Disclaimer: While the attempt has been made to be medically accurate as far as is consistent with the fantasy world of Narnia, some artistic license has been taken, and statements made by Rawlstow are not to be regarded as authoritative.
Narnia and recognizable characters thereof are the property of the estate of C. S. Lewis; all original characters and story © 2016 FemaleChauvinist.
Do not post without permission. Do not copy/print without including the above disclaimer in its entirety.
A/N: This story's main character is introduced in my story "Vulpes Medico: Winter's End," so you might wonder about some things if you haven't read that one first. Barbie
[Chapter edited 2-18-16]
Chapter One: Spring Fever
Struggling for breath, the fox Vroxa mused about the irony of it all. She had longed for Spring as fervently as any Narnian under the White Witch's rule, but by a sad twist of fate it was the thaw that would cause her death.
From her days as a kit, she had never known running water. Even during the longest spells of relativity warm weather, it had always been safe to cross any river or lake on foot. So, even with icicles dripping to nothing around her and slushy snow giving way to soft mud that made wild hope beat in her heart, it had never occurred to Vroxa that the ice might no longer be thick enough to bear her until it cracked beneath her paws, sending her plunging into the freezing water with a wild bark of terror. *
She had never before had cause to swim; fortunately several generations had not been enough to lose the instinctual knowledge. Coughing and shivering, she at last managed to pull herself out to lie flat on the ice.
For a moment she simply lay panting, exhausted and terrified to move lest the ice break under her again. Finally she slowly crawled on her belly to a shaded patch near the bank where the ice was thicker.
But here, too, there was danger. Untouched by the sun as the frost returned with evening, this ice had no coating of water on it, and Vroxa's wet paw pads stuck to the dry, cold surface, tearing cruelly as she pulled them free and leaving bloody prints behind.
She whimpered as she made her way back through the muck, managing at last to reach her den. Unlike some of the Talking Animals, she lived much as her wild cousins did, and with no fire to warm her and dry her fur, she could only curl into a miserable, shivering ball, licking half-heartedly at her stinging paws.
Within two days, it was obvious that the White Witch had been defeated and this was truly Spring; it was also painfully obvious to Vroxa that, weakened as she was by the Winter, she wouldn't live to enjoy it. Coughing and feverish, her paws throbbing, it was all she could do to drag herself to the front of the den to at least see the Spring.
There she lay, her head on her paws, and waited with glassy eyes for Death to come. Sometimes she shivered so hard with fever that she thought it was still Winter; other times she was sure this Spring must be only a feverish dream.
At last she lay drifting in and out of a dazed half consciousness, and barely heard the shrill yaps and barks of three young fox kits who happened upon her sickbed.
oOo
After three days of glorious Spring, the memory of Winter began to seem as if it must have been a horrible dream. The population of wild animals, hunted nearly to extinction by the starving Talking Beasts, seemed to explode overnight. The young fox Rawlstow found himself wondering if Aslan had simply created them out of nothing; with all the old fairy tales coming true around him, nothing seemed too fantastic to believe anymore.
With all the fresh mouse they could eat at every meal, Rawlstow could nearly watch his sisters becoming plumper and healthier before his eyes.
The days were too inviting to stay inside, but Rawlstow had spent most of his evening hours studying the magical book of healer's lore Father Christmas had given him. During the day, he hunted for herbs to increase his store of remedies.
On this day he sent his three sisters to play while he foraged, with a stern warning not to eat anything with which they were unfamiliar. It was a lesson Vivian had already learned the hard way; Rawlstow had found her just in time to make her vomit the toadstools she had eaten, and she had been very ill the rest of the day. But by morning she seemed to have recovered with no lasting effects, and now she trotted through the woods ahead of her sisters, doubling back to jump on them and roll through the ferns together for sheer joy.
Leaves and bits of twig clung to their fur as they emerged at last in a small clearing. A hill rose in front of them, with a dark opening inviting curious kits to explore. But as she caught sight of something within the opening, Vivian stopped short, causing Velma and Verdette to trip over her and tumble together in the leaves once more.
