The Fox Wife

a very old tale of wonder and longing

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I stood outside in the winter darkness, looking at a coal-black sky. Not a clear night sky when you can look at stars and past nebulas into the seemingly endless celestial expanse, glimpsing what might be Eternity. No, this was a heavy sky laden with low-lying clouds, an overcast night that eclipsed any sense of the bright heavens. It was oppressive and gave the sensation of staring into a lightless abyss, a black hole kind of feeling, as if all the goodness had been sucked out of the world. Winter can be like that, projecting a dread and blackness with unknown dangers hidden from sight, wrapped in a cloak of impenetrable, terrifying darkness. At this time of year, I’m certain our ancestors gathered around a fire or at the heartside grate with a cup of ale and a pipe. They gathered for safety and community and to tell tales that helped them pass the night and search their souls for memories and insights that pieced together the puzzle of life.

Today, I offer you a story that I hope will stir your soul.

The Fox Wife

In ages long past, when forests were thick with pine and oak, great stage and boar roamed freely, and owls flew silently in the night, a huntsman dwelt among the trees.

One evening, the huntsman, tired and lonely, was trudging home when the shadows stretched long, and slant winter sunlight cut through the woods, fading into gloomy dusk. His footfalls were muffled by soft snowfall and pine needles. He rounded the bend towards his home and saw something that made his blood turn cold. His heart froze, and fear stopped him in his tracks. He stared in shock at the sight of smoke billowing from the chimney of his lodge.

He had left home before sunrise that morning and had not bothered to kindle a fire. Instead, he ate a cold breakfast of day-old bread and venison. Even if he had lit a fire, he had been gone far too long for it to be still smoldering enough for smoke to rise out of the chimney.

He stepped off the path and hid behind the low sweeping branches of an old pine tree to collect himself and gather his thoughts. His initial fear subsided, and curiosity brewed in his head. Who could be in his lodge? Friend or foe?

Being skilled in bushcraft, the huntsman crouched down and silently crept on all fours towards his lodge with great caution and care. When he reached the door, he stopped. Like a hunting hound, he cocked his head and listened, but all was quiet. Without even the sound of a breath, he stood up and fingered the knife in his belt.

He stepped his left foot forward. Ever so gently with his left hand, he pushed open the door. He poked his head in, scanned the room, and called out sternly, “Ho, Hi, who is there?” His ears were met with only the crackling of the fire. He looked again and saw that a piping hot meal had been laid on the table. The smell of a savory stew and freshly baked bread coaxed him into the room. Again, he called less gruffly this time, “Hi, ho. Is anyone here?” No one answered.

Satisfied that he was alone and enticed by the meal on the table, he sat down and ate heartily. The food warmed him as few meals had ever done. He called out, “Thank you; the stew was delicious, and the warm bread a comfort.” When he was done, he looked about his lodge and noticed his home had been swept and tidied. His clothes, which were threadbare and tattered, had been mended, neatly folded, and stacked on a shelf. He blushed at this kindness, for no one had ever been kind to him. He retired to his bedroom, filled with a good meal; he fell asleep. His dreams were a jumble of wondering and imagining about who could have made him food and mended his clothes. He woke to a crisp sunny day the next morning.

That day, the huntsman went out and returned once again to a meal set out for him, but no one was there. This went on for a few days, and finally, the huntsman decided to return home early in hopes of discovering who might be visiting his lodge each day.

Quietly, he opened the door and stepped inside. Standing in front of the fire, with her back towards him, he beheld a woman. She was tall with lustrous, thick, dark red hair tumbling down her back to her waist.

The huntsman felt a surge of recognition. Like all the old forest dwellers, he knew this was no ordinary woman. She was a spirit of the forest, part woman and part fox. The woman knew he gazed upon her, as all women and foxes know when they were being watched, and she turned and met his gaze.

Without introduction or ceremony, the woman told the huntsman, “I will be the woman of this home.” With that, she fixed herself a plate of food and sat at the table. In dumbfounded astonishment, the huntsman sat down and began eating his food.

As they broke bread together, they began to talk. The woman was lively and funny. She told jokes and knew riddles. She told amusing stories filled with charming characters and clever twists at the tale's end to delight and surprise. The huntsman remembered that when he was young, he sang songs. He sang songs about the forest to the woman. Over days and weeks, love grew up around them. A love that was deeply rooted like the forest trees. It bound them together like bittersweet vines on an oak.

The huntsman, who had never known kindness, let alone love, was completely in love with and devoted to the woman. His heart was overflowing, and his soul enchanted. He scarcely knew that such love and companionship could be found in earthly life. He was content, and his life was beautiful with the Fox-Wife.

As their love bloomed, one concern faced them. The Fox-Wife, being not fully human, had a fox pelt beneath her clothes. She said to the huntsman, “I want with all my heart to stay with you, entwine our lives, and spend the turning seasons together in our forest home. I have just one condition.” The huntsman looked at her gravely and listened to her intently. “My fox pelt must hang on the back of the door and stay there always.”

This seemed a small thing to the huntsman, and he readily agreed. The Fox-Wife hung her pelt up, and the huntsman didn’t notice the scent of the pelt at first. Her pelt was a wild thing filled with a musky and pungent odor, not the fragrance of perfume nor even the domesticated smell of human homes we are used to.

The winter months rolled along into the first hints of spring. Finally, the forest was freshly dressed in green, and the sun shone warm and bright. During these months, the huntsman and the Fox-Wife delighted in each other and their life together. Each day was sweet like honey, each hour golden as they built their life together.

However, something unsettling began to happen. Little by little, the huntsman noticed the pelt's smell. Faintly at first, but it seemed to grow stronger each day that passed. It filled the lodge; it seeped into his clothes, clung to his boots, and penetrated the furniture and dishes. Soon, it was inescapable. It was all around and unrelenting.

One night, as they shared their evening meal, with some discomfort and trepidation, the huntsman cautiously brought up the subject.

“My loveliest and dearest heart of hearts, I love you more than all the world could offer. Our life together fills me with happiness and contentment beyond anything I could have ever imagined. However, there is just one thing. The smell of the pelt begins to weigh upon me. Your pelt is beautiful and dear to you, but perhaps we could move it outdoors away from our house. I could build a little shed to keep it in. The smell is overpowering, and I can’t get it out of my nose or my head.”

The Fox-Wife looked at him, tilted her head slightly, arched an eyebrow, and said nothing.

Time went on and on and on, and the smell of the pelt got stronger and stronger and stronger.

There were no stories or songs at the dinner table anymore. A bitterness had been creeping into their lives for some months. One evening, the huntsman was brooding as they ate their meal in silence. Suddenly, he slammed his fist upon the table and said sharply, “I told you before, get rid of the pelt.”

The Fox-Wife felt his words in the depths of her soul.

In the morning, she was gone. The scent of the pelt had vanished, too. All was still in the lodge; no fire was lit, and no food was prepared. The emptiness returned; it was as if she had never been there at all.

To this day, the villagers who live near the forest say that the huntsman stands alone, grieving in his whole body, in the doorway of his lodge, longing for the scent of the pelt.

I am grateful to the amazing storyteller

Martin Shaw

for introducing me to this tale during a recent class he taught called Christian Wonder Tales. I hope you have enjoyed my retelling of it. This is new writing territory for me, and I hope to continue developing my wonder tale writing style as time passes. Please check out Martin’s Substack, The House of Beasts and Vines.

What does this tale mean to you? Where did you find yourself in the story? What struck you about the relationship between the huntsman and the Fox-Wife? Did this remind you of another well-known story? Can you make connections between this and other old tales? Share your insights in the comments.

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