Mr. Fox

by Helen Oyeyemi

‘I’m never sad when a friend goes far away, because whichever city or country that friend goes to, they turn the place friendly. They turn a suspicious-looking name on the map into a place where a welcome can be found. Maybe the friend will talk about you sometimes, to other friends that live around him, and then that’s almost as good as being there yourself. You’re in several places at once! In fact, my daughter, I would even go so far as to say that the further away your friends are, and the more spread out they are, the better your chances of going safely through the world . . .’

I’ve grown a beard or two in my time. Long, full, Moses-in-the-wilderness – that type of beard. Mainly as a way to relax, hiding my face so I can take it easy behind my beard.

I think it’s swell that there are people you don’t have to worry about when you don’t see them for a long time, you don’t have to wonder what they do, how they’re getting along with themselves. You just know that they’re all right, and probably doing something they like.

Love. I’m not capable of it, can’t even approach it from the side, let alone head on. Nor am I alone in this – everyone is like this, the liars. Singing songs and painting pictures and telling each other stories about love and its mysteries and its marvellous properties, myths to keep morale up, maybe one day it’ll materialise.

Something terrible’s coming, and everyone in the world is working to bring it on.

It is well known that love is always increasing or decreasing.

Her voice had all sorts of sounds in it – the flow of water against rock, an acorn shaken in its shell, a bird asking for morning.