"Look!" Vivian yapped, and her sisters rolled to their feet.
"What?" Velma whispered, suddenly timid.
"It looks — like a fox!" Verdette exclaimed. As one, she and Vivian raced across the clearing, with Velma only half a step behind.
"Is…it dead?" Velma whimpered, peering over her sisters' shoulders.
Vivian crouched down close to the fox's muzzle. "It's breathin', I think," she said doubtfully.
"Of course it is!" Verdette declared stoutly. "Listen!"
Indeed, now all three of them could hear the fox's congested breathing, and wondered that there had been any doubt.
Vivian batted at the fox's shoulder with a paw. "Wake up!"
A moan was her only response, so soft it could have been imagined.
"W'should get Rawlstow," Verdette said soberly.
"And leave it alone?" Velma exclaimed. Her momentary fear gone, she felt only sympathy for the sick Beast.
"Y'c'n stay," Verdette told her.
"I will!" Velma barked almost defiantly. Within moments her sisters had disappeared from view, and Velma licked the sick fox's nose. "Don't worry," she whispered. "They'll be back w'Rawlstow soon." She curled up beside the fox's head, doing her best to give all the comfort she could offer.
oOo
Rawlstow heard his sisters' excited yapping long before they came into view and barked sharply in response to let them know where he was, standing tense as he realized he heard only two voices. "Where's Velma?" he demanded as Vivian and Verdette tumbled into the clearing where he was gathering his herbs.
Too excited to Speak, the two kits barked and yapped at the same time, so that it took Rawlstow a moment to piece together a coherent understanding of what they had found and where Velma was.
"Calm down!" he ordered. "Is this fox y'found a Talkin' Fox?"
Vivian and Verdette looked at each other. "We don't know," Verdette admitted.
"Rawlstow, y'have t'come anyway!" Vivian demanded, tugging on a mouthful of her brother's fur. *
"O'course I will," he told her. "Ow! Stop that, Vivian; I'm comin'." Leaving the bag of herbs where it lay, he followed his sisters as they dashed into the woods.
He could easily have outdistanced them, following their scent back, but he chose to let them lead, still yapping and barking as they ran. With all that commotion, Rawlstow mused wryly as they emerged into the clearing and Velma came running to meet them, the fox must be quite sick not to rouse.
Under the odour of sickness, Rawlstow detected as he approached the faint scent that told him the fox was female. "Miss?" he barked, getting as he expected no response.
"It's a girl?" Verdette demanded.
"Yes," Rawlstow said absently, pressing his nose lightly to hers and finding it hot and dry.
"How can y'tell?" Vivian demanded, trotting nearly under his paws.
Rawlstow rounded on her with an impatient yap, and she jumped back several feet, her tail between her legs.
A quick glance into the interior of the den told Rawlstow that there was no means to light a fire; to care for her adequately he would have to bring her back to his own den. He grimaced slightly at the thought of walking so far on his hind legs, especially carrying another full-grown fox, but didn't hesitate before gathering her into his forelegs.
Even with his own strength not fully come after the Winter, he was surprised at how light she was. Was there anything more to her than fur and bones? he wondered. No wonder she was so ill; her starved body wouldn't have any defences.
"Don't trip me up," he warned the kits, and began the long trek back to the den.
oOo
Vroxa drifted up through her feverish haze, becoming a bit more aware of her surroundings. But surely this was merely another dream of her delirium, as she seemed to be carried by a strong young dog fox.
Too weary to know or care whether it was real, she let herself enjoy the thick warmth of his fur as she once more sank into unconsciousness.
oOo
Rawlstow's back was screaming in pain by the time they reached the den. "Pull th'featherbed in front of th'fire," he panted. "Not s'close y'burn it, mind!"
