I watched them walking between trees, mostly hunters, young and old, short and tall, skinny and fat. The one thing they had in common was their yellow, flowing skin, which I wanted to touch, whether it was smooth and greasy with youth or leathery and dry with age. I smelled their sweat and the food they'd eaten and the drinks they'd drank and the places they'd been and the people they'd touched. A tall, skinny youth had salt mixed with fish mixed with butter mixed with orange tartar sauce mixed with thick beer mixed with acrid cigar mixed with a woman, young like him, whom he'd known like I wanted him to know me. An old man, loose strands of silver hanging beside his face, sharply curving like burning scissors to my eyes, his voice loud and steady, carrying purpose, his mouth moving in definite and controlled separation, smelling of woodsmoke, a tingling sensation I hadn't liked at first but that I'd come to savor. I'd imagined him sitting by a fire made with wood he'd gathered, maybe for warmth, maybe for company in his lonely old age. I'd comfort you, I thought, I'd show you warmth that'll stay after all the wood burns away. I thought he looked at me then, as if my imagination had flared so hotly he could see me, orangish-red fur exploding before his eyes. Reluctantly, I turned and ran. I hadn't watched him long enough for him to see me as he would've wanted to see me. He'd have seen a small cowering creature, and I would receive a rifle blast rather than a gentle touch. Or perhaps he had seen me, and I was lucky he didn't follow me and kill me, and I like to think that's because he saw not only a small cowering creature but also something bright and flickering that he didn't want to extinguish.
The man I appeared to as he wanted me to was a hunter in his mid-twenties I'd watched closely. He'd visited the woods several times over the course of the months I studied him. Usually, a second young man accompanied him, though right off I knew I would never want him, nor would he want me.
Every time I watched him, I understood him--and through him, humanity--a little better. I was able to understand the sounds they make, which they call speech or language, though of course I couldn't make those sounds myself. Still, gradually I began to recognize the association between certain words and the things they referred to-how they would say the sounds G-U-N while holding the metal things they used to kill animals, for example. This was helpful because I came to know that when they used those particular sounds, G-U-N, or R-I-F-L-E, I'd better be careful. This man's use of language I found particularly engaging and instructive, for he spoke not only through the sounds he made but the way he said them--his tone and gestures often told me whether the word he was saying was a good or bad thing, such as with gun, he usually kind of barked the sounds, so that I could tell he had both good and bad feelings toward the thing, in the way a fox or wolf barks when they're excited and frightened at the same time. He also played music from his truck, another use of sound that sometimes involved language but also other sounds. I didn't understand these sounds so much as I felt them, and I saw that he felt them, too, for whenever he listened to certain songs, he always seemed to react the same way. With one called Moonlight Sonata, the skin of his face would sag, especially around his mouth and eyes, and he would be very still, almost like he was sleeping, though his eyes would be wide open, focused on the ground or sky, and saltiness and musk, almost but not quite like sweat, would drown out whatever smells he'd been emitting before.
Before I came to him I followed him all day through the woods. I heard and smelled him first in the late morning when the sun was already high, almost above the trees, and I'd just finished snacking on some grasshoppers. I heard his voice loud and energetic and melodic like Beethoven's fifth. My ears perked at the sound, and when I turned my head I could smell him, the thick cloth he wore and the steak, eggs, and ketchup he'd eaten. Then I heard the other one, his voice fainter, shriller, and unsteady, and I smelled steak and eggs on him, too, but without ketchup, and he'd also had a cigarette, a more pungent smell that, unlike woodsmoke, I despised. I tried to block out the smells and sounds of this one, concentrating on those of the one I wanted. Mostly, I succeeded, though the other's agitating attributes sometimes forced themselves into my perceptions.
I made my way toward them so they'd be in my sight. The first time I'd encountered them, I found the pictures I formed of them from their sounds and smells had been fairly accurate once I saw them. The voice of the one I wanted was energetic, full, and melodic, and he smelled of water and musk, which told me he was young, tall, bulky, and well-groomed. The other's high-pitched, disjointed, and weak voice, and astringent, salty smells told me he was small, skinny, and twitchy.
I hurried toward them gently, taking care that each footfall was soft and stealthy, the pattering of my four feet barely audible. I saw them as I neared a hill they were walking down, and though this happened every time I saw them, I couldn't help but stop and turn my head in disgust at the noxiously bright vests they were wearing. I hadn't yet conditioned myself to be prepared for this sight, which seared my eyes like boiling water. I was only able to overcome this by focusing on the exposed flesh and hair of his hands and face and head, dark and contrasting with his glaring torso. Also, looking at the general outline of his body helped me forget the offensive vest, for his body was thick and muscular and pleasing to my eyes.
