asakiyume | The McKinnock Hill Fox

There was this place where the sidewalk pressed right against the flank of McKinnock Hill. Walking that section of sidewalk, you’d have ferns dropping moisture on your shoulders. It was a narrow sidewalk: you couldn’t walk on it and hold your left arm out straight. Too much McKinnock Hill in the way. But if you bent your arm, you could press your hand into the hill’s thick moss.

You could also kiss a bare patch of stone. That was the kind of thing we’d do when we walked home from school as kids: “Kiss that spot there … Gross! You just kissed McKinnock Hill! You’re going to marry McKinnock Hill!”

There were animals on McKinnock Hill. Mainly squirrels and chipmunks were what we saw, but sometimes there’d be roadkill—possums or the occasional raccoon. So we knew those lived up there too.

And foxes, too. A place like McKinnock Hill has to have foxes.

At some point we heard a story: the foxes of McKinnock Hill could turn themselves into kids. A McKinnock Hill fox would look just like a normal kid, so the story went, except for their hands. Their hands stayed fox paws. “So they always wear mittens. If you meet a kid and they won’t take off their mittens, they’re a McKinnock Hill fox.”

We accepted this. We didn’t wonder about what the fox kids did in summer, when it would be ridiculous to wear mittens. If you’d asked us, maybe we would have reasoned that the fox kids only came round to play in winter.

Not that any ever did. No: that happened when we were in high school. Felix, a new kid, a theater-and-photography-type kid, always wore black leather gloves. Like he had robot hands, maybe. Or fox paws.

“Do you think he knows the story? Do you think he’s trying to make us think he’s a McKinnock Hill fox?” Lu asked.

“How could he know it? He only moved here last month,” Nat said.

We looked over to where he was sitting, gesticulating and making faces as he talked to a circle of admirers. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

But the way he captured hearts was by listening. Sure, he could make you laugh with his stories, but he’d pay unswerving attention when it was your turn to speak, always asking the right question at the right moment. You felt like he really got you. It was enchanting, in the original sense of the word. A beautiful spell.

Felix kept his gloves on as winter gave way to spring and spring warmed toward summer. Everyone was disapproving and scoldy when I tried to bring the matter up.

“Jeez, Britta, are you seriously still wondering about that? If he’s keeping them on, he’s got his reasons. He’d tell us if he wanted to share. Let a person have their privacy, how about?”

Sure, fine. But I bet deep down they were still curious too.

One day it was just me and Felix walking home. We were talking about gastropods, specifically our favorite sea slugs, and Felix had just asked Did I know that there were snails that were adapted to live in deserts? We were at that part of the sidewalk where it’s cheek to cheek with McKinnock Hill. As usual, the hill was exhaling moisture. Perfect for plain old garden snails—and slugs. I spied a slug leaving a silvery trail on a dandelion leaf. And the question popped out of my mouth.

“Hey Felix. Why do you wear gloves all the time?”

He grinned. “I thought you knew.”

I could feel my cheeks getting hot. Felix is a good listener and all, but he isn’t above teasing, if he thinks something’s tease-worthy. Was the story of the McKinnock Hill foxes tease-worthy?

After a moment, he said, “Want me to show you?”

I nodded.

He unbuttoned the black leather gloves and slid them off. Two perfect fox paws, black fur and white tips right by the claws.

In the time that I was speechless, that slug on the dandelion moved on to another leaf. There were so many things I could have asked or said, but the question that came to my lips was,

“Why don’t your paws change to hands? And what about your feet?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. They work like hands in the gloves. And I mean, they’re all feet, right? For a fox. The ones in my shoes are paws, too.”

Then I managed the big question.

“Why’d you do it?”

"You guys always looked like you were having so much fun. I wanted to play too. And”—his expression changed a little—“I liked how you kissed McKinnock Hill.”

I got some kind of a feeling at that.

“Everybody, or just me?”

He lifted an eyebrow, and I put a hand on either side of him, deep into that soft green McKinnock Hill moss, and pressed my lips slowly and firmly against his.

“Yeah,” he said, while we were still nose to nose. “Like that.”

“Let me guess: now you’re going to disappear and we’re never going to see you again,” I said.

He laughed. “Nah, I’m sticking around for a while more. So long as you don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Okay, but I’m not the only one who knows the story of the McKinnock Hill foxes.”

He ignored that.

“I’m serious: don’t tell anyone, okay? That’s the rule.”

“Okay, I got it. No worries.”

But I do have worries, because in stories, when there’s a rule, it always gets broken. I’ve kept Felix’s secret, but look at me, writing this here. Does this count as breaking the rule? If I crumple it up or burn it, will everything be all right, or is it too late?

I have turned this little story into a PDF with the foxes in the header ;-) If you would like a copy--if you would like a copy to send to your millions of friends so that my flash-fiction reputation spreads like a tsunami worldwide!--you can message me here or send me an email at forrestfm (at) gmail dot com, and I will email it to you.

Threaded | Flat

That's lovely!

“So they always wear mittens. If you meet a kid and they won’t take off their mittens, they’re a McKinnock Hill fox.”

Of course I want a copy; I love this.