The Saker and the Cunning Fennec Fox, As Promised

6 April 2014

1415 hrs

            She is a Saker, your raptor, for I met her once in a dream. 

            Shall I describe her?  She is as tall as your arm is long, elbow to fingertips.

            She is a mottled chestnut with cream highlights; charcoal at the feather-tips.

            Under her wings, tail, and on her breast she has mirrored the negative; cream with chestnut highlights.  Her head and neck are gold and shine like it.  Her intelligent eyes are Tiger’s Eye, her beak the short sharpness of the hawk.  Honey talons, sharp and strong.

            

            She is a strikingly beautiful creature.

            She told me her name, but as it was in Falcon, I did not catch it.

            Her kind roams the desert, ever the hunter.  She patrols a landscape so familiar- she has known it all her life.

            I watched her watch me, wary.  We looked at one another, two scarred animals, and we realized that we had both seen far too much in our lives.  Too much blood.  Too many broken feathers . . .  too much flying fur. . .

            I mentioned a Saker before . . . in another story, and wondered why I chose that raptor, of all things . . .  of all beautiful creatures.

            Then you told me of your raptor, and the <click> of the lock unlocking in my mind was tactile.

            Something moved within my chest . . .  something- uncoiled . . .  and I am moved to write you a story, a fable if you will; a parable from the most reluctant of prophets . . .

            Shall we begin?  Splendid!

The Saker and the Cunning Fennec Fox

      The Saker lifted from her perch, riding higher and higher the thermal that rose toward the Sheltering Sky. 

            Below her lay the desert, stark and hot.  Someone from other lands, first laying their eyes on this landscape, would think it barren . . .  but there is life here.  All one has to do is look for it . . . recognize it . . .

            The Saker sees it all.  Any change in color of the harmattan floor; any change in the texture of the dune, she will inspect it.

            Lizards, scorpions, spiders . . . the adder trying vainly to bury itself in the sand . . .

            In a silent, screaming dive she falls onto their backs, crushing their spines in the strong grip of her razor talons.

            Invasive creatures feel themselves eviscerated and peeled before they realize the only way to stop her is to die. 

            One day, from her perch, she saw something in the distance.

            “Oh ho!” she cheeped, “here comes another interloper.  Better go and see . . .”

            Of course she meant to kill it once she got to it. She was just curious, and liked to put a name to each beast before it was to die.  He stands no chance . . .

            She had barely taken flight when she recognized her quarry.  It was the Cunning Fennec Fox!  They were all over, these foxes, sniffing around, their stinking hairiness polluting all that they touched in the beautiful, helpless Sah’ra . . .

            But this Cunning Fennec Fox was, if possible, even more stupid.  He was approaching without caution . . . and he was far too close to The Coeur.

            The Saker could not allow this.  This would not do.  Not do at all.  She will enjoy this kill.

…

            Any fennec fox worth his salt learns early on in life to recognize the shadow of a Saker as it traverses the harmattan. 

            This particular fennec fox, the Cunning Fennec Fox, though not old, was old enough, having survived this long by keeping still and small as Saker shadows swept across the erg.

            But the Saker was not fooled.  She has seen it all.  Golden eyes focused, chestnut wings folded back, she dived, excited, at the Cunning Fennec Fox.  But . . .  something . . .  what?

            The fox knew he had been spotted.  “This is it,” he said aloud.  “This is how I die . . . too close to the Saker and The Coeur in her charge . . .”

            He closed his eyes and hoped for a quick death he knew was not coming.  Sakers could kill quickly, but he was the Cunning Fennec Fox.  Stigmatized.  Vilified.  Vulpes non grata.

            He was doomed.

            At the last instant, the Saker pulled up from her dive, changing her mind.  Sakers have been known to do that . . .  Change their minds.

            “What are you doing?” she asked herself . . .  “kill it!  Kill it! It is the Cunning Fennec Fox!  The worst of the worst!”

            She landed next to him, anyway.

            The fennec opened one eye, then the other.  He was still alive?  How was that possible?  Or does he not yet realize he is already dead?

            The Saker was staring at him . . .  glaring at him . . .  walking around him on her honey talons.  The crunching sound they made in the sand sickened the fox.  Will that be how his skull will sound when those beautiful talons punch through?