The kits hurried to obey, tugging the featherbed to the warmth of the hearth. *
Rawlstow lay the fox on the soft cushion, barely avoiding tumbling on top of her as his hind legs trembled with strain. He pulled himself up, then simply stood for a moment, enjoying the relief of being on four paws again.
A weak cough from the pallet brought his attention back to his charge, and he gave her nose a quick swipe with his tongue before forcing himself to his hind legs again to put some water to heat and dish up a little of the broth that was simmering on the stove.
"Miss Fox? Miss Fox, c'n y'hear me?"
Golden eyes slitted open the tiniest bit, but Rawlstow had no idea how aware she might be.
"I need ye t'drink some o'this," Rawlstow coaxed.
If she heard, she gave no sign, and she seemed to show no interest even when he dribbled a few drops on her tongue.
Knowing she needed nourishment, Rawlstow set the bowl aside with a sigh and turned his attention to her paws. He had noted as he carried her that the dried mud which caked them looked and smelled suspiciously like it was mixed with blood, and as he soaked it off with warm water his suspicions were confirmed. Her pads were raw and angry red, most of the skin torn off and the tissue beneath hot and swollen. Watching over his shoulder, Verdette whimpered in sympathy, lifting her own paws one by one as if they were sore as well.
"Get me th'salve," Rawlstow ordered without turning around. It was one of the first remedies he had concocted, his sisters managing to get cut or scratched almost daily.
He licked the wounds thoroughly clean, taking it as a good sign when she whined slightly and tried weakly to pull her paws away.
When he was satisfied that no dirt remained, he took the salve Velma handed him and spread it generously over the sores.
"Let's try th'broth again," he decided, and turned to find Vivian standing beside an empty bowl with a guilty expression on her face.
"I was hungry, Rawlstow — an' she didn't want it!"
Rawlstow growled softly at her, and though she knew her brother would never hurt her, Vivian tucked her tail between her legs and ran for the far side of the den.
Rawlstow dished up a fresh serving of broth, and this time managed to get the fox to swallow a few spoonfuls.
"Watch her," he told Velma and Verdette. "Let m'know if anythin' changes."
The two kits sat down to stare at the fox, taking their charge so seriously that Rawlstow would have chuckled if he hadn't been so troubled. Going to where Father Christmas's book lay, he flipped it open with a paw.
As always when he was looking with some intent and not merely browsing, the magic of the book let it open just to the place he needed.
What he read of coughs and laboured breathing did nothing to ease his mind, especially after laying his ear to the fox's back and recognizing the sounds the book described as indicative of pneumonia.
"Is she goin' to die, Rawlstow?" Velma asked, seeing the gravity of her brother's face.
"I hope not," Rawlstow said soberly, looking again to the book for the recommended treatment. There seemed to be little that could be done, the suggested measures successful in only about half the cases the healer had treated.
But he had to try, Rawlstow thought grimly as he prepared the poultice for her back and chest and placed a pan of hot water where she could breathe the steam. Surely infusing some herbs in the water would help, he mused, but the book gave no hint as to which, if any, would be effectual.
Sniffing among his store, Rawlstow chose the one whose scent seemed most to open his own air passages, and on a whim added a sprinkling to the water. If it worked, perhaps he would be able to add the first entry to the book that was in the hand of a fox.
But it seemed it was not to be. If anything the fox's breathing grew worse, and Rawlstow tried steam without the herbs, then various other herbs from his store, with no discernible difference. As he listened to the congestion in her lungs, he wished she would cough, but she seemed too utterly spent to make the effort.
Rawlstow took to steeping the herbs for her fever in the rich broth he coaxed her to drink, so that the little she swallowed would provide both medicine and nourishment.
Long after the kits had gone to bed, Rawlstow sat up with the sick fox. Again and again he turned to his book, hoping to find something he had missed, but even its magic couldn't show him a cure that hadn't first been discovered by an owner of one of the copies.
"Oh, Aslan," he groaned. "Aslan, only you can heal her now."
