Tom Fox always felt the call of the creative, of the arts, of all the good things that all the woodland critters set about to make. Some would carve the trees, paint the leaves, and engineer mighty dams to block the raging rivers. Tom Fox knew where he wanted to be, the mountains that soared high above his forest home housed a monastery where all animals were welcome. It was known that a few years in those mountain heights could instill into all animals a hunger for knowledge and a desire to learn. But most importantly Tom Fox wanted to see how the forest looked from a mountain so high.
The Wolf had raised Tom Fox since he was a pup. The Wolf was the one who fostered the motivations that drove Tom Fox to dream of new heights. But the Wolf didn’t see the mountains as so high, and the Wolf expressed little care for the arts and for the knowledge that was hidden away so high up.
The Wolf instead insisted to Tom Fox that he needed to worry about the encroaching threat of humanity. The Wolf wanted Tom Fox to fear threats that Tom Fox had never seen, and to love a cause that Tom Fox had never known. To serve was the highest honor Tom Fox could ever hope to attain, at least that’s what the Wolf certainly thought. But deep down Tom Fox never stopped dreaming of the mountains.
One day, Tom Fox sat outside his burrow, atop a damp stump on a warm May day, the smell of oakmoss and lichen overwhelmed his little nose. He sat upright on the stump, his little paws digging into the wet dark earth beneath them, a large knot of a root divided his feet. He looked down at it, and his eyes followed the root, it twisted and wound its way through the soil like a bony finger jutting towards the mountain.
He smiled, gruntled with himself –the smell of adventure was on the wind, and he knew where it would take him. He went back into the burrow where he would begin to pack, and where the Wolf waited, unaware of the verdict Tom Fox had reached.
When Tom Fox mentioned that he would be leaving for the monastery at the changing of the leaves, the Wolf was distraught. Who would protect the forest, who would protect their burrow, who would protect her when her years caught up to her, without Tom Fox?
While Tom Fox packed and dreamed of that snowy peak, the Wolf scrambled, fearing the nights bleak. In a last desperate attempt to usher Tom Fox onto the right path, the Wolf set out a flyer on his desk, a call to serve in the woodland brigade, to shelter the free critters of the forest from the encroachment of threats, human and otherwise. Tom Fox never feared the humans though, and the Wolf knew that, but had yet one trick left in her paw.
“Serve with the woodland brigade, and I’ll finally be proud of you. And if you don’t, you’ll need to find a different den to call home until the coming of autumn.”
All Tom Fox ever wanted was to hear the Wolf express pride. He also had nowhere else to go. Tom Fox set aside what he was packing, and he set aside his dreams. He set about immediately to meet with the brigade, and planned to do all that it would take to join them.
The brigade, however, didn’t want him. For too long Tom Fox had sat in the comfort of his den, fattened on acorns and berries. But Tom Fox wasn’t about to let some badger with harsh standards keep him from making the Wolf proud. He would get in, no matter the cost.
Tom Fox loved food, but for three months Tom Fox didn’t eat.
Tom Fox loved his thick, luxurious red-fur coat, but Tom Fox shaved it.
Tom Fox hated running, but for three months he ran laps around the forest.
Once he ran further than any fox had ever run before.
But Tom Fox wasn’t happy, and the Wolf wasn’t proud. He collapsed in a golden field of wheat, having lost a third of his body weight. He was dead, within and without, the light in his eyes was replaced with the glisten of tears that the Wolf would never see. He walked slowly, all 20 miles back through the forest to his burrow. Along the way he saw the Badger, who was particularly proud of his achievement, he said to Tom, “I speak for the whole woodland brigade when I say that we would all be proud to have the likes of Tom Fox in our ranks!”
Autumn had come to the forest, and the leaves were beginning to show all their colors, and as Tom Fox looked at all of it, he didn’t see it. He saw in his mind a young fox, running through fields on fire, placing bombs to destroy the advances of greedy men. But as he approached the stump outside the burrow, with its gnarled root, he saw something in the forest that didn’t change with the seasons. He saw the compass that pointed him towards his dreams, which, like the soil under the stump, time and pain could not erode.
He looked at the mountain before him.
Tom Fox had seen the Wolf snarl, but this time was different, she snapped her jaw at him in a flurry, when he told her that he wouldn’t join the brigade. She bared her fangs at him. She told him how he’d never make it to the mountaintop in time, the monastery was known, after all, to require months of notice before one’s arrival. She told him how she’d never feed him another meal, nor shelter him from winter, in fact, the Wolf made it clear that Tom Fox would never be welcome back under any circumstances. Not even to collect acorns before the first frost, nor to celebrate the holidays.
Tom Fox was numb to it all, he felt little at this point, after all he’d endured. He longed to smell adventure on the wind once more, but all he smelled was the last meal he’d eat at that table. He packed quickly, and left quietly.
He walked towards the mountains, through places where he was nameless. Nobody called him Tom Fox, now he was a stray. During his journey, he was startled when he heard a loud growl from the brush along his path. His paws trembled as he clung to the possessions he carried on his back, but he mustered the courage to peer through the bramble at the monstrous figure on the other side. A Bear that was more than triple the size of little Tom Fox.
“Hello there, little fellow!” The Bear exclaimed in a deep chuckling tone, “I hope I didn’t frighten you, I was only clearing my throat, berries and honey-wine always have a way of filling the old pipe with phlegm.”
Tom still stood there trembling, but let out a breath as the Bear’s large sweeping paws extended a branch of berries toward him in a gesture of kindness.
“And you look like you might even benefit from a glass,” the Bear said, smiling, in a way that could only be described as profoundly understanding. One glass later, Tom Fox had made a friend who, although only present for a short time in his life, would change it all for the better. The winter came harsh and fast but he and his new friend endured it, tucked away safe in a cozy den.
“Help yourself to all that I have, it isn’t often that I have company this far from the forest.”
The Bear’s offer was taken, and Tom found the winter months passing swiftly when he rested with the bear, reading many books, and enjoying all manner of foods and wines that the Bear had spent all year gathering. Often Tom would rest his head against the warm rumbling fur of his close friend, putting his snout deep into books that would prepare him for his time at the monastery.
But oftentimes, he would raise his snout from the pages and see the mountain staring back at him through the entrance of the den. All the while the Bear slept, gently snoring. Tom spent the latter months of winter tending to the Den, knowing that the bear would appreciate his diligence. Tom’s appreciation to the bear was graciously reciprocated, and he enjoyed that.
When the thaw finally came, he clambered up the mountain, not quite knowing the path. He walked as Orpheus should’ve, spending not even a second to look back. He lost everything along the way, he had even lost much of himself, but he made it to the gates of the monastery by early summer, and he told the scholars there that he would like to attend the next session, as soon as the leaves began to shift.
With the remainder of his summer, and the last of his supplies, he climbed to the very top of the mountain, to that point which for so long had been his guide, and finally he looked back towards the forest. Tom Fox imagined the stump upon which he had sat many moons past. He could imagine it so clearly, its jutting roots guiding him towards his objective. But no amount of squinting towards his woodland home would reveal it to him, he had come too far, and the forest was long behind him. And that old stump? Not even a speck on the horizon.