"Blood Sisters" by R.Angela O’Brien
There are no foxes in Tasmania. None. That’s a fact. They send out scat patrols, just in case. Seek and destroy. Still, all alarms are false. No foxes.
So how is it I see a vixen red as blood hunched against the glass of my kitchen door? Curled there, tail shielding her nose, a cheat against the cold. Huddled. Her red self a fire, of a kind.
Imaginary fox. Figment of old pretensions. Vacated hopes.
But one that warms my red self. My cold fire, dwindling.
She’s no youngster, there’s grey on her muzzle. Her teats are slack. Dugs like old leather; shoes empty of feet, of purpose. No cubs, no den. No mate, or none with her tonight. She is alone.
I feel her, she is bereft. No promises to keep. No place to go. Nothing that makes worth of her. A sharing.
Life is an open envelope. Sometimes there’s nothing inside. Missive sent, not received. Messages in bottles long inundated.
Perhaps she can warm me. Fire, right? But maybe not. She’s a phantom, imaginary. I don’t hold out much hope.
It is night when I come in, switch on the light. A shot in the dark. She looks at me. I get it; she’s unimpressed. My artificial light arcs across her blazing tail. No faux there. Perhaps I can still hope?
She lifts her head. I note her small white teeth, her pink tongue. Sharp and hungry. I fear for my neighbor’s chickens. The law does not protect foxes, so I speak to her. I know she’s not here — there are no foxes in Tasmania — but I want to be comforted, to be sure she grasps the odds, weighs the risks. That she knows when to be afraid, when to run. That, most of all.
She looks at me aslant, as if to say, “That’s just the peril of life.” I catch the words in the glint off her eyes.
I am uneasy. She is either the trickster god of the desert or a divine messenger. Neither option is welcome, especially now. The day is ended, the night is dark, the path is lost. I wonder if she can magic up the aurora australis the way Finnish foxes summon their northern equivalent. Their fur rubbing on snow creates the sparks that make the sky burn. The Finns call their aurora revontulet, or fox-fires. Maybe she doesn’t speak Finnish; she might remain ignorant of that power. I can hope.
Though, maybe she will bring light. I’m wishing for a few candles-worth — a small glow for the hearth, not a towering inferno. Enough light to see myself by. That might be more than a trickster from the deep desert can manage. I climb to the floor. It’s a long way down. We sit, she and I, side to side against the glass, and I yearn for her red coat to bleed into mine. Instead, we bleed into each other. Cross-sanguination. Blood sisters.
R.Angela O’Brien is a poet from Tasmania. In addition to poetry, she writes speculative and literary fiction. Her stories have been published in Abyss and Apex; ACEIII, an annual anthology of short fiction from Australian emerging writers; and the International Journal of the Humanities. She is currently seeking representation for her debut novel, In TINSEL Town. She has a PhD in unconscious learning and degrees in fine art and mathematics. She is indebted for her inspiration to both Robert Frost and Lucille Clifton, and also to the pademelons, bandicoots, quolls, bush hens, devils, and other small fauna of Tasmania that so many work so hard to protect.
