When From the Woods on a Winter Evening
by Shay Galloway
He thought he heard a woman screaming. The sound, piercing and shrill, pulled his focus from the fire he’d been building. Pop had been gone two days by then, but that was alright; Dove had enough food for a couple weeks at least, and Pop would be back in a few days’ time. But the food might not last that long if there was a woman out in the woods who needed saving. The fire at his hands whispered and crackled to life. Dove piqued his ears and heard scream again, confirming it was real and not in his imagination. Sometimes his imagination got the best of him, as his father would say. But what else could he do when he was left alone for days—sometimes weeks—at a time.
It wasn’t his father’s fault he was alone, not really. He was the best tracker around; that’s why they always came asking for him. At first, after Ma was gone, Pop would take Dove across the woods to the old widow there until she died two years later. But that was alright, Dove was old enough by then to spend three, four days on his own. Pop always came back before there was ever any need to worry. Give it a year or two, maybe Dove would get to go along with him, Pop said.
In his father’s absence, he’d carry on doing what needed to be done: build a fire, heat the beans, stack the firewood, read the same five books over and over again until he could recount them, acting out the scenes alone about the cabin. He could almost see Robinson Crusoe, smell the salty sea air over the breath of the forest, even though he’d never experienced the ocean. He could hear the snarl of the Kipling’s tiger in the forest. So, it was only natural he’d pause at a woman’s scream, unsure if it was real or not.
When it came a third time, and Dove was sure he was in reality. He poked a log into the fire and stood, brushing the dust from his knees, the soot from his hands. Then he donned his boots and Pa’s old coat. Sunset was falling fast outside, so he lit a lamp, draped a blanket over his elbow and headed out into the cold. Clouds of his breath held orange in the lamplight, the hard snow squeaked beneath his boots.
How long had Ma been gone? Dove was forgetting her face, even though he would never forget the night that took her, all the bloodied cloths, the pile in the corning holding a gray little body looking more like an unpainted doll than a once-living being. Ma herself was so drained of color; it was hard to imagine she’d had any at all. Five years ago, now? Six? On a brisk mid-winter night like this one. The old widow from the woods had been there, but there was nothing she could do. Dove had always found her both comforting and saddening, the old widow.
He stood at the edge of the woods, holding the lamp up to the cloistered darkness. He knew these woods, had grown among its leaves and roots, but he still feared the forest in the dark. Wolves, coyotes, bears. The list of creatures not to surprise in the night went on. The scream again, weaker though, shorter. Dove oriented himself toward it and moved forward, listening for any cries and whimpers.
As he moved closer, he considered what he might find. A woman in trouble. What kind of trouble? Would there be blood like there had been with Ma? Would she be alone? No one should suffer alone in the woods. He paused every so often, waiting for sound above his own blood, his breath. The closer he drew, the more the sounds changed, less human, until at last he came upon the source.
It was not a woman, but a fox. Caught in one of their rabbit traps. Dove’s presence startled it in its exhaustion, and it strained against its leg, twisting fiercely, lashing toward Dove. Part of Dove was relieved it was not a woman who had been hours in pain alone in the woods. But disappointment also shaded him; he had started looking forward to not having to spend the night alone.
The fox whimpered. “You gotta put it out of its misery,” Pop would say. “It’s better than letting it suffer.”
But Dove hadn’t brought the rifle, hadn’t thought to. He hadn’t wanted to scare a woman alone in the dark woods. Even a knife would have been better than nothing, but he hadn’t thought to bring that either, just the lamp and the blanket. All he had was light and warmth. The fox screamed. Twisted, flailed, went limp. Dove stepped softly, clicking his tongue gently, reassuring the animal he was no threat. The leg was bad, twisted nearly all the way around. The fox cowered, tried to scramble away as Dove kneeled near it. He felt around the cold ground until he found a rock and dug it out of the solid earth. It burned against his palm. The fox, having given itself to its fate, eyed him with its watery black eyes, body rising and falling with each pained breath. Dove gripped at the rock, tried to lift it, calculate the force it would take to get the job done.
But he couldn’t do it. He stared into the fox’s eyes and thought of potential fox babies laying her lair, how they might need her. They probably sat there waiting for her to return, for her warmth. They might have even heard her screams and sat panicked and confused, knowing something was wrong but unable to do anything.
