Red Fox Read Online Free

family works in the paddocks. We fix fences, swap the flock of sheep to a new pasture, pick up another orphan lamb whose mother abandoned it, and plough and sow the paddock by hand. We used to have a tractor to plough and sow fields, but now we do it all manually. Our horse is thankfully crossed with a Clydesdale, and my father taught him how to pull a plough. While the horse strains against his bounds and pulls the plough along guided by my father, my mother, brother and I pick up stones in the paddock and throw them into a wheelbarrow. Although it is back-breaking hard work, there is something very rewarding about seeing a paddock that was once full of weeds and rocks transformed into a field of soft, fertile brown soil.
    I think I could live happily like this forever: with my family, living off the land and worrying only about myself and those I love. Knowing there aren’t other paths I should be taking, knowing there isn’t a reason to study to be a lawyer or a doctor because such occupations are no longer needed. Only people with jobs essential to human survival work these days: farmers, agriculturalists, environmentalists. This is what the government promotes: farming, hunting, surviving on one’s own.
    ~
    By Sunday night, my skin has darkened by a shade or two, my shoulders are aching and sunburnt, my legs feel like lead and I have ugly sore blisters all over my hands. I’m exhausted and hungry. My poor mother, who toiled all day alongside us, starts preparing dinner for us. We all help her by cutting meat, boiling water, and chopping vegetables. We are almost done when a knock comes at the door. I excuse myself from the kitchen and open the front door to find Holland standing there, drenched.
    He is dressed in the stupid maroon-red jumpsuit that the government forces its employees to wear. Holland is a thin, gangly man, probably in his early forties, with a narrow face, a large nose, and watery blue eyes. He isn’t attractive or particularly interesting but he is kind enough to people. His white mount stands by the porch steps in the torrential rain, head hanging miserably. I open the door just a wedge to peer at Holland.
    “Evening, Freya” he says.
    “Holland,” I say with a nod. “What’s up?”
    “The government has ordered that everyone in town reports to the town centre tomorrow morning at 9 AM,” he tells me. “Make sure you’re there. I won’t even tell you what they’re planning to do with those who don’t come. You’ll be sick.”
    I set my jaw. “Why do we have to go at all?” I ask testily. “What are they doing?”
    He shrugs his skinny shoulders. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve tried to quit this job dozens of times now. I got a death threat letter because of my last attempt and I’ve fallen out of favour since. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
    “We know you’re not bad, Holland,” I tell him and he throws me a dubious look.
    “Thanks, Freya. Anyhow, I will see you tomorrow morning.” He bounds down the stairs, swings onto his water-logged horse, and rides away splashing through puddles and kicking up mud. I close the door and stare at my hand on the brass handle for a long time. Is this rallying of the townsfolk in regards to that test, or is this something entirely new?
    I tell my family Holland’s message and they all look concerned. We sit to eat dinner but no one talks. We are all worried now. Never has the government rallied us up in the town square before. What could they be planning on doing? Jack eventually excuses himself and goes to his room. I hear the door click shut behind him. My parents keep exchanging looks at one another, as if they’re having a telepathic conversation. I wonder if they are planning something. Maybe it’s to hide and not go tomorrow morning at all, or to send Jack and me away for our own protection. Running away together before all hell breaks loose sounds like a good plan to me.
    They won’t do it. My parents don’t run away from