A Small and Grisly Tale

Mellifluine was an odd child. At ten years of life, her parents, Parson and Mrs. Spottiswode, despaired of her ever losing the sunken eyes and pumpkin-round cheeks that caused all the villagers to remark upon her resemblance to a porcelain doll, albeit one afflicted with a splotched complexion and preternaturally morose temperament. Her habit was to recline of an afternoon beside the stream in her black overcoat and white wool stockings, staring at the clouds and running thoughts through her locked jewelry box of a mind. Her stare was pale and soulless, coming as it did from shattered eyes with flecked irises brown and hazel. This lolling habit was in fact one she had practiced since the age of four, but at that time of life, her whereabouts and activities were not monitored for signs of marriageability or, indeed, sanity, so her long, languishing hours went quite unnoticed. Now, as she neared the cusp of maidenhood, Parson and Mrs. Spottiswode, especially Mrs. Spottiswode, began to fret that she might never shows signs of womanly charm or pleasure, and thus fail to engage herself in society and relations of the heart.

These were not concerns that Mellifluine shared. She shared little at all, except meek requests in her high-pitched voice for more cream in her tea and less butter on her toast. Her finicky dietary demands were indeed the only outer display of personality or character anyone observed, on the rare occasion that a non-relation cared to observe her. Once, she asked the horseman Harry Browne if he might give to her a scrap of iron. He muttered and demurred, and failed to relay the request to the Missus, and the topic was never broached again.

Parson Spottiswode made a tidy living which he was at pains to convey as modest, and in practice this made him a stingy man with his employees and a slovenly one with his home. This did not bother Mrs. Spottiswode, as homemaking was never a pursuit she wished to take up, preferring the more energetic, it seemed to her, sport of socializing in the small but prosperous circle of village matrons. So long as the dining room and parlor were kept spotless, her name was intact. She was often seen in a grotesque hat, though this was never mentioned aloud by the fashionable ladies, lest word of their gossip reach her seemingly omnipresent ears. Mrs. Spottiswode gave the most important parties. A dinner at her table was known to bring good cheer and even, according to some of the lesser and more superstitious elements sometimes begrudged a seat, good luck. Mellifluine was always deposited at the foot of the table, as she had been from the time her teeth emerged and she was able to masticate a slice of roast beef. She ate in silence.

It was on a chilly November afternoon, snowless but crisp enough to give the shallow stream a translucent skin of wet ice, that Mellifluine attempted to scientifically drown herself. She somehow acquired twine from her mother's hat boxes, and used it to affix large, smooth river stones to her shoulderblades. She positioned herself face down in the stream, folded her hands behind her head, gripping directly upon the base of her single French braid, and pressed her mouth and nose into the nigh frozen water, letting the weight of the stones gently pin her into place. She endeavored to keep her hips and feet still, but some demon of preservation caused her torso to thrust like a caught fish, and her head was jerked clean from its liquid tomb, and she rolled on her side and into the small, muddy river bank, spluttering and breathing more heavily than she had since her infancy. Her dress was quite ruined from these exertions, she noted without emotion. Her shoes felt spongy. Her fingernails had gone the color of bruised violets. She shivered violently until she managed to reign in the involuntary exercises of her body and force herself to be still and quiet. She lay there for a further ten minutes, mentally taking note of the reactions her body displayed to destruction. When she was satisfied that she had learned all she could, she crawled up to the trunk of an old willow, stripped herself of all but her silk undergarments, and fell deeply asleep.

In this condition, a fox discovered her. It was initially wary, as foxes are, but when it saw that the girl was immobile and dormant, it deftly approached and sniffed at her, discovering a surprisingly clean scent, almost cold, which is rare in a human. It grunted slightly and circled around to the other side of the body, to get a whiff of Mellifluine's hair. This smelled of fish and grease and candle smoke, a lovely combination of smells if you happen to be a fox. The animal was not taken aback by Mellifluine's splotchy complexion or doughy body or overly round face with its deep, dark eye sockets. Instead, it was transfixed by her beauty, finding in this cold, quivering human a sort of animal logic that appealed to its instinctive brain. It placed a wet nose on the palm of her slightly curled hand. She awoke almost instantly.

"Hello," she whispered.

The fox bobbed its head once and stared at her, expecting more.

"I won't hurt you," she continued, as softly as she could, the words pushed from her lips with the barest of breaths. "I won't move."

True to her word, she went rigid and frozen, although the winter air was making her alarmingly chilly and it was an enormous effort to keep from spasms. The flesh on her arms had gone as red and nubbled as a plucked chicken's. The fox continued to stare at her, frozen in place as well, though somehow less stiffly. A fox is not conscious of when it is not moving. A fox doesn't move as a matter of course. Only movement requires thought and energy, even the slightest sway. Thus, a fox may remain as a stone for hours upon end.

A small cough gripped Mellifluine's lung and expelled itself against her will. The quick shake of her carriage caused a horrific shiver to erupt, and she was in the grips of it for quite some time, her eyes squeezing shut to concentrate on the fullness of its force. When it ended and she opened her eyes, she expected the fox to be gone. Instead, it was imperceptibly nearer, with its head cocked a few degrees. "Please," she begged, no longer whispering but with barely the strength to croak. "My clothes are wet."

The fox looked to where her clothes lay in a black-and-white pile, hardening in the cold. They would frost over at sundown. It looked back to the girl, whose eyes were beginning to bulge. She had pulled herself into the shape of a large bean whilst being wracked by her fits, her limbs pulled into her heart as if it could radiate sunlight to them.

With a curious pity that is only the province of the truly wild, the fox climbed atop Mellifluine and curled itself upon her torso, allowing its luxurious tail to drape over her barren leg and fitting its soft neck into hers. She daren't budge. Its claws cut into her skin, but its warmth was narcotic. "Thank you," she whispered.

In the morning, Parson and Mrs. Spottiswode found their daughter frozen stiff, half-naked, with her eyes eaten clean. A few paw prints were found near the corpse. The villagers blamed wolves.