He shivered. He couldn’t let her die, let her babies go hungry. He had to save her. Hush, hush, hush, the consoled, reaching to release the trap. The fox snarled, twisting beneath him as the metal shifted. Dove tossed the trap aside and stood. The fox gave one weak attempt to rise and fell again, pain rippling through its spent body.
Dove threw the blanket over the creature. It let him carry her home. He rushed through the dark, his skin going taut with the cold. He shivered and ran, his teeth clattering violently by the time he reached home, his lungs burned. Inside, he lay the fox and his coat on the floor in front of the fire, threw on another log, beat his arms to bring back the feeling in his hands. He brought the fox some bread, a bit of jerky. It lapped both from his hand and lay down again.
There was nothing to be done about the leg except take it off. It was already dangling. Quick and clean. But it didn’t go like that. He did what he should have done. Chose the sharpest knife, let it get hot until the color shifted in the flames. Again, he straddled the small body, back to the creature’s head.
Maybe the knife was not hot enough, because once the blood started, it did not stop. As he cut, the fox screamed, writhed, snarled, bit. Still, he continued through sinew and skin, until the knife released, the slippery, bloodied blade arching through the air. Scrambling, the boy reached for it, wiping the blood on his shirt before thrusting the knife again into the fire. The fox attempted to stand, blood spreading on the floor. “No, no,” Dove pleaded, reaching to the stay the fox. The knife blade bubbled, turned red, and Dove moved fast, wrestling the fox secure on the floor. He held the stump steady and pressed the knife to the ragged flesh. It sizzled and smoked, the acrid scent of burning fur.
At last, it was done, and both beast and boy collapsed. The blood had stopped, the fire crackled. Dove found a clean blanket and made up a nest near the fire, making the fox comfortable in the center, her little black eyes watching him as he added another log to the fire and made to clean all the carnage as best he could. But already, the blood had stained the hardwood.
The fox’s eyes closed. Dove watched her little body expand and contract with each breath until he himself fell asleep.
When he woke, the fire had burned to red-speckled embers. He threw another log; the flames took just a moment to reignite. It was too dark to visually inspect the fox, so Dove reached out, his hands sinking into the thick winter fur. There was no warmth beneath it, only stiff flesh. His efforts had been hopeless. The tears trailed Dove’s cheeks hot as the blood on his hands.
It wasn’t his father’s fault he was alone, not really. He was the best tracker around; that’s why they always came asking for him. At first, after Ma was gone, Pop would take Dove across the woods to the old widow there until she died two years later. But that was alright, Dove was old enough by then to spend three, four days on his own. Pop always came back before there was ever any need to worry. Give it a year or two, maybe Dove would get to go along with him, Pop said.
In his father’s absence, he’d carry on doing what needed to be done: build a fire, heat the beans, stack the firewood, read the same five books over and over again until he could recount them, acting out the scenes alone about the cabin. He could almost see Robinson Crusoe, smell the salty sea air over the breath of the forest, even though he’d never experienced the ocean. He could hear the snarl of the Kipling’s tiger in the forest. So, it was only natural he’d pause at a woman’s scream, unsure if it was real or not.
When it came a third time, and Dove was sure he was in reality. He poked a log into the fire and stood, brushing the dust from his knees, the soot from his hands. Then he donned his boots and Pa’s old coat. Sunset was falling fast outside, so he lit a lamp, draped a blanket over his elbow and headed out into the cold. Clouds of his breath held orange in the lamplight, the hard snow squeaked beneath his boots.
How long had Ma been gone? Dove was forgetting her face, even though he would never forget the night that took her, all the bloodied cloths, the pile in the corning holding a gray little body looking more like an unpainted doll than a once-living being. Ma herself was so drained of color; it was hard to imagine she’d had any at all. Five years ago, now? Six? On a brisk mid-winter night like this one. The old widow from the woods had been there, but there was nothing she could do. Dove had always found her both comforting and saddening, the old widow.
He stood at the edge of the woods, holding the lamp up to the cloistered darkness. He knew these woods, had grown among its leaves and roots, but he still feared the forest in the dark. Wolves, coyotes, bears. The list of creatures not to surprise in the night went on. The scream again, weaker though, shorter. Dove oriented himself toward it and moved forward, listening for any cries and whimpers.
