The True Confessions of a Nine-Tailed Fox

If Den hadn’t – gone gallivanting – off, coulda – ridden on his back, I panted.

The muscles in my wings were on fire. If we had to fly any longer, they were going to cramp up into two tight knots and I was going to fall out of the air.

I don’t know about that, Stripey replied, not concerned for me at all. Can you hold on to his scales with your little claws? The wind might blow you right off.

Then he could have carried me in his claws. It’s not like he needs them to fly.

Stripey beat his great wings once and glided, while I focused on keeping mine moving.

I see them! His exclamation jolted me out of my misery.

The village was a collection of dark rooftops that seemed oddly low compared to the skyline. In fact, a mob of agitated, gesticulating people towered over them. At their center, Den coiled protectively around Floridiana and Dusty.

Sigh. So much for a majestic, processional entrance.

Stripey and I flew over the heads of the villagers and landed on Den’s coils. From this angle, I could see Bobo bunched up next to a white-haired old human woman. The village elder was sitting cross-legged on the grass, dipping a hog-bristle brush into a bowl of black paint. Her “paper” was a long, narrow mat woven from strips of dried leaves. Ignoring the material, the dimensions were the same as those of rice paper for a calligraphy scroll.

What’s going on? I asked the crowd at large.

“Ssshe’s writing a messsage for us!” Bobo said cheerfully, moving her head along with the brush strokes.

Pushing forward against Den’s coils, Floridiana explained, “Their dialect is so different that we’re having trouble understanding one another.”

“They seem to be very concerned about keeping us away from the ocean,” observed Den. “I think she’s about to tell us why.”

Personally, I thought the reason was painfully obvious and needed no explanation. You mean, besides you invading the fief of the Dragon King of the Western Sea and causing a diplomatic incident?

“Nope, it has to do with the flying fish,” said Dusty, poking his nose over Den’s coils. “We can’t figure out what, though.”

The flying fish? I tipped my head all the way to the side so I could read the elder’s handwriting upside down. She used the formal, proper grammar that almost no one bothered with these days: “Honored, most welcome guests, we beseech you to keep your distance from the ocean during flying fish season.”

Not useful. That much Floridiana and the others had already figured out.

Floridiana read the next lines out loud: “Only fishermen are permitted to be on the beach or in the water while they hold their annual battle with the flying fish spirits. It is unlucky to anger the spirits, for they might choose to drive their school to other villages next year.”

We cocked our heads at one another as the villagers murmured among themselves, comparing her pronunciation to theirs.

Why do you need to battle the flying fish spirits? Why do they drive their school here? I asked the elder, using the same formal, proper grammar that she had.

The villagers’ heads all jerked up, and they broke into grins.

“Oh, thank goodness, an interpreter! We were going to run out of scrolls if we had to write everything out. You can’t imagine how long they take to weave!” blurted out one of the younger men. Although his accent was thick, it was close enough to the way we’d spoken in my childhood mountains that I could understand him.

“Hush, Cornelius! Do not speak out of turn,” scolded the elder. She extended an imperious hand, and he helped her to her feet.

So what’s this about doing battle with flying fish spirits? I repeated.

“It is the flying fish season,” she repeated, while I listened hard to make sure I didn’t misunderstand any words. “Every year, the young flying fish spirits of the Western Sea prove their mettle in a contest against the fishermen of our village. They drive their schools of mortal fish into our waters, and then they and we battle to see how many we can catch, and how well they can protect them.”

That practice probably served to winnow (haha) out the weaker mortal fish so the Western Sea wasn’t overrun by flying fish spirits.

“Our ancestors have bequeathed us the knowledge of how to catch the flying fish, the proper methods to construct our canoes and nets, and the laws that must be obeyed. Only fishermen may be in or near the water during this season, and no one is allowed to speak angry or unlucky words, lest we anger the spirits.”

I squinted past her at the ocean. White canoes, painted with geometric patterns in red and black paint, cut through the turquoise waves. In each canoe, three pairs of men (and they were all men) paddled as hard as they could, while four more waited with raised nets. The final man stood in the bow, shouting directions.

As I watched, a large flying fish spirit leaped out of the water and sailed across the paths of the smaller mortal fish, cutting them off before they glided into the waiting nets. They all plopped safely back into the water. The spirit made a rude gesture at the fishermen with its long fins before it flipped midair and dove after its school. I expected the fishermen to curse right back – but they watched in tense silence.

Right. Because they weren’t allowed to say anything angry or unlucky.

A wingtip poked me in the side, and I started. Stripey tipped his head at Floridiana and the others. The mage’s face was scrunched up tight as she tried to parse the elder’s words, so I gave a quick summary of what the village elder had said.

“Ooooh! An yearly battle with flying fisssh ssspirits? That sssounds ssso awesssome!” cried Bobo.

Dusty tossed his mane and stuck his nose in the air. “They are wise not to let me near the water. If I were to join their battle, there would be no contest to speak of.”

Apparently recognizing enough of his words, or maybe guessing from his pose, Cornelius scowled. Before he could challenge the horse to single combat, or however young hotheads (and yes, I did include Dusty in that group) resolved their differences hereabouts, the elder’s sharp elbow found his ribs. At the same time, Den twisted his neck all the way around and shoved Dusty’s withers with his snout so hard that the horse stumbled. Both of the hotheads backed down.

