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Chapter 2: Till Death Do us Part?
Margaret was a most ambiguous character in a certain sense. Her attitude was as variable as was her cooking though you have to give an arm and a leg to tell her so. She was young, of a tender 26 years old, though she actively struggled to hide her shocking wrinkle which invariably marked the sides of her jaw. She was blonde, as blonde as they come and none to proud of it surprisingly, it was for this reason that she always managed to keep it of surprisingly short length. Her figure was small and frail and her smile, subtle, tempting yet enigmatic. She could be accurately described as a bohemian yet loathes such a label.
Artistic when she wants to be; she always found time to be pretentious and critical of everything around her. This coupled with her innately unpleasurable disposition and, how do you say…less than satisfactory cooking abilities is exactly what professional starving artist Arthur Rochester did not expect.
Love. It's funny how it seems to wind its path. Arthur met Margaret at his former conservatoire in London, immediately attracted by her talent, argumentative spirit, and beautiful complexion. And even after four stress-ridden years together, riddled with bumps and bruises, the truth was, he just simply could not think of life without her. It was sweet…and rather pathetic really.
Life in the Rochester household had been rather uneventful after the move from London. Why they chose life in the southwestern American countryside is just as much a mystery of spontaneity as it was a part of financial stratagem. You see, Arthur really was a professional starving artist. After leaving the school, he and Margaret proved to be part of the 30 of students who failed to find efficient employment. Needless to say, he was nevertheless a very talented, if not slightly timid musician. Margaret…well…she is another story altogether.
It was however on this day that life for the Rochester's would change dramatically, for it was at that exact moment as Arthur was seating himself at the bench, Margaret in the kitchen, the there was a sudden, and particularly violent knock upon the door. So violent in-fact, that it caused Arthur to leap from his bench, dropping various pieces of sheet music, a mug, among other trivial objects. Margaret's reaction was typical of her character.
"Arthur, could you get the door?" her voice rose in pitch as she spoke, then dropped to a murmur, "Bloody solicitors…" she proceeded to chop the onion that was currently pressed upon the table with several slow, clumsy strokes, muttering incoherently.
Arthur was a bit jarred by this remark as he struggled to his feet, gravely agitated by the mess he made. He rolled his eyes as he bent down to pick up the sheets of music now covered in blisteringly hot tea. He coiled his hand in pain and shouted, still restraining himself, "A bit busy at the moment dear, perhaps you could?"
"Well I am in the middle of something; these onions don't chop themselves you know! Quite being such a lazy bum and get the door!" her voice was commanding as this point, almost as to shake the houses foundation.
"Well…" Arthur searched for the words, "This tea might stain the carpet otherwise, I really should…"
"Of for heavens sake!" Margaret was clearly agitated by the laziness of her husband. She cast the knife into the sink, grabbed a towel for her hands and stormed through the kitchen. She reached the door and cast an inquisitive eye through the cheaply made "peep-hole"
"There's nothing there." She announced triumphantly as she began to step away form the door.
"Right, you heard the knock! Just open it will you?" Arthur was still bent over his sheets, gritting his teeth over the mess, strictly avoiding eye-contact evasively.
Margaret rolled her eyes derisively and returned to the access, opening slowly.
Initially, there seem to be nothing yet again, yet her eyes were slowly drawn downwards, eventually meeting with a small red creature lying quite motionless on the doorstep. Its head was twisted in a manner most uncomfortably to the left of his torso, his for paws outstretched, as if to imply desperation.
"Oh my god, what is that?" Margaret gasped as she stumbled backwards, her hands over her mouth in shock. She immediately called to Arthur, who was still steaming over his collection.
"Arthur, come quick, come and look!" Arthur was hardly enthusiastic, he lifted his head slightly and focused his eyes, tilting his glasses to the side, up a bit, then back again.
"What is it?" he said this quite exasperatedly, making it clear that he really didn't care very much at all.
"Just hurry up, come here, NOW!" Arthur broodingly walks to the door, still quite frustrated, until he saw what lay before him.
"Um, wait, that's one of those…oh what do you call 'em?" he rested his hand on the door and stroked his chin. "A red lion was it? Or a mountain fox, I don't remember." He inched closer, now stooping over. "He doesn't look to good does he?"
At that exact moment, Copper regained his consciousness. Light, colors, feeling, it was all coming back to him. It was at that point that he instinctively remembered "the sound." That beautiful sound, had it stopped? Everything still seemed so surreal.
No. There was a sound, but this was different, it seemed to resemble that of words, human words, voices. He began to stretch his legs and attempted to regain his balance. Yet as he did so, he was shocked to realize that the banter that was going on around him was actually faintly intelligible, and became more so as his awareness rose.
"Whoa, whoa, he's moving!" shrieked Margaret as she recoiled behind the door. "What if it attacks?
