What Dreams May Come by Kinto Mythostian "Wake up." The small vixen stirs in her sleep. "Come on, it's time to get up," crouching beside her I gently shake her shoulder. Reluctantly she sits up on her pallet on the floor, the thin blanket falling away. She rubs the crusted sleep from her large brown eyes and looks up at me. "Good morning. Did you sleep well?" The vixen shrugs noncommittally. "Did anyone...?" she asks in a small voice. I shake my head. Together our eyes stray to the row of tally marks on the wall. Twenty-one. Three weeks. The number of mornings she has asked me the same question; the number of mornings I have had to give her the same answer. Neither of us says anything. She picks halfheartedly at a scab on her knee. She maintains her glum silence as she eats her breakfast: a small bowl of porridge, half a sausage, and - a special treat - a handful of strawberries that, while not fresh by any definition, haven't gone moldy yet either. The little vixen has put on weight since arriving here; I'm sure my colleague has been sneaking her extra rations. He's not doing it out of charity. I help her get dressed, my fingers fumbling with the tiny buttons. The local Mothers of Benevolence chapter sends us donated clothes. They couldn't spare a cent to help her when she was out on the streets, but once in my custody suddenly she's worth their pity. A threadbare short-sleeve white blouse with a wide Claudine collar, a frayed dark red skirt, and a vest of that unique color and texture that navy blue wool acquires after 20 years of wear; it is not hard to imagine them having been handed down from one sibling to another in a large family until finally ending up in a secondhand shop's reject pile. Finally, a set of dark gray knit tights that were probably black when they were new, nearly worn through in the soles and with an inexpertly darned tear on the right shin. I can say 'inexpertly' with confidence because I'm the one who sat up late last night darning them. The overall result is unfortunately rather shabby, but it's the best I can offer her; even if the outfit were flawless it would still be about two decades out of fashion. It is small comfort knowing they are probably the nicest clothes she's ever worn. I brush the vixen's short-cropped headfur and thin, scraggy tail, and adjust her blouse's collar to lie neatly above her vest, my hand lingering for a moment against the soft fur of her neck. "You look very pretty," I say. I'm rewarded with a shy but genuine half-smile. "Come on. Let's go for a walk." She trustingly places her hand in mine. I am struck, not for the first time, by how very small she is. "Are you scared?" She nods. "It'll be as gentle as a kiss." The vixen's hand grips mine tighter as we walk, her stocking footpaws padding silently beside my boots. She parts her lips as though to speak, but seems unable to find the words. Her lips close again. I understand what she wants to say. "It's like... well, have you ever had a dream so good you were sad when you woke up?" Nods. "Me too. In fact, it was just last night, and you were in it." Her brown eyes widen with fascination. "I was?" she whispers, her timid voice hopeful. "Would you like me to tell you about it?" Nods. "Okay. Well, we were in a forest - have you ever been to a forest?" Shakes head. "Then I'll describe it for you. Close your eyes so you can picture it." She nods and squeezes her eyes tightly shut, relying on me to guide her steps. I walk slowly, making sure she can keep up. "We're in this forest together, and we're holding hands, just like we are now. And we start walking, just like we are now. There are trees everywhere, as far as eye can see. Big trees, with wide spreading branches and leaves greener than anything. Not packed together like buildings in the city but set apart from each other. And there is grass beneath our paws, like walking on a carpet softer than your fur - and your fur is very soft indeed in my dream. Can you picture it?" Eager nod. She is hanging on my every word, rapt. "And there's food growing on all the trees. So much food, all that we could ever want. Apples and oranges and plums. And we walk up to this one tree. It looks like every other, but you and I, we know it's a very special tree. You know how in dreams you get that feeling that something is important, even if you can't explain why? Oh, what kind of tree was it..." "Peach." "That's right, it was a peach tree." How could I forget; it's how she came to be here. "Are there animals?" "Of course! They're all very friendly. They come right up