A raposo durmiente no le amanece la gallina en el vientre.
Good fortune isn’t for the careless and the unprepared. That’s the saying. And even though we agree that sleep shows disregard, calling a fox negligent seems to imply that eating a hen in one gulp is an obligation. And we can’t help but wonder if letting the hen dawn somewhere else would have fateful consequences.
Some say that fortune is a lady, and maybe that is true for people, but hens are the only ones that can dictate the fortune of foxes.
Legend says that once there were two suns in the sky, and they only answered the call of their favorites. Roosters were the favorites of one sun, and hens were the favorites of the other. Only their songs could make those suns rise. But the first fox ate the sun of the hens in one gulp, and that doomed his descendants to be born with a little piece of that sun in their bellies. Little pieces of a sun that refuses to dawn in the absence of a hen’s song.
And those foxes wouldn’t care whether the sun rose in their bellies or not, if it weren’t for the fact that the night they have inside them is a bad luck that only the sun can dispel. So, the descendants of that first fox have to gulp hens down every day, if they want to catch a glimpse of good luck.
It doesn’t taste like I thought it would. But beggars can’t be choosers. I managed to snatch a sun, and that’s what counts. Those hens should have taken better care of their sun, instead of bickering over who got to color it with their song. Reds. Oranges. Pinks. Purples. The sun still set and rose like clockwork every time. Those colors had no impact on the horizon, they only added to the sun’s bitterness. But there is no use crying over spilled songs. Their sun is now mine to gulp down. One swipe of my tongue and all those colors the hens imposed on it will we gone. In my belly, the sun will get to shine unimpeded. I will grant it an endless midday, because I know the feeling. Someone covered me in a color that wasn’t mine. Someone made red into my name. And I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.
Why don’t you like my songs? Why do I have to spend my days devouring hens for you to rise in my belly? Why, when I know that my songs don’t pale in comparison to theirs? I have more red than they do. I even have it as part of my name. You are a yellow sun and I am a red fox. But those hens don’t have a color to their name. Why do you refuse to let me color you at sunrise? I would even take the crumbs that are your sunsets. Why can’t you take your color from me? Why, when I love you more than they ever will? Why, when I was the only one that was willing to get close to you? I let you char my paws, my arms. I willingly paid the price for embracing you and burying you in my belly. But you still prefer those hens that keep you at arm’s length and barely graze you with their songs? Why? I thought that suns like you were supposed to be the embodiment of passion. Please, don’t tell me that you are waiting for the day your yellow runs into the white of some washed-out hen. Please, just don’t. If water is what you want, I will cry red for you.
Haven’t you heard? Foxes are supposed to be crafty. Deceiving others, getting what I want, it’s meant to be an art. I have to challenge myself. And nothing is more uninspiring than blue skies. That’s why I devoured the sun. And that’s why the thought of chasing it with a hen or two never crossed my mind. I embrace my bad luck. I defy it every day. Because getting my way tastes sweeter than having luck hand me everything on a plate.
We are foxes. We inherited bad luck. A sun that refuses to rise and shine in the absence of a wake-up call. But we weren’t born to be at anybody’s beck and call. We are crafty foxes. We can lie our way out of the darkest night. The moon is a holed cheese, after all. Lonely creatures are the easiest of preys. And we have just the words to make a little bit of magic fall into our hands. What more could we ask for?
If those old hens had protected their sun better, we wouldn’t be where we are right now, suffering the consequences of their carelessness. But hating them with all my heart won’t get me anywhere. My crest is already red, there is no use in putting the hatred that reigns over me into words and screaming bloody murder. The First Fox devoured all of those old hens. And I guess I should be grateful for small mercies. Because they didn’t get to foist all the consequences on their offspring, on us, like I have seen so many others do.
I couldn’t care less about the sun of those old hens. Why would I waste my tears crying over the loss of something that was never mine? Don’t you see the red crown on my head? That’s what hearts look like when selfishness is done deforming them. The only sun I care about is the one that is about to set in my eyes. A sparkling sea. A thousand tears. That won’t move that fox, not even a little bit. Undeterred, he will sink his teeth into me. He will eat me. And I will sing. In the dark. With nothing left. I will sing, just to get a glimpse of my heart.