“Honored guests, what brings you to our humble village?” inquired the elder. “Are those more of your number?”

I didn’t need to turn to see to whom she was referring. The foxling’s whining drifted across the village, loud and clear.

“ – Too damp – too salty – going to ruin my silks – impossible to get sand out of my slippers – ”

Her litter-bearers weren’t even close to the beach, and they weren’t going to get anywhere close to it either, at least for the duration of flying fish season, however long that lasted.

Can’t take her anywhere nice, I grumbled, rolling my eyes.

Mmmhmm, agreed Stripey, just as embarrassed by her incessant complaining.

Den lowered his head to the elder’s head height. “Please allow us to apologize on behalf of our traveling companion. She is…unaccustomed to the hardships of the road.”

Whoa. When had Caltrop Pond’s party animal picked up diplomatic language?

“Hello there, villagers!” cried the foxling when her litter-bearers finally reached us. They began to lower it to the ground, but she gestured sharply and they locked their muscles. “I am Sphaera Algarum, Fox Queen of Goldhill and the Jade Mountains, Empress of all Serica! Conduct us to your finest guesthouse so that we may refresh ourselves.”

Definitely can’t take her anywhere, I muttered.

MmmHMMM, said Stripey again.

I didn’t like the way he was cocking his head at me. Also, when had the foxling laid claim to the capital of South Serica?

Well, one problem at a time.

Not looking intimidated, or even particularly impressed, by all the titles, the elder said, “Welcome to our humble village, Sphaera.”

A most unattractive crease appeared between the foxling’s brows.

“She just said we’re welcome, right?” she hissed at Steelfang.

“Think so. Her accent’s pretty thick.”

“Did I mishear, or did she really address me by name?”

Steelfang grinned so broadly that his tongue lolled out. “This is going to be fun.”

We’re not here to have fun, I reproved both of them. This is not a tropical beach vacation.

“Ah, yes,” said Steelfang, retracting his tongue. “This is a conquest.”

At the reminder, the foxling sat up straight and pitched her voice to carry. “People of the – ” she paused, flummoxed because she had forgotten or never bothered to learn the name of the jumping-off point of our reconquest of all Serica – “of this village, rejoice! Your rightful empress has arrived!”

The elder arched an eyebrow. Cornelius hid a grin. I covered my eyes with both of my wings.

Undeterred, the foxling continued in the same ringing tones, “I, carrying out the will of the great Fox Queen Lady Piri, do hereby announce the founding of the New Serican Empire!”

She used the old word for empire, “Imperium,” and the villagers snapped to attention. Whispers and questions erupted everywhere.

“Did she say ‘Piri’?”

“Piri, as in – that Piri?”

“Isn’t Piri supposed to have nine tails? I only see five. Is she sitting on the rest of them?”

The foxling’s face went scarlet, but the voices continued.

“It’s just an old tale, Cornelius. You know how the old tales exaggerate.”

“Are you sure that’s a fox at all? She doesn’t look like the painting.”

Apparently they didn’t have foxes in this part of West Serica. And of course the foxling didn’t look anything like how I had. Her figure, her carriage, and most importantly, her number of tails – everything about her was completely different.

One of the villagers said something to another, and a young woman went running off between the low roofs.

Floridiana hissed, “What’s going on? What are they saying? Are they going to attack?”

No. They’re simply unconvinced that Sphaera is me – I mean, Piri.

They’d be even less convinced if you told them you’re Piri, Stripey muttered.

“I never said I was Lady Piri!” the foxling screeched, going even redder. “I said I was carrying out Lady Piri’s will! And they were supposed to fall to the ground in awe and weep with gratitude when I announced the founding of the New Serican Empire! Why aren’t they?!”

While she wailed about the utter failure of her imaginary grand entrance, Lodia crept up to me and whispered, “Should I, um, say something about the Divine Intercessor? Since she’s talking about the empire…?”

By this point, children were peeking out from behind weird, wrinkly trees with long, shaggy leaves and way too many roots. Pigs and goats ambled past, unconcerned by their masters’ drama. This was very much not the appropriate setting for preaching about the glories of the Kitchen God.

No, wait until later, I whispered back.

“Rosie, you might want to translate for the villagers,” warned Den. “Before we wind up with any misunderstandings that turn…unpleasant.”

I couldn’t help but stare at him. What happened to you since the last time we talked?

He stared right back. “A lot of messy border skirmishes?”

Oh. Fair enough. Those could really age a spirit. Not that I was sympathetic. Maybe you should have thought of that before you brought a whole demon army to the Claymouth Barony.

“If I hadn’t, Lord Silurus would still be rampaging in Black Sand Creek.”

Instead, we now have demon soldiers rampaging on land.

Too late for that now. Stripey cut off our debate. Looks like the villagers brought something to show us.

The young woman who’d run off was returning with three others, each carefully holding the corner of large woven mat.

When they arrived, two of them dropped their corners, and the remaining two held the mat upright. On it was a painting of a monster, a skinny, twisted, humanoid beast with a hunched back and knotted muscles under scarlet skin, a pointy snout with sharp protruding teeth – and nine skinny, rat-like tails.

That was supposed to be me. That was what they thought I looked like.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!