Rabbit Stew

    The chill of autumn had finally begun to rush in on the breeze. Summer stretched her legs and wrapped herself in a woolen shawl to keep out the bite that arrived as her namesake season ended. She had determined to leave her seaside home and visit the valley of the winds. She had heard of the peacetime declared there this time of year, and as a freshly-sewn addition to the realm she thought it wise to see it for herself. Gossip from around the sea had apprised her of the existence of the other deities, and though Lord Dipsi was a fickle god, she aimed to curry favor with information from beyond the shores. Whether he already knew the pantheon personally or not, the knowledge could be useful to her, too.
    The trek to the valley took a few days time. As she neared her destination, the trees grew barer and the remaining leaves redder. Chatter from the scarfoxes she met along the way taught her that the god of this season was a nameless creature who offers blessings in exchange for food. Though much of her previous life escaped her, she recalled a few dishes and a smattering of cooking basics. Summer settled onto a log, her legs flowing into a crossed position, and wondered what sort of foods the deity would accept in exchange for the most favor. Simple and hearty, or complex and extravagant? While her preferences were biased towards the latter, she doubted she could find the time or materials before the celebration was out, and her mind began wandering between the rays of sunshine dappling the vibrant leaves strewn across the forest floor.
    A rustle in the undergrowth drew her attention. She turned toward the direction of the sound, bringing a low woody shrub into view. Its dense leaves had turned fiery shades of red and orange, but had not yet fallen. The branches shook once again, the only sign of something hidden in the brush. Slowly, a broad hand delicately emerged from the foliage and pressed its palm into the soft loam. It clearly belonged to another scarfox, but instead of the typical silk and satin, the life-giving thread had been spun into woolen yarn and tightly knit, reminding Summer of lovingly crafted gifts and old family heirlooms. After several dead-silent seconds that simulated an eternity, the woolen arm pulled the rest of its owner into view.
    A gray scarfox peeked around the bush, eyes wide and alert. Each time it blinked it firmly pressed its eyelids closed, compensating for the unfamiliar discomfort of holding open the eyes of its new body. Summer couldn’t help but think of them as an it, for it carried itself on all fours like an animal as it gingerly padded across the soil. The ears swiveled with practiced vigilance, and as she watched it cautiously pick its way through the underbrush, she was reminded of a regular fox. The thought made her smile. How kind it was that the wild things of the old worlds should be given new opportunity in the realm of the scarfoxes, and how delightfully silly of the Mother Goddess to make it so literal for this one.
    Pulling her from her reverie was the realization that the other scarfox had made eye contact several seconds ago and had frozen mid-step. Unsure what to do, Summer carefully uncrossed her legs and placed her hands on the log at her sides. As the leaves crackled under her feet, the wild one skittered away, baring its teeth and whining. Her suspicions were confirmed; by the sounds it made, that scarfox had previously been another sort of fox indeed. Summer held as still as she could as it crept up to her. After some instinctive flinching and fleeing, accompanied by nervous yips, it pressed its snout to her leg. The wariness in those huge eyes transformed into curiosity. It lifted and cocked its head to give her a quizzical look, then pressed its nose against her once again and shut its eyes tight. Summer was hit by a rush of memory and feeling so potent she thought her mist had been set alight. The fox thought of himself as male, the diamonds stitched into his arms were something he considered his name, and the realm of scarfoxes was terribly new and intimidating to him.
    He shakily rose to his feet, testing out bipedal stance and closed-eye sight while processing the memories he had drawn from her just then. After a moment of thought, he seemed satisfied Summer’s trustworthiness and pointed a confident finger at her chest.
    “Myah!”
    Summer felt herself smiling warmly. “Do you want to go see the Mini God too, little one?”
    “Yah!” The smaller scarfox nodded vigorously.
    She rose to her feet in a single fluid motion. “Well, then, shall we be off?” She was met with another round of nods.
    “Then let’s be off.” She turned gracefully on one toe, almost pirouetting into her new direction, and set off for the rumored location of the deity’s domain.

