The fox who encountered fallen Saul
A tall tale: The voice from the sky was filled with that long-gone warmth, caress, and care
The fox would never be the same again. Fear and cunning would return, but the comfort of his mother, the joy of his brother and sister, and the order and care of his father would lie beneath everything from now on. He now knew that other voice—the voice of the kind man, who spoke in the radiant light.
Chilled air rolled over the Palestinian landscape, whipping the thickening fog that hung in the brush. Resting clouds lay in the crevices, hiding everything from sight, including the rare tree. Few noises pierce thick, low-hanging clouds trapped in the bushy hillsides, so travelers and creatures step wary, afraid of hungry predators waiting in the fog. Fear makes no noise, either, except for the resulting and bewildering pounding of its inhabitant’s heartbeat.
The cold breeze increased, dragging the blinding whisps through the branches, still eerie and silent. The blurry air dulled even the sound of a brown fox’s steady breath as he listened for a prey’s beating heart.
Foggy white air masked both ground and growth. Hazed brightness from a rising sun felt worse than darkness. At least the dark star-bright blindness allowed the tiniest of footstep sounds, the necessary announcements of prey or predator. The dark places faded, though, stealing the fox’s hunting advantage. The fox feared little at night, amped instead with artful cunning. He hid in the day and skulked in the night.
Fog lit by a faraway morning sun revealed nothing new, no noises or flickers of fur or feet. It concealed them. The fox couldn’t smell or see in any direction. The deadly muttering of fear, more common to his daytime demeanor, returned, overtaking his nighttime strength. Hunting had not been successful.
He’d been up all night. Two nights in a row, and now a third wasted day of treacherous worry was about to begin. Weary and starved, his waiting patience had reached its limit. He could wander no more, and so he had to lie down where he stood. To rest, even as the dangerous day of light would begin.
Familiarity, he noticed, as he pawed the spot where he lay, but it was not good news. His paws touched an orderly patch of earth. He had stopped at the edge of a human path, wandered from the secure environs of bushland hills.
Packed and flattened rocks, filled with sand and spent salt, marked where humans traveled. The cold breeze lifted the fog inches off the earth. He sniffed, worried, rightly that he’d landed exhausted where he should not be. Alarmed, but still, the fox could see the feet of people, appearing as the fog rose. Their movements were no longer silent, no longer muffled in the thickness of wet air. People were everywhere along the path, bustling with foreign sounds. He froze, melting into the dried grass at the edge of the path, spent from wasted hunting, unable to sprint or even scoot away, frightened that he’d be discovered.
A whirl of wind and light came from the sky and erased the fog. The fox now saw everyone there. In horror, they stopped walking. He gripped the stones beneath his paws, pushing his head into them. Incredibly, they had not stopped for him. They stared at an oncoming spear of brightness, above everyone. They did not yet see him.
The sunlight struck him as odd. A missile of the glowing sun in the midst of them had dropped from the sky. The light landed just in front of him. Still, no one saw the fox. A dozen or more people practically surrounded him. They stood at the edges of the path, to his right and left. The fox held back the oncoming shiver of fear which would give him away, just as he had been taught, but no bush hid him. He scrunched into a mound of fur, bumped by a heel or draped by a cloth, but unrecognized.
Not one spied him. The harsh light turned all heads away from him and into the sky. Thinking that now he could scoot away, a man fell to the ground. A hand splayed inches from the fox, shocking him into a frozen state. The fox stopped blinking, squinting to hide any eyeball reflections that he was there. The man then partially lifted himself into a sitting position with that one hand behind him, just in front of the fox. The animal remained camouflaged in the grays of the stone path and its mottled edge of dirt and dried grass. The fallen man and everyone else continued to stare into the sky.
The voice of fear inside his head harshly warned the fox to scamper away, but he could not move. Any motion would reveal his presence.
