A lonely kit focuses his dreams on an impossible place.

Inspired by  poetigress and the [url=]Thursday Prompt[/url].

oOo

The island sat in all its quiet, gentle greenness, in the centre of a small turquoise-blue lake, its shape softened by trees and undergrowth; a beautiful blot of plant life surrounded by sparkling, fresh water. It was too far for one to swim, too small to be useful for agriculture. Every evening after tea, the kit sat on the wall by the road and savoured the view of the little island. He dreamt of being there, surrounded by water, pushing through the dense undergrowth like a castaway in the tropics. What tales the heroic fox would tell when that tall ship finally reaches him and they set sail back to civilisation, back to the home he would not have seen for so many years!

He loved that harmless dream. Every evening after tea, with a small sigh, he rose from the wall, tucked his football or his books under his arm, and plodded back home. Mama would never allow him to be a castaway on a tiny island in the tropics. He might catch some awful disease and die, and what would she do if he was gone?

Mama loved him. Papa would be so proud of his little kit, she often told him, as she groomed his fur in the early morning light. Her smile was of a radiance that matched the brightness of the sun. When she smiled like that, everything was good. Mama was all boiled eggs on a tray with little toasted bread soldiers, all hot chocolate late at night in bed when the snow was piling on the window sill. Mama loved her kit all the more, now papa was gone.

And all the other kits and cubs and pups knew it. He was on his own and mama spoiled him. The wolves and bears and lions and tigers in the school yard knew. They laughed and pushed him over and he fell down. It made tears form in his eyes, yet he was always more deeply hurt on the inside than the bruises and scrapes that healed on the outside. They had mamas that rode on horses and in carts, and papas that snapped whips, speaking in low growls when they talked to other papas outside the church or in the store, or when they passed each other in the street. Every one of them would grow up to growl and whip like their papas. He couldn't remember the sound of his papa's voice.

Over the fireplace there was a silver and black photograph of papa in his uniform. He was not smiling, looking directly at the viewer, his brush to one side and his whiskers and muzzle perfectly groomed. He was so tall. Mama once said he would grow up to be just as tall and fine as his papa, before she spat on her hankie to clean his grubby face. He never forgot that moment. Someday, yes, he would do mama proud, and if he had to go to war like papa went to war he would win and he would come back home to look after his dear mama. She wept when he told her that, in his innocent childish peep. He didn't know why. Then again, she always cried when she spoke of papa. She told him many times that papa was on a little island, somewhere, waiting for both of them, and someday they would all be together again, a little family once more.

As he sat on the wall each evening, he wondered if this little island was it. It was so beautiful. Maybe papa was there, waiting for him.

Two of his classmates built a raft out of packing cases, with a bladder made from whale gut. He watched them as they busied about, laughing and hammering. They knew he was there, sitting on the wall, and laughed at him. It's a pity foxes can't swim good, they shouted. He didn't listen to their jeers. One was a lion, the other a bear. Lions swam well. Bears swam better. He knew this because they visited the baths in the city four times each year, guests of the local landlord. Mama always told him to remember the landlord in his prayers each night, for the kindness he has shown to a poor family that proved its patriotism. He did as mama asked, each night, wondering what patriotism was and if papa would come home and be friends with the landlord.

They floated the raft across the lake on a still summer's day, the young lion and the bear cub, and they whooped and roared for hours on their island. It was theirs -- they were the kings and they shouted from the tops of the leafy green trees. He sat quietly on the wall, his red fur damp through with summer sweat. They knew he was still there and they delighted in it. Their voices proclaimed that no lousy fox would ever set paw on their island. That hurt him so much -- papa might be on that island, just waiting for him to save him. Papa wouldn't show his face to a nasty lion and a fat dumb bear.

The raft was a beautiful craft. It never failed to carry its young and carefree captains over and back from their summer hideout among the fresh greens and turquoise blue. They carried food and bottles with them, putting messages into the empties and floating them out into the water. Most of the paper scraps had 'foxes stink' scrawled on them in blunt pencil. When autumn came calling, and waves started to break the calm surface of the lake, the two brave adventurers sought their fun closer to home, throwing stones at cattle to make them run across the field, or putting mouse-traps in the horses' mangers to see what would result.