Arthur laughed; he couldn't find the logic in fearing such a cute harmless animal. It looked utterly helpless, and it was this helplessness that drew Arthur towards him.
"You alright little fella?" he tilted his head to the side, still beaming absolutely. "Was it you that made all this racket?"
Copper was a bit annoyed by this mans manner of speech. It seemed overtly coaxing, almost childish. He struggled to pick himself up and slowly lifted his head. What he did next was purely instinctual, for it is a simply fact that when one is spoken to he should return the favor.
"Funny," Copper said with a shake of his head, "I wanted to ask you the same question."
Arthur froze. He would have screamed but he was too shocked by what he had just witnessed. This…thing had just spoken to him. Arthur had surely lost his sanity. Speaking to a fox? It was impossible. It was ridiculous. Arthur summoned as much courage as he could and tried to suppress his fear.
"Eh…eh.. excuse me?" he spoke with a quivering voice.
Copper seemed to look through him, his eyes searching. He looked from side to side then reverted eye-contact towards the man. "Well you see…"
At that very moment, Margaret had finally returned from this kitchen, an onion in one hand and a large blunt metal shovel in the other. She didn't overhear any of the proceeding conversation but still was possessed with fear. She extended the shovel and with the full weight of her body, struck Copper upon his head. Copper didn't say a word but with his fore paws, firmly grasped his forehead, trying to scream in pain, but the pain was to great, only silence prevailed. In response, Margaret elevated the shovel a second time, and a second time she struck his forehead. This time Copper fell limply to the ground. He noticed a slight bit of red liquid on the tips of his paws, again the world grew dark. Margaret lifted the shovel once more, in a fear driven fit of rage and began the downward swing.
Arthur immediately caught her in mid-swing and cast a leering gaze, the fury in his eyes was absolutely penetrating.
"What in the bloody hell do you think you are doing, eh!" He grabbed the shovel and cast it aside. "You darn near killed the poor thing!" He rushed to the side of the fallen animal immediately checking the wound on the top of his head. He'd seen worse.
Margaret was a bit confused by this. Her intentions were pure enough. She figured it was rabid or something of the sort. She was quite impressed by her action and found no fault in it.
"Well this is the thanks I get? That thing could have easily torn you apart. I've seen it before. Really I have!" she was nagging at this point.
"Get off it," having witnessed what he saw, Arthur felt he had every right to been angry and relished in the sensation. He pointed to the closet behind him. "Get some bandages alright? Arthur scooped up the fox in his arms, selflessly unconcerned with the blood currently covering his hands. He entered the house, careful to shut the door behind him.
---In A nearby forest---
Tod ears were readily greeted with the familiar sound of forest morning activity. The pale streams of light grazed the depths of the burrow as Tod stretched his legs, expelling all the air from his lungs in a gratifying yawn. He instantly realized Vixey was no longer beside him, the bare spot upon which she habitually slept was barren and cold. Tod blearily stumbled his way to the burrows entrance. The morning air was moist and heavy. He was rather disappointed by this fact as he crept out of the burrow completely, a frown washed over his face. The random songs of the morning birds were particularly dissonant this morning and Tod writhed in the cacophony. He approached the stream in which he would normally bathe and on occasion, feed, but this was currently being occupied by another.
Vixey sat pensively at the pools edge; her eyes, filled with a certain amount of incommunicable sorrow. Every now and then she would inhale deeply and sigh, simultaneously dipping her paw in the water. She would then systematically pull said paw out of the water, shake it off a bit, pick a blade of grass, roll it into a smallish ball, cast it aside, pick up a rock, look at it, throw it into the pool, and repeat. Needless to say, Tod found the performance to be most amusing, if not a bit disturbing and depressing. Vixey rarely took to mindless mental wandering such as this. Most concern would usually be expelled through physical activity and it was this lack of activity that verily manifested the severity of her depression.
"Something wrong dear?" Tod coaxingly inched towards her, his head tilted slightly to the left, as if the accentuate his inquisition.
"You're up…?" she spoke listlessly, her attention and thoughts elsewhere; her eyes still purposefully focused on the surface of the water.
"Copper hasn't come home…" she still avoided eye contact as she continued. The tears slowly began to flow. "Why did you lie to me?" her voice quivered with anger and nervous preoccupation.
"I don't know where he went but I told no lies." He reached out to her putting his pawn to her face. He forced a smile.
Vixey slowed her breathing and looked deep into his eyes; her contempt penetrated Tod as she smacked his paw away violently. Tod recoiled in shock, staring with desperation at his wife. Vixey again extended a firm paw and again struck her husband, this time across the face. For a time, the two simply stared at one another, mutual astonishment washed across their faces. Vixey then picked herself up, turned her back and sulked off in the opposite direction, feeling defeated, manipulated, and grief-stricken as only a mother can. The forest grew silent. Tod was alone.