Awen

Mr Fox raised his foxy snout and sniffed the forest breeze; redolent of lake air, leaf mould, decaying bracken and rainfall, with a side-note of winter chill to come, and a piquant astringency of pine sap. “Winter’s coming…” he muttered into his whiskers.

“What’s that, my love?” Queried Mrs Fox, as she unloaded the root vegetables and chocolate into the fridge.

“It smells of winter, on the way. We’ll soon be under snow.”

“What does the Met Office say?”

Mr Fox fumbled his paws against the screen of his smart phone, silently cursing Google for not making the Pixel4a Fox-fur-friendly. ‘Designed by weasels’ he suspected. The Met Office website was a sea of red. “Says it’s going to be red.”

“What, the snow?”

“Ah, no, got it, there’s a storm coming.”

“Storm? What’s her name?”

“Arwen.”

“What, the druidic muse, brewed for a year and a day in Ceridwen’s cauldron, gift to Afagddu of the Night, so that he may see? That’s a terrible name for a storm!”

“No, not Awen. Arwen, with an ‘arr’.”

“I’m not sure which is worse, the Met Office’s choice of names, or their spelling.”

Later that evening, the foxes had filled their bellies with root vegetable stew, eaten a fine pudding of soya yogurt and oats with fresh blueberries, drank innumerable cups of tea and Mrs Fox had soundly thrashed Mr Fox. At Banagarams. Again. They settled into bed as Arwen started to gather pace across the lake, the oak trees outside shouting their susurrating terror. There came a loud thud and a clunk.

“What’s that?!” Mrs Fox’s worried snout poked out into the freshening bedroom air. Her ears quivered.

Mr Fox looked out of the window through the open curtains. “The patio furniture is trying to take flight. I’ll nip out and wedge it in a corner…”

“Oh no, Foxy, No!” wailed Mrs Fox. “I’ve had a vision! Branches through the roof! Squashed fox! Don’t leave me!” Except, she didn’t. She thought to say this, but felt that Mr Fox would think her overly prescient. “Be careful Foxy,” she smiled.

“I will, my love. Two minutes.” Mr Fox got dressed in stout fur, heavy boots and a wooly hat pulled firmly over his ears, and headed out into the storm. “Crikey, it’s a bit blowy out…” Fox muttered to himself, edging along the verandah, ducking smaller branches as they flew through the air. The roaring of the trees was louder out here, much louder. It sounded like a … well, like ten thousand trees being battered by hundred mile-an-hour winds. Which is what it was. He was buffeted and battered and a laughing gust whipped his hat off into the blackness, never to be seen again. With grim purpose he put one foot in front of the other, casting about with his small electrician’s torch, and reached the corner. Up the steps onto the patio, he looked down the yellow torch beam, which illuminated a black-cloaked, hooded figure, leaning over a cauldron.

“Err… hello?” Ventured Mr Fox. The figure remained shrouded in darkness, despite the full glare of the torch. It was as if the inside of the hood was sucking up the light.

“Can I help you? It’s a terrible evening to be abroad.”

The hooded darkness turned to him - and the outline of a moonlit face became visible. Moonlit despite the deep cloud layer muffling all light. The face was at once old and young, wise and fecund, innocent and motherly. A voice seemed to speak directly into Mr Fox’s brain, without passing through his furry ears.

“Ferdinand Fox, of Rutland Shire.

You who are long from home, here in my forest,

Tarry not, upon this place.

Oak and ash push back at the dark,

But Men of Isca Dumnoniorum named the wind.

And so my cauldron bubbles over.

Awen feeds Afagddu anew.

Tarry not!”

Mr Fox looked around, startled. The figure had vanished, along with the cauldron. The National Trust garden furniture was vibrating in the wind. He turned and shouted above the roar “I’ll just…. wedge the furniture…”

“TARRY NOT! That includes mucking around with the patio set.” came the disembodied command.

Mr Fox turned and fled back to the door of the cottage, slipped inside, locked it, and shakily made his way back to the bedroom.

“Mr Fox! You’re safe!” came Mrs Fox’s joyous cry.

“I am, Fox, I am. The weirdest thing just happened…”

At that very instant, a creaking breaking groan shook the cottage, as a huge oak tree was uprooted and crashed through the patio, splintering the balustrade and rupturing the decking as it utterly flattened the benighted furniture. It eventually came to a halt resting the top-most branches against the bedroom window, where they rattled, Wuthering Heights Esque; a faint echo rang in Mr Fox’s brain:

“I did say, tarry not, did I not?”