    The Slumbering Stump was a humble little thing, wreathed with fungus and tiny sprouts. Summer had stood quietly in place after stepping into the clearing, daring not to approach lest she offend the lord of the season. She still hadn’t decided on exactly what she would make for her offering, and she needed time to think.
    The littler fox scampered into the clearing behind her, yapping and murmuring soft nonsense to himself. Argyle, as she’d taken to calling him, ran in circles around the stump before launching himself onto it and landing neatly on his hands and haunches. Summer’s whole body clenched, fearing whatever wrath the desecration of such a holy altar could evoke.
    Nothing happened.
    Argyle sat for a moment, pawing at the stump thoughtfully, before emitting a sharp bark and bolting for the tree line. Leaves rustled as he vanished back into the auburn woods, and Summer was left alone. Sighing, she found a comfortable spot to sit amongst the roots of a tall maple and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. As the crackling of underbrush under Argyle’s paws faded into silence, she pondered possible gifts she could offer to the lord of the Stump. She well and truly hadn’t given much thought to this, hoping she could come up with an idea along the way, but Argyle’s delightful animal innocence had distracted her as they traveled together, and she had to get him out of trouble more than a few times. Now she was here, and she had to work with what she could find in the environment, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine what sorts of wild ingredients would make for something worthy of an offering.
    At such an opportune thought, Argyle burst back into the clearing to her right and skidded to a halt in the leaves. Between his fabric teeth he clutched a rabbit, quite large and quite dead. Seeing him over her shoulder, with her seafoam ruffles in the periphery, caused an idea to explode into her head. Stew.
    She stood up, and Argyle dropped the rabbit at her feet, cocking his head inquisitively. She smiled and held out her hand, and he took it in his and did the same thought-transfer trick he had used to introduce himself. With the idea shared between them, they set to work.
    Soon Summer was rambling through the woods, identifying plants and scraping shorthand lists into strips of birchbark. Argyle scampered after her, following her instructions and pulling up root vegetables with his teeth. Before long they had amassed a collection of carrots, coriander, chives, wild onions, wild garlic, and acorns. Summer averted her eyes and focused on chopping carrots by a babbling stream while Argyle dressed the rabbit carcass with surprising skill.
    Though her water magic was weak, Summer was still able to pull and purify the water from the stream. The forest was littered with a surprising number of carved stone bowls, likely discarded by supplicants of seasons past. A collection of these she had cleaned and set aside to process the ingredients. Despite his apparent animal origin, Argyle was very diligent about washing his hands and ingredients in the bowls of water Summer had magically cleansed for the purpose.
    When he was done, the rabbit had been disassembled into a clean hunk of meat, a furred skin hung from a simple frame of twigs, and a small hill where he had carefully buried the head and organs. The grave was adorned with a rounded piece of shimmering labradorite he had insisted on picking out of a river on their journey to the valley. Summer found herself quietly moved by the respect he gave to his prey. He had whined at her like a child until she stopped and let him rifle through the river rocks for his prize, and yet he so willingly gave it up to an animal dead by his fangs. She admired it for a moment before turning back to Argyle, who had begun clearing a harder patch of ground of leaf litter in preparation for the fire pit.
    She joined him, clearing the area, arranging rough, placing firewood, and adding kindling before taking a shard of flint and striking it against a large pebble. The sparks came willingly and the kindling eagerly took to flame, and while the fuel reduced to hot embers, Summer took the largest of the scavenged bowls, filled it with water, and nestled it amongst the coals. As the water warmed, she picked up her other flint, the one she had used as a knife, and continued chopping and sorting the vegetables and herbs while Argyle tended to his rabbit pelt. Every so often, she would glance over and watch him as he grumbled to himself over tearing a hole in the pelt or pricking himself with the sharp rock he was using. Whatever knowledge he had magically siphoned from her, he was clearly still fresh to his newfound potential. Eventually she heard his surrender by way of a whiny groan, and when she looked over again, he was curled up on the ground, gnawing on the pelt with a defeated scowl on his face.
    Summer’s ear flicked to the side, picking up the sound of boiling. Leaving Argyle to his tattered rabbit skin, Summer took the meat, slid it into the bowl, and sat back to watch. She leaned towards a good-sized fallen branch to grab it and drag it towards her. She snapped it into more manageable pieces over her knee, took up the flint once more, and began to whittle a spoon. She found herself enjoying the peace and quiet of the woods and thought for just a moment that experiencing the forest was worth the journey. Summer stuck the spoon into the soup and stirred slowly, and before long it smelled utterly delicious.
    Argyle seemed to think so too, because he snapped her out of her reverie by nearly sticking his whole face in the bowl.
    Summer yelped and yanked him back by the arm. “That’s not for you!”
    Argyle looked at her, momentarily confused, before whining at her in disappointment. She patted him on the head. “We’ll be rewarded soon enough, little one. Just be patient.”

    The time of offering had come. Though she held herself with poise and grace, Summer couldn’t deny that she was nervous. It took extra focus to lend her arms enough strength to carry the heavy stone bowl of soup back to the clearing, and she was thankful that Argyle didn’t get underfoot for the whole return trip.
    When they reached the edge of the clearing, Summer took a deep breath, stepped out of the trees, and strode toward the center. She lifted the bowl to the sky as if to announce it to the gods, and then she knelt and gently placed it in the center of the Slumbering Stump.
    Nothing happened.
    Summer held her breath and gently clenched her teeth, holding herself as still as possible in case the guardian of the stump was shy. Argyle cocked his head, flicked an ear, and made a little noise. The quiet was absolute.
    A small shape rose from behind the stump with a deep shoulder stretch. Given its size, it could only be the Mini God. They yawned widely, looked at the bowl of stew, and then sleepily lifted their gaze to the two waiting mortals.
    “You’re late.”
    There was a long, awkward silence as Summer tried to process the god’s words. “I’m sorry?”
    “I said, you’re late.” The Mini God did a few more stretches and pointed straight up. “Look.”
    Summer followed their gesture up to the trees surrounding the clearing. The branches were barer than she had thought, the canopy thinning into a sad, patchy blanket during the prelude to winter. “…Oh.”
    The Mini God sighed. “I apologize, but I can no longer offer my blessing, for the season has turned once more.” They produced a flawlessly smooth wooden spoon from seemingly nowhere. “I would, however, still like to try it.”
    They dipped the utensil into the bowl, bringing back a hearty spoonful of broth, meat, and veggies, and clamped their jaws around it. They savored it a moment before swallowing and smiling warmly. “You know, if I can’t share the season’s blessings with you, you at least deserve to try your own stew.”
    With a flick of their wrist they produced two more spoons with the flourish of a stage magician, and the woods came alive with the sound of Argyle’s excited chattering. He scampered up to the little deity, accepted the spoon, and began trying and failing to shovel the stew into his mouth. The god giggled at his antics, and Summer found herself chuckling too. She approached the stump and joined in the small shared meal, and her mouth filled with the delicious flavors of autumn.