In the man’s fall, a bag had fallen from his shoulder. It splashed open. Water flowed out, running smoothly over the rocks and directly to the snout of the fox. The fox smelled goat, the skin of the bag. Uncontrollable in a weakened state, the fox drank, slowly moving his tongue over the cool fluid. The water tasted pure, with just a hint of oil from the goatskin. While the light from above held everyone’s attention, the much-needed moisture revived him. The water was fortunate, surprising, and welcome even while he was frightened beyond measure.
Then a pouch made from fur flipped open. It had also fallen with the man, attached to his hip. From it rolled a train of dried grapes and berries, also aimed directly toward the snout of the fox. He dared not run now. Seldom had berries in the wild ever had time to dry. Birds, insects, and small animals ate everything that lay on the ground or clung to a branch. The rare chance to taste the compact flavor of a dried berry returned from his memories. He heartily chewed on them. The water still flowed, carrying more berries to his tongue. The flavors dizzied him.
Another smell. Beneath the wafts of human odors and animal skin, he traced the aroma from the fur bag. It was fox fur. The fox was transported back in time to his mother’s body, his snout pushed under her when he was a pup. He fed on her, as he fed from this fox’s fur now. Lost in his dreamy memory, he saw that his tongue now reached and licked the salty fingers of the man. Shocked that the man did not move, the fox looked up and saw the man staring through the fingers of his other hand, attempting to shade the light coming from the sky. It had brightened even more. Nothing could distract him or the others around him.
Ready now to run, nourished, surprisingly calmed by the distraction of the people who stared into the sky, the fox yet again was held fast. This time by a voice. His ears turned into the sound, and he knew that voice. All went quiet as the voice spoke. No humans moved. Neither did the fox.
The fallen man then spoke. The familiar voice came again from the light. Yes, the fox was sure. The voice from the light matched that of the man whom the fox followed in the desert for all those weeks. That wandering man would whistle and speak to him in soothing calls. He would leave him morsels to eat, and pour out puddles of water for the fox to drink. The odd-acting fellow sang and spoke to the sky, but never seemed to eat. Then he met up with another man, and the fox ran away. That other man smelled and sounded of fear, dread, and terror.
The water, the berries, the smell of fox fur, and the light’s voice overwhelmed the fox. That voice reminded him of the safety of his mother, cuddling him, cooing into his ear, blowing into his eyes. Wrapped up in her, he would suck on her body, along with his brother and sister. He had not felt that comfort since he was a pup — that shared hugging and rolling around in the grass with his siblings. He remembered his father’s eyes watching him, too, nudging him to move along, licking at his head. Security, safety, being held close to each other, attentive eyes, and nurturing his every need.
The voice from the sky was full of that long-gone warmth and caress and care. The fox pondered all that was taking place on the edge of this human path where he ate and drank, and against all logic, felt safe. Since leaving his young world, he lived only with the voices of fear and cunning. Fear in the light, hiding from sight. Cunning in the night, hunting and stalking for food.
Now, calmed by the light, amidst the worst of his enemies, he heard soft sounds and watched humans in awe.
The fox sat up, just as the man stood, with the help of others. The fox turned away and walked into the brush without a holler or ruckus from anyone about his presence. Foxes don’t know about magic, or love, or divine revelation. This experience, however, brought him as close as a fox could ever be to all of them.
The voice of comfort stayed with him, present still with each pad of his paws on the grass, dust, and gravel as he wandered back into the wild. The chilled wind flew by again at a rise on a hill not far from the human path. The voice of fear came with it. The fox lowered its head, keeping it below the height of the bush, and naturally hid again.
And yet, he’d heard the other voice. Enough to trust it more. He hoped it would come back. He sucked on the berry flavors still fresh in his teeth. He would never be the same again. Fear and cunning would return, but the comfort of his mother, the joy of his brother and sister, and the order and care of his father would lie beneath everything from now on. He now knew that other voice—the voice of the kind man, who spoke in the radiant light.