Thank you, but there was no need. I already know that our sun doesn’t require anyone’s help. Unlike the moon, it can shine on its own. But what made you think that that’s the reason hens like me sing? Didn’t our red crowns clue you in? Queens don’t do anything out of the kindness of their hearts. Without our help the sun would just shine in midair, and the blue would get old pretty fast. Call us vain, but we like variety. And if the sun has to bleed all over the horizon for us to get oranges and pinks and purples, well, that’s life, wouldn’t you say?
You got what you deserved. You devoured something that didn’t belong to you. Bad foxes get curses on their houses.
I know that it’s not a perfect equivalence, but couldn’t someone have told the First Fox that the early bird gets the worm? Maybe then he wouldn’t have stayed curled up in his den, while the roosters of old sang for their sun, putting it out of reach. The First Fox could have eaten our sun, but he slept late and the only sun left was the one that belonged to the hens. And now I have to spend my life singing for a sun that has forgotten its roots. The stars know that fate is something you take into your own hands. But the sun is happy relying on our songs. And I just wish someone had told the First Fox that I don’t want to choke to death on that burden.
What a silly question. If tomorrow the sun didn’t rise… No rooster would ever let such a tragedy happen on their watch. I would love to prolong my dreams, but it’s too late. I have already lived. I have regrets, grievances, hatred and a thousand other monsters in my stomach. If I were to bite my tongue and swallow my song, it would get stuck in my throat, and those desperate, trapped monsters would claw their way into my dreams. I would never forgive myself if I let that happen. Those dreams are my solace. They are beautiful, and life is already ugly. That’s why I don’t feel guilty for singing, for letting those monsters back into the world, when the sun spills blood all over the horizon. It’s like they say. You have to choose your battles. And I know what deserves my protection.
Don’t you know your fairytales? What works for lambs should also work for you. Foxes eat their hens in one gulp. They need you alive, to sing for the slivers of the sun they keep in their bellies, and you have a beak. It’s sharp enough, isn’t it? Here’s a thought, why don’t you use it properly? Don’t sing. Peck your way to freedom. And just forget about a sun that was never yours to begin with. There is nothing romantic in reuniting with your long-lost love, if you die, and he will just shine for the next hen that sings for him.
Don’t blame me for looking the other way. With the sun of the hens gone, there is only our sun left in the sky. And you need its light, its warmth, its life too, don’t you? We, and that includes you, can’t afford to anger those foxes. We can’t afford to shift their attention to us. Lest they devour our sun next.
You call it encouragement. I call it pressure. My light is not a talent. It’s not a gift. It’s not something in my blood that I inherited from someone else. My light is who I am. I don’t owe anything to you or anybody else. And I would appreciate it if you just let me shine, without throwing your songs to the universe. That darkness already weighs heavy on my heart, thank you very much.
Thank you. I used to be jealous of the rain. Both of us are life-bringers, but I always wanted to be desired and not just taken for granted. I always wanted to make someone’s mouth water. To tell you the truth, I was about to give up. Because I am how I am, and I simply can’t bring myself to make others dance for me. But you have shown me how much you want me, and I am drowning in gratitude.
I should miss my other half, shouldn’t I? I should abhor you for leaving me all alone in the sky. But suns like me don’t cry. We shine. We always look on the bright side. Soon enough nobody will remember that there used to be two suns in this color blue. Nobody will see me as one of a pair anymore. I will feel whole for the first time in my life. And I have you to thank.
At least my brother never saw it coming. That fox swallowed him out of the blue. There was no dread. No fear. No time for regrets, tears or hate. My brother was gone in the blink of an eye, and I wish it had been me. Because that fateful day, dread became the taste of my light. I live in fear. Looking over my shoulder. Waiting to catch a glimpse of some other fox’s sharp teeth. A glint of my own tear-stained sunlight.