A Fox Called Sorrow Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1: A Storm of Omens

  CHAPTER 2: Healing the Sick

  CHAPTER 3: Out of the Wilderness

  CHAPTER 4: The Beaked House

  CHAPTER 5: A Convocation of Owls

  CHAPTER 6: The Sett Owl Speaks

  CHAPTER 7: A Quest into Darkness

  CHAPTER 8: The Black Dog

  CHAPTER 9: A Painful Parting

  CHAPTER 10: The Troll King’s Domain

  CHAPTER 11: Underth!

  CHAPTER 12: A Bottle of Sickness

  CHAPTER 13: Little Fur Alone

  CHAPTER 14: The Secrets of Sorrow

  CHAPTER 15: A Gift for the Troll King

  CHAPTER 16: A Surprising Rescue

  CHAPTER 17: The End of Sorrow

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Preview for A Mystery of Wolves

  Other Yearling Books You Will Enjoy

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  A Storm of Omens

  It was autumn, and as sometimes happens in that season of heavy golden light and falling leaves, a powerful storm began to brew itself. It sucked up secrets and hidden purposes like leaves, flinging them into the air as omens.

  Humans, blind and deaf to all but their own desires, could not easily read such signs. But as the storm gathered, children tossed in their beds and threw up an arm as if to ward off a blow. Hidden in the shadows, greeps, once humans whose strange, dreadful appetites had dimmed their minds and twisted their bodies, had a blurred awareness that something bad was coming. But they felt only an ugly pleasure at the thought that someone might suffer.

  Wild creatures living within the city, and even some of the tame beasts dwelling with humans, sensed the warnings that churned in the air. But most of the animals responded with no more than a surge of instinct. Squirrels rushed to check their secret hoards, and rabbits examined the roofs of their burrows; ants rushed hither and thither; birds fortified their nests and turned their eggs anxiously.

  A dog chained in a bare stone yard sensed the rage and hatred in the omens. Half insane from thirst and mistreatment, she began pulling ferociously at her bonds, ignoring the chafing of the collar fastened about her neck.

  In the city zoo, a lion roared and would not be soothed no matter how much bloody meat its keeper gave it, and two panthers wove about each other in a tapestry of apprehension. In another enclosure, a frenzy of monkeys mimicked the violence they scented in the wind.

  A half-starved fox limped toward the outskirts of the sprawling gray city over which the storm spread its black and ragged wings. He stopped to sniff at the wind and to read the warnings and signals. But his anguish was so great that if the world were to end he would not have minded. He limped on.

  Those few creatures left over from a previous age could read the omens clearly, for they had been born when all honored the wind, knowing it for a great herald. But such omens required brooding upon to be properly understood.

  A pixie who lived at the edge of the inland city over which the storm churned paused in the grooming of his beloved tree to stare at the clouds. He was troubled by the knowledge that by morning the russet glory of its leaves would be torn away. But the roots of the tree ran deep and there would be new leaves in the spring. He touched the leaves tenderly, turning his back on the clouds and their omens.

  A boil of trolls at the mouth of a pipe leaking poisonous filth saw a lurid slash of light along the underside of the bruised-looking clouds and fell to hissing and cackling in delight.

  Only one being sought to unravel the signs. Not a creature from a past age of the world, but a crippled, raggedy owl who dwelt in a church that the animals thought of as a beaked house. This was no ordinary church. Raised at the very cusp of the last age, it was a place where humans had brought hope for hundreds of years. So powerful was the accumulation of their longing that a still and potent magic had pooled there. The owl, who had retreated, wounded, to this church many years before, was saturated in it.

  The storm rattled the shingles on the steeple and ancient beams began to strain and warp. The owl tilted her head and listened. She watched the stained-glass windows flash with daggers of storm light. Gradually the Sett Owl understood. The vital earth spirit, which seeks to unite all living things just as a mother strives for peace among her children, will soon face a terrible danger. The owl was not surprised to discover that the Troll King lay behind the threat. But try as she might, she could not discover what form the threat would take.

