“Quacky’s Will:” a flash fiction story

Nothing else to be done. He might as well write it.

This is an older one where I had to work from a bunch of prompt words. “Quacky,” believe it or not, was one of them. Once I decided to make that a name, the rest of the story grew from that.

I did the best I could with the British accents.

England, the late 1800s

***

Biscuit romped through hedges and streams, closing in on his prey. His ears flapped behind him and his tail wiggled.

Dozens of meters behind him, Lord Reginald Smedley-Uxbridge waited on his mount with the others. Soon the hunt would end and Biscuit would return to the manor for supper. He drooled in anticipation of lying by the fire, gnawing on a mutton bone while The Master sipped his Earl Grey tea and ate his scones with cranberry jam.

But that would come only after a successful hunt, in which Biscuit captured a fox.

He spotted the burrow beneath the tree. He inched toward its entrance.

“You might as well come out of there, old chap,” said Biscuit. “It’s all over for you now.”

An ochre and white fox emerged from the hole.

“What’s this all about then, guv’nor?”

“I’m afraid I must dispatch you for my Master. Terribly sorry, but that’s how it must be. Do come along, I promise to be quick about it.”

“You mean you’re gonna—” The fox made a slashing gesture across his throat. “To me?”

Biscuit nodded.

“Blimey! What’d I ever do to you?”

“It’s not a matter of what you did, mate, it’s a matter of what you are. There’s no use arguing; I’m bigger and stronger than you anyhow.”

The fox assessed Biscuit.

“That you are. No mistaking that.” The fox paused. “Look, before you get on with it, d’you mind if I write a will?”

Hmm. That would be fair.

“Very well, but don’t dawdle.”

The fox returned inside. A leaf landed on Biscuit’s shoulder; he flung it behind him. A minute later, his quarry returned with a pencil and paper.

“See here, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Quacky, if y’please, guv.”

Biscuit smirked.

“That’s an odd name for a fox.”

“Me mum wanted a duck. What can I say?”

Was he serious? Biscuit doubted it.

“How do you do, Quacky, I’m Biscuit.”

“Hmph. And you thought my name was odd.” Quacky rested on his hind legs and laid his paper onto a rock before writing. “Let’s see… ‘To me old lady Velvet, I leave me food.’ It’s stuffed inside the ‘ole back there, underneath some leaves.” Quacky pointed to his burrow.

Biscuit peered inside.

“Is your vixen with you?”

“Now? Nah, she’s at ‘er mum’s. That’s why I wanna write this, y’see, to let ‘er know what ‘appened. Say, when you kill me, could you leave the bones? Give ‘er something to remember me by, know what I mean?”

Biscuit winced.

“I… didn’t intend to be so violent.” He paused. “Once the… deed was done, your carcass would go to my Master. He would deal with the remains. But I promise to leave something of you behind. Your paw, say, or your teeth.”

“That’s fine.” Quacky returned to his will. “‘To me mum and dad, I leave me coat, which I molted last year.’ They’ll know it’s mine from the scent. Don’t spare the blood when you kill me, okay? I want it to look like I put up a struggle. Dad would appreciate that.”

Biscuit gulped.

“Uh… if you like, I can… sift the dirt in front of your burrow, leave some tracks. That could make it seem as if you fought with me before you died. W-would that satisfy you?”

“That’d be great.” Quacky simpered. “Thanks, guv.”

Biscuit scanned the vale. Most of his cohort had slain their prey already. They were on their way to present them to Lord Reginald. The Master would wonder what was keeping him.

The fire and the hearth awaited: the rug, the candlelight. If Biscuit returned to the Master empty-handed, he might make him sleep outside tonight, without any supper.

Quacky scratched something out from his will and wrote again.

“‘Finally, I leave the turf I claimed in the ‘uman village—the one near the school, where the mice are—to me kit Umber.’”

Biscuit gasped.

“I didn’t realize you had a child.”

“Oh yeah. ‘e’s a good egg. We caught lotsa mice in that village. What’s that place where the ‘umans get their magazines and newspapers called?”

“A kiosk?”

“That’s it. Umber‘s first kill was beneath that kiosk. A grasshopper.” Quacky chuckled. “Look out for ‘im after I’m gone, will you?” He signed his will, placed a stone atop it, and left it at the burrow’s threshold.

“Quacky, forgive me,” said Biscuit, “but are you saying these things hoping to play on my sympathy so I’ll spare your life?”

The fox’s smile was winsome.

“Does it matter?”

Biscuit gaped at the will, blowing in the afternoon breeze under the weight of the stone.

Then he looked at Quacky.

***

Outside, the wind blew hard that evening. A fire blazed in the hearth of Lord Reginald’s manor. He sat in a chair beside it. Biscuit lay at his feet.

The Master placed a leg of mutton in front of him, a reward for a successful hunt.

Biscuit didn’t eat it.