The Hunter and the Lemmings

The forest was tranquil as the soft winter breeze carried the rustle of leaves, heavy with snow. The birds had moved south, leaving the air still as dim sunlight made its way through heavy clouds, thick with moisture and the smell of the pines.

An Arctic fox, her white coat glossy with the damp frost, crept slowly from her den to inspect the new day, her slumbering whelps stirring slightly at the absence of their mother’s warmth. Her nose twitched slightly at the chill as she picked up the faint smells of the animals that had passed by in the night, and with her whiskers grazing the perfect white snow she found the scent of lemmings which she had been searching for. Cautiously, she padded out into the open, the frost crunching softly beneath her paws.

It was a lonely place, the other animals didn’t venture out into cold morning like she did, and the calm was unnerving in it’s own way; surreal as she continued to track her prey, pondering her situation as best a simple fox could. Making her way over an embankment toward the river, fresh tracks in the pristine snow provided her with the comforting knowledge that she could return to her den with fresh food very soon. Pricking up her ears, she listened for the tell-tale squabbling of the lemmings amongst themselves above the trickle of the frigid water. Spotting the small gathering of sodden rodents clambering up a boulder just beyond the opposite river bank, she lowered her body and prepared to spring across the shallow water to claim a meal for her young.
Suddenly, the calm was shattered by the familiar sound of a rifle in the distance, and as the awkward rodents scattered to find shelter from the intrusive noise she felt the morning chill settle in her lungs to fill her with an icy dread. She stood still while for only a moment, the whole forest seemed to shift and while she knew she was no hunter, the absence of the other animals became all to clear as she wondered why she hadn’t been more observant.

With a timid shake she rid her fur of any fallen frost, and plucking up her resolve, took off along the river. The shot had come from behind, close to her den, and while she knew better than to go back the way she came, she also knew that going around river bend to double back would cost her precious time. As she picked up the stale scent of the huntsman, she couldn’t help but snort in disgust, doubling her pace as the slick blanket of snow beneath her paws threatened to send her careening into the icy river.
He was back for her pelt too, she thought, remembering the awful sound of the shot as it took her mate from her in a previous hunt, leaving her with the task of both rearing young by herself and hunting to feed her whelps, who were then left alone and vulnerable, during the day. Her greatest fear, if not for her whelps’ safety, was that they would be rendered alone as she had been by the huntsman; to fend for themselves without really knowing how, only because she hadn’t the time to teach them while performing both parental duties. Because of this, she was subject to an irony the likes of which is not often perceived by foxes.

With more shots fired she felt her thoughts fade to panic, and panting, slowed to a stop as her heart beat frantically with a mother’s worries. Getting the better of her judgment, she turned sharply to take off through the trees, straight as an arrow toward her den. Her paws hitting the ground loudly, twigs and frosted leaves snapped and bristled under her swift form as the human scent intensified, catching a loud growl deep in her throat. The growl, however justified, was short-lived, as a shrill yelp of pain came forth to replace it. Her haste abruptly halted, the searing pain of her hind leg blurred her senses as she turned to see the cruel trap that had ensnared her. It was a trap set there by humans to catch animals not unlike her, and she recalled seeing a wolf struggle to overcome one before, tearing their limb beyond repair and slowly succumbing to a lonely death; bleeding out before being collected by their captor a few short hours later. She settled onto her side, and with a pained yelp of defeat, let the knowledge of her whelps’ fates sadden her.

Hours passed, and while the physical pain of her leg subsided, the guilt and dread for her young merely intensified. Her nose twitching, the smell of human grew stronger, and the heavy tread of boots through the snow grew closer. Through closed eyes, she could feel the shadow looming over her as the human took a sharp breath.
“Oh, dear, what’s this then?” said a concerned feminine voice, warm against the wind’s chill. “Let’s get you out of that horrible contraption, now….”
The elderly woman placed her basket to the side, and tenderly felt the wounds around the hind limb, before gently removing the device. Opening her eyes, the timid mother looked up at the human’s warm smile with a confused wonderment, her eyes following the trap as the woman placed it in her basket amongst the books and small bags of turnips and other foodstuffs. Getting up slowly, the fox lightly tested out her leg, patting it against the snow lightly before padding away from the woman. With a final glance in her direction, she took off as painlessly as she could toward her den, slightly bewildered at the random act of kindness.

As the darkness came, it brought with it a light fall of fresh frost and relief, as the mother, huddled with her hungry, yet safe, whelps looked out upon the landscape as she had that morning with a curiosity and thankfulness that, needless to say, wouldn’t normally be expected from a fox. Tending to her wounds once more before settling in, she reveled in the warmth of her young as events of the day faded from her thoughts, giving way to an untroubled sleep.

And the next day, she ventured out again, only this time, to set a trap for a lemming.