  The magic within the Sett Owl allowed her to commune with the earth spirit. The owl learned more of the darkness that loomed, but little of what might be done to prevent it. Yet the earth spirit offered the fragile and unimaginably sweet scent of hope, not only for the world, or for this city where trees once sang, but for the owl herself, too.

  The Sett Owl was very old, even among her long-lived kind. She desired to pass from life and join the world’s dream, but the still magic of the church would not permit it. The owl had to wait until one came who would take her place.

  There was a loud crack of thunder. The earth magic that flowed about the old church surged. The Sett Owl had a clear, bright vision of the elf troll Little Fur. Small as a three-year-old human, with pointed ears and brambling red hair, the gentle healer dwelt in a secret wilderness within the city that was hidden from human eyes by seven magical trees. Little Fur had once gone on a perilous quest to protect those ancient trees, whom she called the Old Ones.

  At first the Sett Owl thought the vision meant that Little Fur must again sally forth. Then she realized that the elf troll was not the answer to the danger foretold by the storm, but the reason for the Troll King’s plotting. The owl considered summoning the healer, but what could she say to her? It was not as if Little Fur had done anything wrong. Indeed, the opposite was true.

  The Sett Owl did not question the earth spirit further because, where the elf troll was concerned, the earth spirit made no predictions. Perhaps it was because her parents had been a troll and an elf. But whatever the reason, Little Fur possessed a quality that was truly strange: she was random.

  The Sett Owl gave a wheezy sigh and wished that these matters might have waited for her successor, but it was not to be. Well, the earth spirit had urged her to seek knowledge. If she could amass enough small pieces of information, perhaps she would get a clearer picture of what the Troll King planned.

  Not far away, the storm front approached the hidden wilderness, but Little Fur did not notice the darkening sky, let alone the omens and signs driven before the storm. She was absorbed in trying to remove a grass seed from the badly infected paw of a raccoon. Two rabbits, a mouse, three birds and a hedgehog awaited her attention, and her stomach was rumbling with hunger, for she had eaten nothing since the morning.

  Little Fur was concentrating so hard that she did not notice the rain beginning to fall, or its strange bitter taste. She had managed to work the grass seed out and was gently rubbing in salve to treat the infection when the drops of rain began to fall with a force that scattered her remaining patients. Little Fur scooped up the raccoon and retreated under the branches of the nearest tree. In the spring, the tree’s thick foliage would have provided good cover, but it was autumn and its few remaining leaves were being harvested by the rising wind and slashing rain.

  If alone, Little Fur would have hurried through the rain to the hill that rose behind her, pushed through the crown of brambles at the top and dashed down the steep winding track into the valley where the Old Ones grew. Beneath their dense, magical canopy, she would be safe from any storm. But the raccoon was too heavy to carry far and she could not leave her. Little Fur knew, as any true healer d
oes, that mending the flesh is only half the task of healing a wound or sickness. Carrying the raccoon carefully, she picked her way between the trees, staying under cover as best she could until she reached a hollow tree. She climbed into its belly and began to croon a song to the raccoon’s spirit.

  Gazing out at the sky as she sang, Little Fur noticed black thunderheads rising like phantom mountains above the trees. Lightning lashed across the sky, illuminating the distant human high houses. The shining towers showed no sign of bending before the storm; only things that were alive had the sense to bow before such a force. The high houses looked impervious, whereas all about her the trees bent and creaked and lashed their branches. Yet Little Fur knew it would be the city that suffered the greatest damage. Many of the small animals and birds that lived there would be hurt and would come to the wilderness seeking her healing skills.

  There would be injuries within the wilderness as well. Nothing serious, Little Fur hoped, for she did not like to imagine that life and death might flutter under her hands; it was too great a responsibility. Such matters ought to be brought only before noble creatures like the Old Ones or the Sett Owl. An unease crept into her bones, but she dismissed it, telling herself she must rest and prepare for the days to come.

