The fox-hand.
- joneworlds@mailbox.org

When  we got  home from  the funeral,  Mother went
into the kitchen to boil potatoes. I went upstairs
to wash  my shirt.  I went to  turn on  the water,
when  I noticed  to  my shock  that  my hands  had
changed. My left hand had become a fox's head, and
my right hand had turned to glass.

Scared,  I  began to  hit  the  fox-hand with  the
glass-hand. The fox's head spoke to me.

"Stop. Why do you attack me?"

"It is because I am frightened by the change."

"And your other hand is  of glass, why did you not
think to strike that one with my body?"

"Because you are a beast, and liable to hurt me."

"I am your left hand.  Go downstairs, and see what
has happened."

When  I came  down into  the kitchen,  I saw  that
mother  had chopped  herself  into  a dozen  small
pieces. I began to weep. The fox-hand took pity on
me.

"Gather all  the pieces  into the pail.  Take them
into  the forest,  and  bring a  shovel and  three
pieces of cloth. And I will tell you what to do."

I did as I was  instructed. In a thicket of spruce
trees, the fox-hand spoke again.

"Bury the neck and the  right foot here under this
tree. Take  the other  pieces back to  the meadow,
and  arrange them  evenly in  three rows.  Place a
piece  of cloth  at the  front of  each row.  Then
return  here, and  wait for  me." My  hands became
natural  again,   and  again   I  did  as   I  was
instructed.

When  my tasks  were complete,  I returned  to the
spruce.  After  three  minutes, the  fox  appeared
before me as a full  and natural fox, and spoke to
me once again.

"Do you wish to see Mother?"

"Yes, I would."

"See,  for from  her  neck and  foot  has grown  a
computer. Can you read what it prints?"

The screen  blinked, "All,  that not  is confronts
whether against  it or before  it - it must  be of
those types, seeing will only this."

I frowned. "I do not understand the meaning."

"Go now to the meadow, and find Mother there."

I once more did as  I was instructed. The pieces I
had laid there were gone,  and in their place were
twenty-seven daffodil  blooms. From the  center of
each bloom dangled a small  wire, and upon the end
of each wire  was a glittery letter.  I wrote them
all down in my book.

And  to this  day,  I have  been re-arranging  the
letters  on that  grid, over  and over,  again and
again. Striving to see a  symbol, a message. But I
cannot find  it, and it  has not been  revealed to
me.

The fox has not returned.