Some Kind of Fairy Tale by Graham Joyce Page A

matches from a distance. When he inspected the damage he found that the pellets were embedding themselves in the soft old wood of the outhouse door. It all looked a bit of a mess. He thought he might have to reckon with his father about that. Then he thought he could maybe get his penknife and dig the pellets out of the wood before his dad got back from walking in the Outwoods.
    Jack was no great fan of hiking. His parents had taken him walking in Charnwood Forest many times over the years, dragging him up Beacon Hill or pushing him through Bradgate deer park, mostly in freezing weather. Before Jack could walk, Peter or Genevieve would carry him in a papoose-style backpack. He could never understand the appeal of walking without having a place to get to. He’d once argued with his dad that it was a bit like jumping with no fence or obstacle in front of you, or running when there was no pressing need to get anywhere fast.
    What’s more, the strange unresolved landscape of Charnwood Forest spread too many shadows. He had an early memory, or, rather, the memory was so early he wasn’t sure if it was only an infant dream. Or a memory of a dream. Anyway, in the memory or the dream, he was strapped in the papoose, facing backward as Genevieve strode through the woods. The rocks around were formed of gleaming dark blue slate, sliced and cracked into fine layers, so he assumed the scene was Swithland Woods, a place he’d been force-marched through many times later in his life.
    His father had been slightly ahead, carrying sister Zoe. There were creatures looking at him from behind the blue slate rocks; they pointed their fingers and smiled cruel smiles. He felt safe in his mother’s papoose but was still afraid of the creatures. He was only just old enough to talk. He’d tried to make a sound but he was almost mesmerized by the creatures stirring in the wake ofthe family’s passage. He knew intuitively that if he had been able to alert his mother or his father, the creatures would be able to disappear.
    He’d recounted this experience to his mother many years later. It was Genevieve who had put the idea in his head that it must have been a dream. She’d suggested that no one could remember something that had happened when they were only two years old. But Jack knew that if it was a dream, it was a full-color dream. And it had stayed with him: an uneasiness, a low breathing that seemed to exude from the soil and the volcanic rock of Charnwood.
    He didn’t hate the place, but he never felt at ease there, either.
    Jack decided to take a few more potshots at the matchsticks before giving up for the day. Anything was preferable to staying in a house full of sisters. He took up a position closer to the door and sighted the rifle. He knew that to ignite the match he had to graze it, not hit it center-punch. Not that his shot was good enough to accomplish the latter. But he sighted the air rifle on the match and tried to hold it perfectly still before squeezing the trigger.
    Before he fired, something moved at the periphery of his vision. It was a blur of red rust at the bottom of the garden, a furry thing, half hidden behind a shrub. He knew instantly it was a fox. Foxes visited the garden every evening, eyeing the chicken coop. Sometimes you could see a fox calmly scrutinizing the coop and its occupants like it was a mathematical problem that could be solved by patient application and attention to detail.
    The thing moved again, creeping through the bushes. Jack swung his rifle, quickly sighting it, and fired.
    The tiny slug hit its target. There was a brief flurry of earth and fur as the thing made a leap. There was a moment of writhing, and then stillness. His dad had told him that his 1.77 slugs weren’t big enough to kill a fox, but Jack slipped down from the garage roof and ran after his target in hope.
    At first he couldn’t find anything. Then he spotted his kill. A dilapidated wooden fence surrounded the property, and he