  Little Fur’s thoughts drifted back to the high houses. She wondered if some human was also staring out at the storm, and whether it was fearful or unafraid. Once Little Fur could not have imagined that creatures as malevolent and violent as humans could fear anything. But she had learned through her first, perilous journey into the city—and the many forays she had made afterward to plant seeds—that humans were as different from one another as the creatures of any other species.

  Humans were dangerous, though. To remind herself of that, Little Fur had only to think of the animals she had healed whose injuries had been caused by humans. But she now knew that rather than being essentially evil, humans harmed and destroyed from fear or confusion, or even by accident, as much as from a love of violence. She had smelled their cruelty and hatred and anger, but she also had caught the delicious scent of human curiosity and heard the astonishing beauty and power of human song. What she felt now about humans was a mixture of inquisitiveness and wariness.

  Little Fur had decided that humans were the way they were because they did not feel the flow of the earth magic, which joined all living things. Every time she planted a new seed, it would summon the earth spirit; Little Fur thought that if she could just plant enough seeds, the earth spirit would flow so strongly through the city that humans could not help but feel it. Then they would cease to trollishly loathe and despoil nature.

  Little Fur knew that in a way, she was trying to heal humankind. The ambition made her want to laugh. She was so small and the city so large. Yet each time she set out into the streets, she could feel that her plantings were making a difference. The earth magic was flowing more strongly there than when she had first stepped out of the wilderness.

  Little Fur curled around the sleeping raccoon and drowsed. Occasionally she opened her eyes to see the curtain of rain sway aside, offering a glimpse of the high houses. Sometimes the gleaming surfaces reflected the jagged lightning, making it look as if they had cracked like sheets of ice.

  It was not until near morning that Little Fur slept properly. Shreds of storm omens followed her into sleep. She dreamed she was crawling through cramped, dank tunnels under the earth. She could hear the shriek of wind and the low, urgent growl of thunder, but it came from below rather than above, as if a great storm churned at the heart of the world. Little Fur was trying to find her way to it so that she could plant a seed that would heal its hurt. Then she realized she had lost her seed pouch. . . .

  Little Fur woke to a dazzle of light and the elated song of a thrush bubbling out into the new day.

  CHAPTER 2

  Healing the Sick

  Little Fur roused herself and found that the raccoon had become tangled in her tunic. She climbed out of the tree and set the raccoon down, accepting her thanks with a smile.

  Looking around, she saw that the storm had wreaked havoc, but nothing permanent. If a tree had fallen down in the wilderness, she would have known it, for the earth spirit always carried such tidings. The worst damage was to a tree that had been split by a bolt of lightning, but it would live, as long as Little Fur kept the black rot from entering its heart. Other than that, the storm had mostly hastened the stripping of the trees. Even so, a surprising number of ruddy leaves clung gamely to their branches.

  A screeched greeting interrupted Little Fur’s observations. She smiled up at Crow, who was one of her best friends.

  “Craaak! You not coming to Old Ones last night,” Crow scolded, landing on a low branch so that he could glare at her properly. “They are full of angriness.”

  Little Fur laughed, coming to stroke his gleaming black feathers. “What a bad bird you are to tell such lies. Trees do not feel anger.”

  “They missing you,” he amended sullenly.

  “But we were not truly apart, for the flow of earth magic connected us,” Little Fur said.

  Crow gave a rather rude caw and launched himself into the air in the direction of the hill meadow where Little Fur treated most of her patients. Little Fur smiled, knowing he would announce her arrival. Crow loved heralding her, and fortunately, he had ceased to recount their adventures. His stories had become so outrageously exaggerated that even the most gullible birds and rabbits ended up refusing to believe “the Legend of Little Fur,” as he called it.

