(Thanks for photo Natalie).
Something on the fox this week.
This entry is dedicated to the life of my grandmother Christine Gibson - a loving, wily, beauty of a woman. Love you gran.
Her funeral is tomorrow, so a long drive to old Lincolnshire awaits - but will be worth it many times over for a celebration of this woman's rich and extremely long life. Back in her beloved Alec's arms, abliss in the bee loud glade. x
Down in Devon, our great Trickster is Fox. I met fox the first time not in the wild, but in the sprawl of south London – it’s first trick. It was about 4.30 in the morning and I was leaving my small shared flat in Brockley to spend a day fasting and walking in Epping Forest, about an hour outside the city. As I turned the key in the lock I heard a slight sound in the dark and there it was. A male fox – a dog, reynard, or tod fox, whatever you wish to call it. Despite growing up in a fair amount of rural splendour I’d never seen one before. It had a glowing brownish red coat, black legs and ears, resplendent tail with a swish of white at its tip. Given the tail as well, it seemed about four foot long. It rotated its ears and sniffed.
There was a good few moments of eyeballing where I tried to take in as much as I could of it’s atmosphere and appearance before it strolled – not bounded – slowly round me and further into the small garden. The walk I was on was preparation for a four day fast, which meant that from that turn in the lock till my dusk return I was in an tacit sort of ritual – that I would experience a flood of information about my life; a sort of prophetic hall of mirrors. To see a wild animal, least of all the fox, within several seconds of it beginning, was quite a moment.
The day was long, bewildering and tiring. I had started to resent the lack of food and my mind was a buzz with conflict, about as far from being ‘at one with nature’ as it is honestly possible to get. I was sheltering under an Elm from sheets of rain, when suddenly, a fox burst from the undergrowth with a still twitching squirrel in it’s mouth, elegantly flashed past and was gone. That woke me up, grounded me, and got me past the twitching squirrel of thoughts that I’d been carrying. I followed the fox trail and got terribly lost, only finding a road some time on. Later that day, in a café in Liverpool Street Station, whilst tearing chunks from a burger and shovelling down fries, I turned over the meetings with town and country fox in my mind. I still am. Over the years fox has been a frequent but distant visitation.
Fox knows about giving dis-information, ask any Devon farmer. When hunted it will deliberately run through a flock of sheep, just to break the flow of its scent to the hounds, creating confusion. When hunting it will hide in a bush and mimic wonderfully the anguished squeal of a rabbit, often bringing out a nursing mother or old buck to see what is happening. Their death usually. Still, rabbits are smart too, so the fox only has a minute or two till they get used to its voice and start to ignore it. Fox plays the same trick imitating baby lambs, with ewes wandering off anxiously towards the sound and the mercy of fox. Up in the Snowdonia valleys I have sat at night sipping coffee on a dry stone wall and heard this eerie game.
Fox is a great storyteller, and good with character roles, as we have just seen. They have a five octave range and up to twelve different sounds to produce when adult. Like the fairy they despise iron – the gamekeepers say they can smell it. If caught in an iron trap, they, unlike a dog, will make no sound of complaint, but steadily gnaw through their own limb rather than be caught. They’re tough that way.
Fox loves spreading rumours about its strength and genius. To this day, locals will claim that when fox kills a goose, it slings it over its back and trots off – impossible but wonderful. Another great storyteller, Shakespeare, recognised kin when he saw it and gives thirty one praises to fox scattered through his work. A very old piece of Devon folklore is the notion that when fox is troubled by fleas he takes a piece of wool in his mouth and starts to step slowly into a stream. The deeper it gets the anxious fleas crawl through the fur and eventually end up on the wool when only its head is above the water. Once all on he drops the wool and is free of the itching.
Fox’s cunning is such that it has a somewhat ambivalent reputation – in the myth-world it frequently steals Coyote’s food, or nips off with the sun, or outwits the wolf. The Japanese love the fox – called Kitsune - and celebrate its intelligence, magical juice and, mythically at least, it’s long life. Really powerful foxes in their stories are in possession of nine resplendent tails. For a fox to become a human all it has to do is place a human skull over it’s own face. One final piece of vital information from the Japanese is this: any woman encountered alone, at dusk, could be a fox.