As he moved closer, he considered what he might find. A woman in trouble. What kind of trouble? Would there be blood like there had been with Ma? Would she be alone? No one should suffer alone in the woods. He paused every so often, waiting for sound above his own blood, his breath. The closer he drew, the more the sounds changed, less human, until at last he came upon the source.
It was not a woman, but a fox. Caught in one of their rabbit traps. Dove’s presence startled it in its exhaustion, and it strained against its leg, twisting fiercely, lashing toward Dove. Part of Dove was relieved it was not a woman who had been hours in pain alone in the woods. But disappointment also shaded him; he had started looking forward to not having to spend the night alone.
The fox whimpered. “You gotta put it out of its misery,” Pop would say. “It’s better than letting it suffer.”
But Dove hadn’t brought the rifle, hadn’t thought to. He hadn’t wanted to scare a woman alone in the dark woods. Even a knife would have been better than nothing, but he hadn’t thought to bring that either, just the lamp and the blanket. All he had was light and warmth. The fox screamed. Twisted, flailed, went limp. Dove stepped softly, clicking his tongue gently, reassuring the animal he was no threat. The leg was bad, twisted nearly all the way around. The fox cowered, tried to scramble away as Dove kneeled near it. He felt around the cold ground until he found a rock and dug it out of the solid earth. It burned against his palm. The fox, having given itself to its fate, eyed him with its watery black eyes, body rising and falling with each pained breath. Dove gripped at the rock, tried to lift it, calculate the force it would take to get the job done.
But he couldn’t do it. He stared into the fox’s eyes and thought of potential fox babies laying her lair, how they might need her. They probably sat there waiting for her to return, for her warmth. They might have even heard her screams and sat panicked and confused, knowing something was wrong but unable to do anything.
He shivered. He couldn’t let her die, let her babies go hungry. He had to save her. Hush, hush, hush, the consoled, reaching to release the trap. The fox snarled, twisting beneath him as the metal shifted. Dove tossed the trap aside and stood. The fox gave one weak attempt to rise and fell again, pain rippling through its spent body.
Dove threw the blanket over the creature. It let him carry her home. He rushed through the dark, his skin going taut with the cold. He shivered and ran, his teeth clattering violently by the time he reached home, his lungs burned. Inside, he lay the fox and his coat on the floor in front of the fire, threw on another log, beat his arms to bring back the feeling in his hands. He brought the fox some bread, a bit of jerky. It lapped both from his hand and lay down again.
There was nothing to be done about the leg except take it off. It was already dangling. Quick and clean. But it didn’t go like that. He did what he should have done. Chose the sharpest knife, let it get hot until the color shifted in the flames. Again, he straddled the small body, back to the creature’s head.
Maybe the knife was not hot enough, because once the blood started, it did not stop. As he cut, the fox screamed, writhed, snarled, bit. Still, he continued through sinew and skin, until the knife released, the slippery, bloodied blade arching through the air. Scrambling, the boy reached for it, wiping the blood on his shirt before thrusting the knife again into the fire. The fox attempted to stand, blood spreading on the floor. “No, no,” Dove pleaded, reaching to the stay the fox. The knife blade bubbled, turned red, and Dove moved fast, wrestling the fox secure on the floor. He held the stump steady and pressed the knife to the ragged flesh. It sizzled and smoked, the acrid scent of burning fur.
At last, it was done, and both beast and boy collapsed. The blood had stopped, the fire crackled. Dove found a clean blanket and made up a nest near the fire, making the fox comfortable in the center, her little black eyes watching him as he added another log to the fire and made to clean all the carnage as best he could. But already, the blood had stained the hardwood.
The fox’s eyes closed. Dove watched her little body expand and contract with each breath until he himself fell asleep.
When he woke, the fire had burned to red-speckled embers. He threw another log; the flames took just a moment to reignite. It was too dark to visually inspect the fox, so Dove reached out, his hands sinking into the thick winter fur. There was no warmth beneath it, only stiff flesh. His efforts had been hopeless. The tears trailed Dove’s cheeks hot as the blood on his hands.
Shay Galloway studied creative writing at Utah State University and received an MFA from Roosevelt University, Chicago. Her work has been featured in several journals and mags. Her debut novel, The Valley of Sage and Juniper was released March 2023 with Running Wild/RIZE Press. She hosts The Bitch Moms Book Club podcast, and #MomsWritersClub social media chats. She currently teaches college English and resides in Washington with her husband and son.