  As Little Fur pushed through the wet grass and foliage, she noted the trees that would need attention. Arriving at the hill meadow, she saw that there were no patients and no Crow. No doubt he had flown off when he had found no audience. She washed her face in the silvery ribbon of a stream that sprang out of the side of the hill and ran across the meadow. Then she sat and dangled her feet over the edge, where the stream tumbled into a frothing fall of water.

  “Excuse me, Healer, there is something you should see.” It was Tillet, her most consistent and useful helper.

  Little Fur smiled at the hare and rose. She did not ask where they were going, because the hare did not like to speak except when it was absolutely necessary. This quality made her a competent and restful assistant, unlike Little Fur’s other helpers, the chattering squirrels and rabbits. Little Fur wondered why Tillet chose to help her, but if asked, the rangy hare would undoubtedly have asked Little Fur why she healed. And what was the answer? Little Fur could heal and so she did. It was as simple as that.

  Tillet stopped by a weed-choked crevice in a tumble of rocks in the place where the meadow sprang out from the hill. After one swift glance back, the hare bounded into it. Upon entering, Little Fur found that the cranny widened into an open space. Tillet was standing beside a flowering plant that usually bloomed only in the spring, and whose seeds were wonderful at lowering fevers. If it could be kept alive this late every year, Little Fur need never run short again! She harvested the seeds and then planted a few nearby, singing a song to the earth spirit to ask that it welcome and nurture them.

  Little Fur and Tillet had just emerged from the crevice when a lively little squirrel came chittering up to announce that Little Fur’s first patient had arrived. They followed his bobbing tail back to the hill meadow, where a fat, depressed-looking frog sat on a flat stone by the side of the stream.

  “What is the matter?” Little Fur asked.

  The frog explained hoarsely that he had accidentally swallowed a bee. He opened his mouth and Little Fur grimaced at his swollen throat. Luckily, it was not blocking the windpipe, or the poor frog would have suffocated! She pulled out the stinger, then made a tisane from stream water and herbs in a wooden bowl, sweetening it with berry juice. She set the bowl down in front of the frog, and he gulped the tisane down mournfully before thanking her and hopping away.

  Her next patient was a beautiful white rabbit, who had escaped from her human owner during the storm.


  “I did come like a bird from an egg,” the rabbit cried, wild-eyed and amazed by her own courage. As she had escaped, the rabbit had gashed herself on a jagged bit of metal. Little Fur could smell a slight scent of infection about the wound, but luckily, the rabbit had come to her quickly.

  Little Fur carefully cleaned the cut as the rabbit told her breathlessly how a cow had advised her to seek out an enchanted wilderness within the city, where a beautiful fairy would heal her wounds. “You do not look much like a fairy,” the rabbit added doubtfully.

  Little Fur hid a smile. “That is because I am not a fairy.” She ground a few potent seeds to fight the infection and mixed them with a honey salve, marveling at the funny ideas creatures had about her.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” the white rabbit whispered when Little Fur had finished.

  She turned her attention to her next patient, a mole with a rash. Then came a big rude hawk, who cursed Little Fur’s clumsiness as she applied salve to her torn wing. When Little Fur was done, the hawk flew away without a word of thanks, and Little Fur heard Tillet sigh in vexation.

  “I do not heal in order that my patients will admire me or bow to me,” Little Fur told the hare. “Hawks are highly strung, and the tear in her wing was very deep, yet she did not cry out once.”

  “A little gratitude never hurt,” Tillet said tartly.

  Next came a big tomcat, whose baleful glare made all the rabbits vanish and upset a number of other small creatures waiting to be healed. Only Tillet showed no fear, and Little Fur wondered at her constancy. Little Fur had treated the tom before; he lived in one of the human houses close to the wilderness. The tom’s eye was scratched, and examining it, Little Fur sighed.

  “Why do cats fight so much?” she asked.

  “It is a matter of territory,” he said mildly. Despite his squashed face and glaring eyes, he was not a bad-tempered cat.