The fox kit sat on the wall every evening after tea and thought long about the noble raft. Half-sunk at the edge of the water, it was abandoned and forgotten by its creators. He knew it wanted to float again and be proud. Mama told him so many tales of soldiers who fought to make their dreams come true. They never failed, though horribly maimed, and never submitted to the bleak darkness of despair. Bravely, they always managed to find their way home to their families; to the ones who prayed for their return; and when they passed through the threshold, weary, footsore, and close to collapse, the adoring wives and children would rush out to embrace the heroes of the war that gave so much for them. Their papa, home once more, forever.

Mama didn't like the lake. She always told him never to go into water. And never wear green, she said. Water brings bad luck and wearing green brings bad luck. He never wore green. He would never wear green. There was no green clothing in the entire house anyway. It would make mama worry. But the only way to the island was through water. He didn't want to disobey her, but he had to go.

Over Christmas break he managed to pull the raft onto the shore. He was not very big, and it was very difficult, but it had been a stormy winter thus far and no plants grew through the boards to bind the raft to the undergrowth beneath the surface. The bladder had been punctured. He quietly borrowed a repair kit from a classmate without asking, and deftly used the chalk to locate the hole. Two patches later, a seal with the rubber gel in the metal tube had restored it. He used his bicycle pump to inflate the bladder to its former glory. His classmate never noticed that his repair kit had gone missing. Tyres were not an issue in winter. It was better to walk to school at that time of year.

New Year's Eve dawned bright and cold. Ice cracked at the edge of the lake. The water was still and black, no longer the friendly blue of June and July. The island was naked, open, transparent; hiding nothing from his view. The leaves that formed the rich green canopy of summer memories were now muddy browns and gold on the ground, slowly decaying into a wet blackness. Mama wrapped him up in woollen scarves and mittens. He was a delicate jewel, she breathed, and should never let himself grow too cold. Oh, wouldn't it be so lovely to be born in a warm country, she sighed as he went out to play. He didn't think it was that cold. Carefully, he put the mittens into his great-coat's pocket once he was out of sight of home. He loved his mittens. Mama gave them to him.

It was vital that he reached the island before the New Year started. It would be a new year and also a new century. If he didn't make it, papa would be trapped in an old century. He saw the joy on mama's face when he returned with papa, the scene so bright in his mind's eye. Everyone at school would admire him. He knew they would like him then, because with his papa there, the other papas growling outside the church and in the store and out in the streets would do so with his papa and they would growl at each other just the same way in the classroom, and he would be just like all the rest, the lions and bears and tigers and wolves, with mama smiling and papa laughing in the living room, mama playing piano, the scent of woodbine and honeysuckle coming in through the open living room windows from the garden that papa tended each weekend ...

He pushed the raft out into the water. The small hissing noise from a tiny hole he hadn't sealed didn't concern him. He clambered onboard, grabbing the rough paddle. Sniffling in the cold, he did as his classmates had done and propelled the raft slowly out to the island. It waited for him. It was there, all browns and tans, all crisp leaves and rich earth, all ice and watery blue winter sky.

And then he was standing on the island.

It was under his paws. Water and sky was all around him. It was his homecoming, his achievement, his dream come true. Slowly, he dropped to his knees and sunk his fingers into the hard, cold soil of the sacred place. With difficulty, he managed to pull some soil free from the ground and raised it to his nose. A deep inhale told him that the ground was just like that of home, a mere five hundred yards from where he was. Something shook within him and it no longer seemed like a wonderful idea to be here. He looked at the sun. It was sinking low. Papa wouldn't be on a little island in the middle of a lake. Papa went to war and papa didn't come home. He began to shiver, the heat leeching from his fingers and feet. Nothing. That's all this place was. Home was where life was, where mama waited, and mama would be so upset if she knew he was out on water, on this island, in danger. He climbed onto the raft and pushed it back into the lake, away from the empty island.

The island sat in all its quiet, gentle greenness, in the centre of a small turquoise-blue lake, its shape softened by trees and undergrowth; a beautiful blot of plant life surrounded by sparkling, fresh water. It was too far for one to swim, too small to be useful for agriculture. Every evening after tea, the kit walked past the wall by the road and headed for the village. The little island was only a wooded field surrounded by water. Papa was dead. Mama was cloying and he couldn't wait to be far from this backward place he hated, the place he had grown out of, and he dreamed of the city.

(redrafted)

oOo