            The Saker circled and the fox spun instinctively, keeping his vulnerable back from her.  He was staring into the coldest, most heartbreakingly beautiful eyes he had ever seen. 

            “I am going to kill you,” said the Saker.

            The fox stood to his full height.  He was larger and heavier than the Saker, but she was by far the superior killer.

            “I know,” the fox said, no longer afraid.  He had eaten many raptor eggs over the years; killed many hatchlings.  Dying by the beak, by the talons . . . there would be justice in such a death.  He did not begrudge her this karma.

            “I suppose I have been waiting a long, long time for this . . .” said the fox.

            “I . . . I have to do it . . .” the Saker said, hesitantly.  She said the next with a bit more resolve: “it is what we Sakers, do . . .” then her inner voice:  what is wrong with you?  Let him watch you eat his heart!

            I know . . .  I know . . .

            “I know,” said the fox.  He was becoming more and more calm.  He realized that he wanted her to kill him.  That it was perhaps to still this pain he carried inside his rib cage.  It did not help that the beautiful Saker had a sweet voice.  Her words, no matter the content, were a lullaby. 

            But something . . . something was keeping her from killing this clever Cunning Fennec Fox.  Pounce!  Strike!

      But she did not.

      She eyed the stinky, furry creature for a moment longer then asked, “What is wrong with you?”

      The fox was confused.  Why were they having a conversation?  Why was he still alive?  Why does she not kill him and put an end to her tortuous beguiling? 

      “What do you mean?” he asked.

      “Something is wrong with you,” the Saker said matter-of-factly.  “Tell me what it is.”  She eyed the fox with suspicion.  Here it comes, she thought, the lies . . .  get ready for his brilliant attempt to manipulate you . . .  

      “Well,” said the fox, “if you must know, I haven’t been feeling quite myself, lately . . .  I think I am sick . . .”

      What just happened?  Did she seriously feel a pang of . . . concern?  Compassion?  For the Cunning Fennec Fox?

      She felt sick, too.  She was not feeling quite herself, either.  Whatever the fox had must be contagious.  He must die.  The fox spoke again, breaking her reverie.

      “Something inside me is broken.  I can’t exactly say where or why, it just is.  Otherwise, I am fine.”

            

            Hmmm.  He plays on my sympathy.  Laughable.  Stupid stupid Cunning Fennec Fox!  He does not yet know I have none . . . 

            Stupid stupid Fennec Fox . . .  he thought.  Now she thinks you seek her sympathy; that you do not yet know she has none.  She suspected a ruse and you just handed it to her on a silver platter.  You set yourself up.

            The Saker continued circling.  The fox continued turning.  But it was she alone who chose the length of the radius.

            “You do know why you must die, do you not?” asked the beautiful raptor.  Why are you having a conversation with the Cunning Fennec Fox?  KILL HIM! Kill the Cunning Fennec Fox!  Before he tries to trick you once more!

            “The Coeur,” he replied.  She was momentarily taken aback at this prompt and correct answer.

            “The Coeur,” she agreed.  The Coeur!  Think of The Coeur!

      “I am!” she snapped. 

The fox’s ears perked momentarily at this.  Great . . . he thought to himself.  She talks to herself . . . 

            The Saker stopped circling, but continued to stare at the Cunning Fennec Fox warily.

            “Get it done and over with,” said the fox.  There!  He said it, and was glad.  Glad that the pain was almost over. 

            But the Saker did not hear him.  She was listening to the voice of another.  The voice was that of her mistress, The Coeur. 

            “Are you sure?” she asked, not realizing she asked aloud.  The fox thought she was asking of his own demand of his death.  He stood, confused, and stared at the Saker.  So lovely, he thought, she has already slain me . . .

            The fox is broken, as the wild stallion is broken. His will is still his will, only now he allows others to influence it.  The wildness is gone, and for better or worse, this is what is left. 

            The Saker finally understood what was wrong with him, this Cunning Fennec Fox.  No longer a hunter, no longer hunting Coeur; The Coeur in her charge might actually be safe from this one after all.

            The beautiful Saker and the Cunning Fennec Fox stood mere inches apart, neither pouncing; neither backing down.

The End?