without stories, rabbits have nothing to chase away the horrors of our lives. It is those horrors that make stories necessary.” I bowed my head. “If it is my time to die, then I will spend what life I have left spreading hope where there is none.”
The king grunted. “Stories have been of little use against the foxes.”
“I understand,” I said. “Yet we are here to help.”
“You sound like my daughter,” the king grumbled. “Our storyteller was one of the first victims of the foxes, before we understood the rules. In response, Cinnamon studied in secret and, at the beginning of Fall, announced she would bring stories back. She spoke of hope and tales and how much she’d learned.” He snorted and his voice cracked. “Four days. She was our head storyteller for four days before she was taken from us. From me.”
“Please, sir,” Fig interrupted, “we never found her body. She could still be alive.”
“No. My daughter would not abandon the warren and she is no fox’s-paw. They killed her.” Oakbud continued, “Herb, the maverick, decided he’d try his hand at a story three days ago... and he’s missing.”
“We’re sorry for your loss, sir,” Russet said, lowering his head as well. “Perhaps we do not understand, but if we have a few days, we could learn during that time and leave before the next attack.”
“Yes,” Fig sneered. “That’s what Herb thought, and when we find his body, you’ll know how that worked out.”
“Fig!” King Oakbud scolded. “They’ve been warned; it is their choice. Besides, it may already be too late; no one leaves the warren. Have Lily show them a burrow they can use.”
“Of course, sir.”
We were ushered out of the chamber and through some tunnels. Fig was done talking to us and we traveled in silence. I thought about the four-day schedule. Maybe it was an exaggeration? Predators don’t worry about such things; they eat when they get hungry.
My thoughts ended when Russet started to shake again. It was short, and he stayed silent; I don’t think Fig noticed. I followed closer, in case he needed help.
The grand chamber we entered was the largest I’d ever encountered. Second largest, if you counted the underground pond of the Blackwood warren. The ceiling was high enough that I couldn’t feel it above me.
Fig called out, “Lily, are you still trying to clean this place?”
“Yes, Fig.”
The acoustics were exquisite. Her voice carried from several bounds away, echoing off of the ceiling and the sides of the chamber. There were pillars that made the sound bounce around them, a little like a forest. It sounded like she was right next to me, a casual chat with the entire room. This was a place for stories; brilliant, amazing stories.
Caught up in the sounds, I didn’t notice Fig hop ahead, but my whiskers felt Russet collapse. I nudged him lightly with my nose and whispered. “Are you okay?”
“Blood and more.” He wheezed and tapped the ground once, a simple code to stop; I’d have to ask him later.
“Lord Sun’s Blight!” Lily’s voice was on the verge of tears. “I thought I finally got it. It feels I’ve been cleaning and burying Bramble forever. It’s not fair.”
She hopped closer and asked Fig, “So, who are these two?”
“More mavericks. Oakbud said to give them a burrow.” He grunted. “Please, cousin, talk some sense into them, if you can.”
“I’ll get them settled.” She sighed. “You get some rest; you sound worse than I do.”
“Not till Herb’s body is found.”
“I understand,” she said and hopped up to Russet and me as Fig headed back to duty.
Even without light, she had a large presence, and not just from the healthy work of digging. Her scent was untouched by the acrid smell of worry. She must have felt it, but it didn’t take hold.
“Hello Lily,” I greeted. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Bremen, wandering storyteller, and please forgive my companion, Russet. He meant no disrespect for your work. For what it’s worth, I can’t smell anything.”
“Yes, you can,” she grumbled. “Everyone can. Even if they’re not aware of it, it creeps in if they spend too much time here. Ever since the attacks...” She swallowed her sadness and shifted to a friendly, hospitable tone. “Let’s save that kind of talk for after you rest. Two burrows... One?”
“We’re brothers; one is fine,” I said. “Do you have anything out of the way? With all the warnings making me nervous, I’d love something with a second exit.”