He prayed through the night as he continued giving her what treatment he could, sleeping only in brief snatches.
When morning came, the kits crept soberly around the den, shy and scared now in the presence of Death. Soon they slipped outside, where they seemed to forget their guest as Rawlstow heard their usual happy barks. He could hardly blame them; they were young and Spring was still new to them…and he suspected they had more faith than they should in his abilities as a healer.
They had been outside perhaps half an hour when Velma trotted in, a bouquet of fragrant flowers in her mouth. Dropping it in front of the fox's muzzle, she licked her nose. "Th'Winter's over," she told her. "Spring is too nice to be sick!"
Rawlstow nearly told Velma to take her flowers and go play, when suddenly he realized that maybe she had the right idea. Perhaps the reason the fox seemed to have no will to live was that she didn't realize the White Witch's Winter was over — and in that case he could hardly blame her. Who among them had not thought at least once of how pleasant it would be to curl up in the snow and simply give up? And surely that feeling would be even stronger if one was sick to begin with.
Bending down, he licked her ear as hard as he could. "Velma's right," he told her. "Y'can't give up now that Spring has come!"
The fox's nostrils quivered, so faintly at first that Rawlstow feared he was imagining it. But Velma, too, had seen it, and helpfully pushed the flowers a little closer.
This time there was no doubt; the fox tried to sniff the flowers, then fell into a hard fit of wracking coughs. Velma cringed, fearing she had only made things worse, and in his concern for the patient Rawlstow had no time to spare to reassure his sister.
The fox gasped for breath as the coughs shook her body without rest, and Rawlstow lightly pummelled her back with both forepaws to help loosen the congestion. Then suddenly she gagged, choking on the phlegm that filled her throat.
Rawlstow quickly forced her mouth open, but found his paw wouldn't reach far enough to clear her airway and found himself envying humans their long, dexterous fingers. With barely a moment's thought, he grabbed one of Velma's flowers, using the end of the long stem to tickle the back of the fox's throat.
She gagged again, then retched, gasped for breath, and fell into another fit of coughing as Rawlstow cleared the thick mucus from her mouth.
It was at least fifteen minutes before she at last lay quietly, limp and weary, but her breathing a little easier.
"I — didn't mean t'make her cough!" Velma whimpered, still backing away as if fearful of Rawlstow's wrath.
Rawlstow licked her ear. "Y'may have saved her life," he told her.
"I did?" Velma asked in wide-eyed disbelief.
"Aye." He licked her ear again, and Velma's tongue lolled out of her mouth in a pleased grin. *
oOo
The improvement continued throughout the day; still never fully conscious, the fox seemed more aware of her surroundings and lapped willingly at the herb-infused broth Rawlstow offered. He had placed Velma's flowers in a mug of water beside her head, hoping the fragrance would encourage her to continue to get well.
She was coughing more often now as the mucus continued to loosen, and each time Rawlstow massaged her back to help her bring it up. After clearing her mouth, he would again listen to her breathing.
By evening her lungs had grown noticeably clearer, and as night shrouded the den in darkness she seemed to Rawlstow to be falling into a restful sleep unlike her previous unconsciousness.
Feeling sure she was out of danger now, Rawlstow curled up near the featherbed and allowed himself to get some sleep as well, though always alert to anything she might need.
oOo
Vroxa opened her eyes slowly, then stared dazedly at the objects in the mug in front of her. Flowers, the word came to mind from an old fairy tale, but surely there were no flowers in Narnia. At least not for years and years, perhaps a hundred; ever since the White Witch had begun her cruel reign.
She felt warm, too; comfortably warm for the first time she could remember. She might have thought she had died and gone to Aslan's Country, if not for the unpleasant full tightness in her chest. She felt better now than she had, she realized dimly, but still a sharp pain with every breath let her know she was alive.
She lay languidly for a moment before giving in to the urge to cough, a deep cough that made her lungs ache and her throat burn.