That night they sat around the campfire after a day of unsuccessful hunting. At a safe distance, I curled up behind a bush, hidden but still able to see them through the foliage. He didn't seem bothered by their lack of a kill and reclined calmly against a tree, every motion and sound controlled, purposeful, unlike the other man, whose movements and sounds seemed like a waste of energy, pointless and without direction, as he constantly changed from sitting to standing to walking, made nervous, abrupt motions and squeaks that were hard for me to ignore. This annoying creature was complaining about how they hadn't caught anything because the animals were frightened by celestial forces disturbing the land, which was ridiculous to me. I wasn't aware of any such forces. His friend just laughed at him and said to forget about catching animals and enjoy the hunt like he did. He'd reach toward the fire and stare into it with a smile as if he were looking into the face of an old friend, and sometimes he'd look beyond the fire into the woods, and I liked to think he sensed I was there, a warmth and woodsmoke beyond the fire, but pretended not to notice me because he knew it wasn't time for me to reveal myself.
As I watched him, I took in every feature, every line, every crease, every gesture. Shoulders lifted and fell with ease; lips curled upward and eyebrows raised; lips twisted and skewed to one side of his face as eyes rolled back in their sockets; the skin around his eyes squeezed together; eyelids flicked up and down rapidly, as I might claw at the ground to dig up roots or insects, or they lowered and raised with slowness and precision. I took in every sound-- grunting, sighing, laughing-and every word about trees and earth and water and stars and the fresh air and the soothing wind and how he loved it all, and fires he talked of most, those he made and those of the stars, so useful for revelation, penetrating the shadows that impaired his sight. His companion disagreed, regarding these things more with fear. This other sat further away from the fire than he did, and was consequently colder, though he explained shuddering from the cold was better than being burned by the fire. He also looked at the sky and shook his fists at the stars, cursing them for ruining their hunt.
As time passed, I became agitated, not only because of this other, but because the longing for the one I wanted was growing so intense. The closer I got to touching him, the more agony I felt. And it seemed a similar thing came over him, because his movements became sloppier, more erratic and with less direction, and his voice became slurred and disjointed. I think he became just as impatient as I was for what was going to happen. I was fidgeting and shifting my position, occasionally rustling leaves and almost giving myself away, which would have been tragic, because then I would've had to run away or face the danger of being shot. He complained to his friend of the late hour, and how sleepy he was. When he picked up a bucket of water to dump on the fire I emerged out of the shadows, reddening as the firelight draped me like a silk gown, my only covering then. Not wanting to undress me, he put the water down. Some men would have been frightened, some completely astonished, but he walked toward me as I walked toward him, both of us smiling and holding out our arms to each other as if we weren't meeting for the first time but reuniting. Our steps were slow but deliberate, not hesitant, and every movement felt so natural I lost all notion of doubt or fear that he wouldn't accept me, and it was like I was pulled toward him, not moving myself but falling. Neither of us made a sound as we embraced and tangled into each other beside the fire.
Once sunlight drowned the stars, our skins finally parted. Smoldering ashes and faint crackles from the fire filled my nose and ears as I fell asleep beside him. I woke hearing voices some distance away. I opened my eyes but did not move. Maybe they had anticipated that my hearing was better than most humans', because they had moved far enough away that I couldn't hear what they were saying, only that they were the voices of my lover and his companion, and that they seemed to be arguing, rising in agitated tone, then falling to a low muffle. I decided to quit trying to decipher their conversation, and curled up warm, feeling the cool dirt kissing my back and the sunlight pulsing into me. My head snapped up when my nakedness began to bother me. Laughing, I realized I didn't have a tail. Fingers clutched at a blanket I just noticed had been put over my body; before I had taken its fluffy texture for fur. Creaking and slamming noises were followed by four crunching feet coming toward me. I looked up and saw my lover and his companion coming toward me. Behind them sat the box-like metal called a truck; I figured that's where they had been talking.
"You worry too much, my friend," my lover said, stretching out some of the skins they wore outside their skins toward me.
The other man lit a cigarette and took a sharp suck from it. "Damn stars, man," he coughed. "They're messing with your mind."
My lover shrugged while I dressed. The clothes tickled against my skin. Without them, lightness and exposure dizzied me, but they kept out the coolness and floating fingers of air I was used to. I kept wanting to lick at them, which provoked a snicker from my lover as my head pulled back in disgust. Their coarse texture and mineral taste were a poor substitute for fur.