“There is one. A large kettle with an exit that opens up near the woods at the top of the hill.” She hesitated, then gave a forced nod. “Yes. That would be good. Let me take you there. Does Russet need time to recover?”
Russet whimpered, “There’s something not right in the air. I can see it, hanging in the darkness.” He gave a slow shudder. “I can’t pull away.”
“Are you a seer?” Lily cringed, but caught her response short. She forced herself to nudge him. “Is that a vision?”
“No. Not exactly.” I gulped; it’d been almost a season since Russet had such a strong addiction craving and this wasn’t the place to discuss Seerleaf. “Can you help me get him out of here? If whatever is calling to him is in the chamber, he’ll recover once we get him out into the run.”
Lily was strong. She put her head against his belly and gently shoved him out the exit without me. Whatever had gripped him seemed to let go once we were back in the side-runs, even if it took a bit to fully shake off.
“Sorry,” Russet managed as he sat up. “Lily, it’s not your work that’s bad. There’s something in the chamber, something dark. It’s not a vision, more the echo of a vision. A bad, sinister residue. Bremen, we need to get in there and clean it up.”
“No,” Lily insisted. “How long have you two been traveling? Since sundown?”
“Longer...” I said
“Then you do nothing until you get some time in a burrow.” Any hesitation in her voice was gone. “Like Fig, you’re good to no one if you collapse. We’ve had plenty of rabbits so exhausted they hallucinated, and I’d rather make sure what we’re cleaning is actually there. Regardless, it’s been like that for days; rest first, and we’ll do it properly when you wake.”
There was no use arguing with her. So, she led us through a series of runs that seemed to go around the large inner chamber and climbed higher than the entrance we used to get into the warren.
It was a big burrow, and would have been cozy for three rabbits, but easily accommodated Russet, his herbs, and me. There was also a second, smaller hollow on the other side of the run that smelled of stored herbs recently moved.
“This was actually dug as a work area for a traveling herbalist so he could make herbs underground if needed. If you continue down this run, it’ll climb and make a sharp turn just before you end up near the forest.” Her voice weakened. “If Herb is found—if he’s alive—he’ll want it back.”
“I’m sorry.” I gave her side a light nudge with my nose. “Why does everyone assume he’s dead?”
“Four days.” She explained, “The foxes kill every four days. Inevitable; they strike outside, in the warren, anywhere, but always on the fourth day. The only exception was when Cinnamon went missing, but we’re sure she’s dead; we found her blood. And now Herb is gone, and there’s no body.”
She shuddered a little, but refused to cry.
“I thought not knowing when we’d die was bad,” she continued, “but being sure—the certainty that every four days someone will be killed—is so much worse. You can count them out; one, two, three, four. Every death, every fourth, going back to the start of spring. The warren is so much smaller, so much emptier. And when Cinnamon vanished, we wondered if she’d stopped the deaths, but they started right up again. So, Herb was killed yesterday. We know this, but we want to be sure. We don’t want another set of rumors that someone may have escaped. The foxes have made hope toxic.”
I wanted to comfort her more, but she hadn’t asked; I tried anyway. “Lily, things will be okay. We’ll make them okay.”
“You have no right to say that. Not after so many have died.” She choked on the anger and grief. “There’s no way a fox could have gotten into that main chamber. It’s magic or seers or a punishment by Lord Sun; we’re cursed.”
This wasn’t the adventure I wanted. Heroes always showed up before the worst happened. Well, I couldn’t save the others, but I could save her. I could save the survivors. Even Fig.
“Lily, listen to me. We’re going to help you.” I gave her another nudge with my head. “Even if it’s only two extra attacks you survive.”
She cuffed me with a paw. “Don’t talk like that. It’s bad enough when I do it.”
“Russet and I are here to help.” My voice, well trained to cut through crowds and noise, attempted to reach her past the despair. “We have our tricks; ones your warren hasn’t seen.”