to us so we can pet them. Deer and rabbits and birds and... ooh, what's that over there." Her eyes still closed, she turns her head to look. "It's... it's a unicorn." "She wants you to follow her." The small vixen nods, and actually begins to pull ahead as we walk. I keep a firm hold of her hand in mine. "There she goes. She's very fast, but of course you have no trouble keeping up." "Where... where is she taking me?" "I don't know. I fell behind. Can't you tell me where you went?" "I... I followed her..." Hesitantly at first, but quickly growing more confident and animated the vixen picks up the story. "She... she was always just ahead of me. I couldn't catch her. We went deep into the f-f-forest. And then she stopped. And just as I reached her, she... she disappeared. But there was a garden, and a house, and-and-" "A house? Who lives there?" "A mommy." 'A' not 'my,' I cannot help but note with a twinge. "Really? Tell me about her." "She's pretty and rich and she's been looking everywhere forever for me. She promises never to leave and to take care of me and to give me nice things and to never let anyone hurt me." We've reached the end of our walk. "I see her. You're right, she is very beautiful. Would you like to go to her?" The small vixen nods, eyes still tightly shut. We cross the room together. "She's kneeling down now. Her arms are open. Here, down on your knees, rest your head in her lap." At my guidance, the little vixen drops to the floor, daintily holding her skirt with one hand. Her tail curls around the soles of her stocking footpaws, the tip swaying contentedly. She lays her head down on a cushion on a wooden block. She lets go of my hand. She is smiling. "Oh, she's whispering now. I can't hear her. What's she saying to you?" I pick up my tool and grip it with both hands. "She... she's singing." And, to my surprise, the small vixen begins to sing, quietly, her voice quavering and unaccustomed to it, but beautiful for its heartfelt sincerity: ~You've looked for me ~Fore'er and a day ~Where have you been? ~The hard and griev'd way ~Courageous and noble hold high your chin ~You've sought heart's desire through virtue and sin I really can see it, as clearly and as vividly as though the dream were real. I can hear the beautiful vixen singing her tender lullaby together with the tiny lost kit that has found her, her small head cradled in her warm lap. ~You've sojourned far ~On your weighty quest ~Come lay here ~Your nodding head and rest ~At my bosom shed no more mournful tear ~Burden me with your freight of joy and fear I am proud of her. I raise my arms above my head, my eyes never leaving her. "She's giving you a kiss," I say quietly, fighting to keep my voice steady, to not give her any reason to feel afraid. Her eyes still closed, still placidly singing her lullaby, she nods. And it is true, all of it. I can see the maternal fox bending down to lovingly press her lips to the small vixen's bared neck. I swing. ~Though we may part ~You must not deplore ~Wherever you dwell ~You'll find me once more ~Together again we'll share tales to tell ~'Bout our adventures of heaven and-- THUNK A single touch as gentle as a kiss against her nape. All are equal before the law. Theft, whether it is by a hardened criminal of seventy diamonds from the governor's treasury, or by a small vixen of two peaches from a stall in Wallow Square, is a capital crime. The condemned are held for three weeks; for a price, they may be remanded into custody of a free citizen as a slave. If no ransom is made, the penalty must be executed as sentenced. The law binds us all. The law cannot bestow mercy. I the executioner can. My axe can cut through a grown tod's neck in a single blow. Hers provides no resistance whatsoever. A clean cut, a painless separation. To one side, the small vixen's head falls to the straw-strewn stone floor. To the other, blood seeps from the stump of her neck into the torn cushion, severed cleanly just above the collar of her blouse, until her obediently kneeling body gives a lifeless spasm and collapses. Her stocking footpaws kick sharply once and fall still. Her lips keep moving for a moment, though she no longer has breath with which to speak, thoroughly unaware of what has just transpired. Her gentle brown eyes open a fraction. "Shhh... sleep now." Her eyes close. She slips back into the forest, the garden, the tender embrace, the happy reverie, never to have to awaken. "Sweet dreams." First draft started March 28, 2014. First draft completed November 2, 2015. Editing completed November 4, 2015.