SWIMMING IN THE GHOST RIVER:VII

by A. A. Attanasio

Seven

Spirit Fox

Now it’s night. The moon runs like a dog among the clouds. You are lost.

How did you get here? Stony horizons vexed with thorn trees veer in every direction. 

What do you remember? Wraiths of birds and phantom herds flowing through each other, their pain drained to silence in the world’s dark estrangement.

What are you going to do? The way back to the Ghost River is forgotten as dreaming is.

“Hey! I can get you there.” 

Stenciled in neon fire, the Spirit Fox comes bounding. Psychedelic paisleys whorl behind! She pulls up short at your side, sparks spitting from whiskers and ear-points. Her famous bushy tail with its lightning tip whisks brilliantly in the dark. And she smiles. 

Yes, her smile exposes acetylene-sharp teeth, which should be warning enough. But you’re lost. In biblical darkness. And this burning bushy tail with smiling snout and tapered eyes of dreamy emerald offers help.

“Come on! Let’s go!”

The lustrous vixen sprints away. She lights a path deep as a summer lane velvet with fox-gloves. You follow. The drum song of her trotting paws paces your heart. 

Soon, you are exhausted. Under the pink bone of the moon, you squat to catch your breath. 


Oh, look! Your breath has run off with a kick, a startled chicken! 

The Spirit Fox turns and pounces. In a blur, the sly spirit shakes your breath free of you. 

Breathless, you watch the Spirit Fox swell on the energy she stole from your life. She drinks space, bulging bigger. Her tawny fur strains like tight trousers until – with a whooping shout! – she jumps out of her skin! 

Fur flies everywhere! And where the Spirit Fox had ballooned, now struts a bird with flamboyant plumage. 

“Look at me!” An alchemist’s fantasy spreads iridescent black wings sheened with gold. Her slow pirouette displays breast feathers shiny as pearl under a lush red ruff, silver beak, and caviar-dot eyes. 

“Foxes are boring! Freedom is a bird!” With a wag of her snow-bright tail, she lofts into the night and calls back with wicked glee: “The Ghost River is in the other direction, silly! Can’t miss it!”

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for Part VIII of

Swimming in the Ghost River

by A. A. Attanasio