When it came to the pair of boots he'd given me to wear, at first I sat and stared at them. I'd seen them wearing these on their feet, but I didn't like the way they looked to me. "Put these on first," my lover said, showing me a pair of socks. I'd seen them undress a few times when they'd wash at the nearby stream, but I'd forgotten about socks. They didn't seem as intimidating, and I put them on. They didn't feel so bad, though my toes wriggled under the fabric prisons. My lover helped me put the boots on. My feet burned and squirmed inside them, but I stood up and tried to walk. I stumbled and nearly fell in the first few steps, evoking more smiles from my lover. I swayed and struggled for balance, a little angry that my lover would mock me while I was doing my best to adapt to his world. Those coverings made my gait frustratingly clumsy at first. The other man leaned against the truck, his arms folded, watching me, not laughing, but not with as much agitation as he'd looked at me before. I think he even looked a little surprised at my awkward steps, and for the first time I felt that perhaps he was not so bad after all.
But my lover came through; after a short while he gripped my arm and helped me walk along until I was able to move fairly steadily. Soon, he led me to the truck. "Time to leave," he told me. I looked back at the trees, the dirt, the rocks, and inhaled the musky-thick smells of squirrel, rabbit, deer, and the smooth and watery scents of grass, leaf, and fern. I had never been far away from all these things, but I knew I would have to be now, for I knew that the men always left in trucks and seemed to disappear from the woods completely. I'm not sure how long I stood there, but I vaguely remember my lover's voice beckoning me. When he gave up, he turned on the radio, and that is what finally brought my attention back to him fully. I climbed into the vehicle, sat beside him and leaned back in the seat as trickling drops of piano and hawk-screeching violins filled my ears and blurs of green and brown filled my eyes.
The number of colors I encountered when the truck reached civilization was at first disorienting, and even frightening. While it is true that by observing my lover and his friend I saw colors I had not seen in the woods, that first entrance into the haphazard collage of whites, reds, yellows, pinks, and blues seemed so intense and disjointed that it hurt my eyes trying to tell one shape from another. I began to think about what the forest looked like. Although it seemed like I'd seen some of these colors there, my memory found it difficult to remember the hues. I remembered only shapes, the cylindrical trees, the triangular leaves, circular rocks. But much of my experience of the forest seemed like it was slipping from my grasp. As I tried to take in the new shapes--the enormous square and rectangular buildings, the other trucks and vehicles, and all the objects I had never seen but would later learn the names of--favorite sunning spots, damp logs ripe with juicy insects, and beds of fern were pushed away.
Seeing my shock, my lover said, "I don't suppose you have a name?"
"A name?" I said. His eyebrows raised. He'd asked a question, but I don't think he realized that I hadn't spoken until I said my first words. I was a bit surprised myself; the sounds came out smooth and natural.
"How about Stella?" my friend's companion said through the window that connected the cab and the bed.
"Shut up," my lover said, perhaps with the first flash of anger I'd heard from him. Later I found out that Stella meant "stellar," or of the stars.
I knew what he meant by a name-as I said, I came to learn that everything was given labels of sounds-but I didn't know what to call myself. When a man's voice on the radio announced that next the station would be playing a piece from an opera with Mildred Pierce singing, my lover decided my name. "We'll call you Mildred. Or Millie, actually. Mildred sounds too formal." He nodded his head excitedly. I repeated the word in my head, memorizing it, but at the time it meant little to me. I found out the name means "gentle strength."
That night I lay with him, in his house, in his bed. The warmth and light beneath his skin told me I had chosen the right man. Afterwards, he rolled out of bed onto the floor. I asked him what was wrong, and he said that his insides felt on fire. Nothing assured me more than that.
It didn't take me long to learn the proper ways of speaking. I found it easy to repeat things others said, and building my own sentences soon followed. Moving around in the human world was as easy for the fox as catching a young chipmunk, the prey quick and difficult at first, but easily conquered through its youth and ignorance. As I said, I can become whatever I want, and I have become many things through many years. Even I do not know my age, but I know I am older than human civilization. I have been the rat, the lizard, the dog, the cat, even the monkey. Through my year as the human, I found it easy to adapt, but not because the forest was erased from my mind. On the contrary, I learned to think of everything in terms of the forest; telephone poles were trees, buildings were mountains, and gravel was dirt. I wore bright clothes-oranges, reds, pinks, yellows-shrugging off the memory of the repulsion I felt at the orange hunting jacket.
Though my lover is pleased with how well I am able to fit in with his world, he is disturbed by the pains he feels every time we join together. He also remarks to me how it is odd that he is getting hairier instead of losing hair, which he says is more normal for men as they age. I think he knows what is happening to him. I take these comments as rhetorical, since he never directly blames me for it. One day soon when the stars are right we'll run together during the year of the fox.