Post by franklinmarsh on Feb 21, 2013 14:21:58 GMT
To lose a child is a terrible thing. To lose a child to an urban fox is simultaneously terrible and ridiculous. The little red bastards had become too bold. They just didn’t give a damn anymore. Well, Amy would make sure that wouldn’t happen again. A weekend trip to her parents in deepest Berkshire gave her the chance she craved. They cooed sympathetically at first but inevitably gave her ‘space’ when she requested it. As soon as they’d left for church on Sunday morn, she was up in the attic like a shot. Grandpa’s trunk still held the instrument. She secreted it amongst her smalls in her suitcase.
Mother and father looked on in amazement at her sudden recovery, brightness of mood, almost hysterical laughter. In some ways they were glad she returned to the city on the Monday.
Monday night, a full moon, Hunter’s moon. She knocked back port from the stirrup cup, and put the hunting horn to her lips. A faint raspberry. Puffing out her cheeks, she strained. The resultant cacophony shook even her. Dare she try again? As she seized the horn, she thought she heard the yelps of the pack and the thunder of hooves. She almost cried. Get ready, Reynard. All of them. Basil bloody Brush. That effing bingo merchant. Tonight was her night, the night for revenge. She staggered to the window, and gulped back a sob as she saw the Hunt milling in her backyard, shimmering in the moonlight, the blood red jackets faded, the guffaws and snarls muted.
She threw open her window and shrieked “Kill them! Kill them all!”
The spectral figures cheered and one raised a horn, similar to her purloined one, to his transparent lips and blew. Horses neighed and chafed at their halters. The hounds bayed.
“View halloo!”
Overcome with excitement and port, she leaned out of the open window to glimpse her nemesis. She fell.
The police were baffled. The fall hadn’t killed her. She’d been torn to pieces. Traguic, considering the fate of her child. But the pathologist swore blind that it was hounds not foxes that rent her….
Mother and father looked on in amazement at her sudden recovery, brightness of mood, almost hysterical laughter. In some ways they were glad she returned to the city on the Monday.
Monday night, a full moon, Hunter’s moon. She knocked back port from the stirrup cup, and put the hunting horn to her lips. A faint raspberry. Puffing out her cheeks, she strained. The resultant cacophony shook even her. Dare she try again? As she seized the horn, she thought she heard the yelps of the pack and the thunder of hooves. She almost cried. Get ready, Reynard. All of them. Basil bloody Brush. That effing bingo merchant. Tonight was her night, the night for revenge. She staggered to the window, and gulped back a sob as she saw the Hunt milling in her backyard, shimmering in the moonlight, the blood red jackets faded, the guffaws and snarls muted.
She threw open her window and shrieked “Kill them! Kill them all!”
The spectral figures cheered and one raised a horn, similar to her purloined one, to his transparent lips and blew. Horses neighed and chafed at their halters. The hounds bayed.
“View halloo!”
Overcome with excitement and port, she leaned out of the open window to glimpse her nemesis. She fell.
The police were baffled. The fall hadn’t killed her. She’d been torn to pieces. Traguic, considering the fate of her child. But the pathologist swore blind that it was hounds not foxes that rent her….