That explains a lot.
Myth is full of dis-information as a ritual tool – remember that story of Bluebeard? A youngest sister marries a man with a long, flowing, dark blue beard. A powerful man. He has to go travelling and offers her the run of the castle. He encourages feasting, company, cheer, good times. He gives her a heavy ring of keys to each room – but just that one thing. Do not. Under any circumstances. Use the little ornate key that opens the room underneath the castle. Of course she can’t help herself, is magnetised to use it. Inside the locked room she finds a floor awash with blood, and many other old wives of Bluebeard hanging like smoked meat on hooks from the wall.
Remember that childhood of Finn MacColl? He meets Finegas, a hermit waiting by the bank of a river, waiting as it was prophesied that he would catch the Salmon of Knowledge in the Boyne. When eventually he catches it the hermit sets young Finn to roasting it – but just one thing. Do not. Under any circumstances. Eat even the tiniest morsel of the fish. Of course not! The last thing on my mind. Whilst roasting this fish, Finn blisters a thumb on the bubbling skin, brings it to his mouth and absently tastes the fish. In a second he takes on all the knowledge that the Hermit was waiting to receive. But when the Hermits returns he reveals that he deliberately went away for this very moment to occur.
Remember the story of the Handless Maiden? When the maiden’s husband is called to war she sends him the happy news that she has conceived a child. On the way to the battle front the messenger is lulled into a sleep by a dark spirit who contorts the message to it being that she has birthed a changeling – half dog. The King bears up well, sends his love back and to ask for whatever she requires. The message is again distorted; he’s furious and demands the heart and tongue be ripped from the maiden as proof that the woman is dead. From this awful news the maiden and child have to go into hiding, and the King spend seven years wandering the deep forest looking for them.
The key Bluebeard gives his wife opens the door to seeing the hidden horror of her husband, the instruction not to taste the Salmon is to invite the possibility that Finn will, the slandered message of her husband leads to her ultimately growing her own hands back and his wandering in the woods weathers him into an appropriate husband. The dis-information often comes in a way that on an immediate level seems ghastly but on the biggest picture is vital for the wider unfolding of the story.
Mythic dis-information is a very sophisticated way of understanding the human psyche. It understands that we don’t always respond to strict orders, and that the results of our choices are rarely black and white – all three of the above stories hold tremendous paradox within them. Like fox these dis-informers break their scent, pretend to be another kind of animal, story, piece of information. Whether we wander out into the jaws of fox or slink off some other route, within myth, it is always in service for the wider stream of the story and the growth of the individuals within it. It’s rarely all good and rarely all bad.
Like fox scenting the iron of the trap, it understands the multiplicity of truth – those snapping jaws are the straight ahead, one answer, get to the point, three step perspective of literalism. The thing to remember is the intention behind it –within these stories it is to lead towards a kind of sacred education, an ending of naivety, a greater capacity for life. It is in service to life. That is key – when dis-information falls out of story, or society falls out of its story, it can become simply deceit.
In much of my twenties, any time spent around the fire with Native elders was rarely spent in the ‘straight talk’ of the West or any kind of elevated ‘spiritual’ language. Any question asked was rebuffed, rebooted, turned on its head, fell into silence, scuffed, cuffed, flew three times round the room and was answered two hours later in an entirely different conversation. They were quite rightly suspicious of straight instruction, something that hadn’t brooded in the psyche a little, rather than just leapt from brain to brain. There would be no wildness present in an answer like that.
To the literal mind, myth itself is a profound form of dis-information. There can be no truth in its images - A hedgehog, standing on a rooster, playing the bagpipes? Try to be serious! But the image, with it’s wayward intelligence distrusts the societal rush to the concrete picture and uses the brilliance of metaphor to disable (at least briefly) the triumph of logic. Logic is not the enemy but a dance partner.
## We need all deposits for Alistair McIntosh and Bardic Secret weekends NOW please! venues to book etc. E-mail today
Martin Shaw copyright 2011