To her surprise, she felt someone kneading her back, helping her get up the phlegm. She spat weakly, and a black paw was there to wipe her mouth for her.
It was a fox, she realized, and recalled as if through a haze that he had been tending her for some time, though she had taken him for only a dream.
"Yer awake, I see," he said softly, his voice pleasant with just the right Vulpine burr to it.
"Where-where am I?" she rasped weakly, surprised at how rough her own voice sounded.
"In m'den," he told her. "I'm Rawlstow; m'sisters found ye burnin' w'fever, so I brought y'back here t'tend ye." He pressed his nose to hers. "Yer fever's down now, but yer still a little warm."
"Are you — a healer?"
He cocked his head, appearing uncertain of the answer. "I know somethin' about healin'," he said after a moment. "And what's yer name?"
"Vroxa." She stared again at the flowers; seeing the direction of her gaze, Rawlstow smiled. "Th'Winter's over, Vroxa," he said simply. "Aslan h's brought Spring at last."
By the time Rawlstow had listened to Vroxa's lungs and given her some broth, the kits were awake and excited to see that their guest was also alert. Rawlstow laughingly attempted to introduce them as they scrambled around until there seemed to be far more than three.
"Calm down," Rawlstow yapped. "Yer goin' t'wear her out just watchin' ye."
The kits obediently sat, and Verdette regarded Vroxa with her head cocked to one side. "Rawlstow, her fur's all messed up. C'n we comb it out?"
Rawlstow sighed. "D'y'mind?" he asked Vroxa.
"No…" she murmured. "Sounds…nice."
"All right, then. But mind y'don't pull too hard; some of those knots likely need t'be cut off."
"Oh, no, Rawlstow!" Verdette exclaimed in horror.
Rawlstow licked her nose. "Y'do what y'c'n first."
The kits settled around Vroxa and began teasing out the knots with surprisingly gentle claws. Vroxa found the gentle tugging curiously soothing; their little tongues as they licked smooth the patches they had detangled even more so. She was dozing by the time they finished, her fur remaining dull and patchy in places, but still much improved.
"See, we did it all without cutting!" Vivian boasted, not counting the times she had lost patience and snipped a knot off with her sharp teeth.
"But we couldn't reach her belly," Verdette said regretfully. "C'n y'roll her, Rawlstow?"
"Leave it for now," Rawlstow told her. "There'll be time enough t'tend to it later."
oOo
Vroxa's recovery was amazingly quick after that, and soon she was hobbling out of the den on her bandaged paws to lie blissfully in the Spring sunshine.
Rawlstow had laid his ear often against her back or the side of her chest while she lay so ill, and thought nothing of it. But as he checked her breathing one day well into her convalescence, he suddenly became aware of the intimate nature of his position and drew back, his face flaming under the fur.
"Are y'all right?" Vroxa questioned curiously as he stepped back so fast he stumbled over his own paws.
"Yes," Rawlstow barked hastily, too flustered for Speech. "I-I think yer well enough that I don't need t'keep checkin' yer breathin'."
Vroxa smiled slowly, slightly flattered as it dawned on her what the problem was. "I don't mind," she told him shyly.
Rawlstow's face flamed hotter; for the first time since Winter had ended, he found himself wishing for a snowbank to dive into. "Yes, well…" he murmured, wishing the kits would come tumbling in. He made up his mind not to check Vroxa again unless they were in the den with him. "I wonder if there's a better way to do it," he mused, his thoughts turning slightly more practical as he considered the subject.
"If there is, I'm sure you'll find it," Vroxa said confidently.
Rawlstow shook his head. "None of the centaur healers who owned my book ever found a way."
Vroxa laughed. "And do y'think that means one doesn't exist? Who cares about what centaurs say? They always think they're so wise, but I think a sly fox is cleverer than a centaur any day."
* Link to illustration can be found in the Narnia folder of my DeviantArt account.
Next week…will Rawlstow find the better way?
I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)
Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie