Tales of a Wicked Fox

October nights are always silver in rain clouds and mountain mist. It carries the bitter death of suns and the edges of swords flicking in starlight. Slow drags of incense and steam curl from stone teapots while paper lanterns and paper dolls decorate the windowsills. They sound like teeth cracking open a forbidden elixir and silver skirts trailing against whitened grass, like the sigh of the moon creaking under the weight of a mortal-made-divine woman as her hands reach down for her lover. October nights are the thin smoke of burnt offerings, silver tears of children, and tales spun from the mouths of wild foxes.

They say she was wicked, a red-eyed starborn fox who knows not the ways of humans but curious about them nonetheless. She guarded no forest, no mountain. Heaven made Earth her kingdom, and she ruled the night. There was no emperor who could tame her. Proud tigers would sneer their black lips, and she would slice their backs with a new set of stripes.

It was a sweet-smelling October night. The sky was smudged with smoke leftover from firecrackers and the echoes of erhu howling at the moon. Lanterns lit up the streets in a fiery red, lion costumes tangling legs, laughs leaking out of the head in a drunken state. Only one house was unlit by festivities, no candles, no incense, only the smell of gunpowder and frugality was strong.

A fox peered inside the open window. A dusty black stared back at her, spiderwebs as lattices and unwashed pottery stacked by the sink. A large water vat sat next to the window with an unused broom balancing against it. There were no charms warding off evil spirits, no barriers between spirit and man, someone strange. Out of sheer curiosity and only curiosity (for she was not kind and didn’t heed to the orders of men) because festivals aren’t meant to be spent alone, and because of boredom, she took tentative steps through the window and transformed.

A woman somersaulted into the place of a fox, dare scholars say they’re the same, with a moonlight-colored hanfu and red-painted eyelids. She stretched out her fingertips, long and manicured, unfamiliar with stepping with two instead of four, unfamiliar with bared skin, unfamiliar with the taste of something that isn’t blood. Outside, the firecrackers sputtered out more colors and sounded like crackling candy wrappers. She grabbed the broom by the water vat and started sweeping. As long as she wasn’t caught, she could care for an empty home, for curiosity reasons--because there were no good luck charms, no money trees, no charms warding off evil spirits. Homes needed to be cleaned for good luck to pour in.

She left once she heard a shuffle at the door and disappeared as a fox shrouded in mountain mist.

She cleaned the human’s house every night, when the sun dipped under the jagged skyline, the lanterns lit the streets and mothers ushered their children into their homes in fear of evil spirits, the number four, and the color of silver. The house was split into two rooms, a small bedroom and dining room. Furs of rabbits and small animals guarded the shelves like their deaths could be served as warding charms. The open window faced the forest she came from, and the window in the bedroom faced the burnt streets. She cleaned for seven moons, seven nights of a rabbit-chase against time, the human, and herself.

When she came on the eighth day, weak sunlight still streaked through the window. The pottery was still stacked by the sink with rice sticking to the bottom, the water vat refilled from her care the day before. Her ears were so used to being met with silence, so used to being alone, so unused to danger. She nosed her way through the window, jumped into the dining room, human feet touching the floor--

And there was something sharp shooting through her:

A barrel glinting silver, hidden behind a water vat. An explosion of metal and gunpowder splattered against her chest. Manmade pain.

Her mouth was dripping, familiar with blood.

Familiar with wickedness.

“You caught me. What are you going to do now?” Red trickled down her chin. She glared with whatever malice human eyes can muster with demon-red eyes. The floor she so carefully mopped up every day was pooling red sticky puddles. So this is pain.

The man’s gun clattered to the floor. He was half-shadowed by the water vat, gunpowder and frugality clinging to him.

“Marry me,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

He edged towards the window, towards her, still-wrapped red charm warm in his palm, charm against evil spirits and placed it on the window. They both knew she couldn’t escape, couldn’t touch the charm, couldn’t transform back. The pine of the forest dulled, the taste of seared copper bubbling in the back of her throat. The mountain mist felt too cold. Pain rattled against her skull. He pressed his lips to hers, too cold, unmoving, curious, wicked.

They say they lived together in harmony, in golden sunrises and red sunsets, with their silver peals of laughter, with silver coins filling up the once-empty jar, pretty girl trapped in house with a broom in one hand and a daughter in the other, a songbird trapped in a rusty cage. No spirits in, no spirits out. She could no longer smell the rain clouds or the crested moon veiled by incense and ancient curses. She learned the ways of the hunters, of guns and marriage, the pain of childbirth, how to skin rabbits--tameable with a leash looped around her neck.

Her daughter, with a paper doll crushed in her hands, asked the man how her parents met.

A nervous slide of eyes:

“We met at the Mid-Autumn festival when your mother was a courtier.” Lies slipped through his teeth like something hidden in water. “They say she was a fox before that, living in the woods. She ate rabbits and unsuspecting little girls.”

The daughter’s eyes filled with tears, her small fists pummeling into her father’s shoulders.

“How could you say that? My mother is not a fox! Prove it!” she wailed, hands now clutching the hem of her mother’s dress.

He stood and walked towards the window, a smile plastered on his face and removed the hanging charm. The daughter sat, unimpressed, until the hem of her mother’s dress turned into fur. Crimson lips turned into a foam-dripping, rabid smile filled with teeth. She was trembling. Her daughter’s eyes widened. She’s crying, snot running down her round face. She is of fox blood too; she must smell the silver rain clouds and feel the weight of the moon as well. One day, they may meet again. But for now, the taste of death and blood still lingered from a hunt years ago, so the fox chased the scent of pine and mountain mist, the earth creaking under the weight of a wicked fox reborn.