I crouched on a mossy log, examining the young fox Philomena. She was usually curious and bouncing with energy. Now, though, she walked with a stagger and had a wisp of foam on her jaws. She had what I think the settlers on the farms around my woods call ‘the rabies’.

I felt a pang of grief, for, with her full red coat, she was beautiful—and doomed. This was the first time in many years I had seen this disease, and I shuddered to remember the carnage it caused when it last appeared. I crooned to the fox with the voice I use to ease pain and fever. She snapped at me but limped under a buttonbush and lay down. I pondered how to speed my Philomena to a gentle death, while shielding other animals from her dread bite.

And then a sudden hush rolled like a wave through the forest. The man had returned.

He emerged from the leafy shadows, a husky figure striding in full whiskers, a patched shirt, trousers tucked into boots, and a battered hat. The man led a white mule up the slope, zigzagging under the lofty trees. The mule carried a pack of rusty spring-traps, their serrated teeth clamped in grimaces of steel.

I left the fox and shadowed them. First, I leapt into a jay’s nest for a better look, then launched into the breeze to glide overhead like a gossamer dandelion seed, and finally tumbled onto the deer path to watch their approach.

Of course, the man could not see me.

For I am Spee, guardian spirit of these woods.

I have been in this place, well…always.  My eternal task is to keep the woods a haven for its animals. In spring, I hover near burrows and nests, shepherding babies through their vulnerable first days with nudges and small magic. In summer and fall, I range among my creatures to see that those who hunt are not greedy and those who are caught die quickly.  In winter, I curl up in snowdrifts next to the old and infirm so they know they will not pass from the world alone. 

Once, this land was carpeted with great forests, and I ran strong with my sister spirits down avenues of oak and birch in the moonlight. But now, I am alone, marooned on this last wooded island in a sea of farms.

In recent times, I have come to know humans very well. Nearly every year, they nibble away another patch of my land, felling trees, pulling up stumps with teams of oxen, plowing the soil, planting strange crops. When my woods finally vanish, then I too shall fade away.

At this moment, though, I could think only of the man trespassing in my woods with his mule and his load of jingling traps.

It was soon after the last snow of the year when I had first spied him moving into a cabin just a stone’s throw from the woods’ edge. Almost every day since, this man strapped on his guns and slipped into my domain.  Most humans are enchanted by my forest’s towering trees and rolling hills and creeks that splash and race merrily across the wild land. But this man was different. His eyes showed no feeling as he looked over even the most ancient trees. He seemed to hunt mechanically, without purpose or passion, idly shooting woodpeckers, squirrels, and other game and leaving them to rot.

Now I watched him halt the mule and pull a large trap from its pack. He walked about, peering and poking at the base of bushes to find the best spot to lay the spring-trap. With horror, I pictured a forest floor covered with these grim machines—their gaping metal jaws buried in leaf litter and set to ambush and cripple my friends the foxes and bears and raccoons.

How could I stop it? I am but a forest spirit. Unlike animals, people cannot even see me. And my songs and spells and voices work only to help and heal. I had no weapon that could halt this cloddish man and his death-traps.

Then I thought of Philomena. She still lay panting under the buttonbush, quiet in her misery. I called to her in my alarm-voice, pitched so high only she could hear. Goaded by its shrill tone, the fox stood wobbling and stepped out from under her bush. The man saw her beautiful pelt, and his eyes widened. Then I sang a song of rest, and Philomena slunk back under the bush and sank to the ground.

The man approached the buttonbush, got down on his knees, and pulled out his handgun. He crept close to the bush, pushed aside a branch, and brought the gun close to the fox’s head.

I jumped at the mule. The beast saw me and reared with a frightened whinny. As the man started and looked over at the mule, Philomena sprang and snapped at his hand. He yanked it away as small drops of blood appeared. The fox had delivered a deep bite.

You can probably guess the rest. The man shot sweet Philomena, giving her a quick death and the peace she so greatly deserved. He looked over her carcass and saw the signs of her disease. The man’s face became a tight, pale mask of terror. He bound up his hand with a handkerchief and hurriedly led his mule out of the forest. He laid no traps.

~ * ~

Late summer has come to our woods, and the cicadas play their droning, drowsy music every afternoon.

Soon, the man will feel the confusion, the terrible thirst, the rage. When the disease is full upon him, his neighbors may tie him to his bed and abandon him in fear. And the man will lay there, delirious, afraid.

Then I will go to his cabin, perch on his bed, and sing for him the songs of passing. Because no creature should die alone.