Corinne and the Fox

Ireland

1840

Everyone warned Corinne never to wander into the woods alone. Her grandmother had filled her childhood with whispered tales of the fair folk who dwelled beneath ancient oaks, of how they coveted human creativity and warmth.

Her father had nailed iron horseshoes above every door and window in their cottage at the forest's edge. Her mother had taught her to carry salt in her pocket and never, ever thank a stranger who offered help. These were the rules of living beside the twilight woods.

But on the morning of her eighteenth birthday, Corinne noticed something odd. The sun hung bright overhead as she collected herbs from her garden, yet no shadow pooled at her feet. She spun around, searching the ground in confusion—but where her shadow should have stretched across the dewy grass, there was nothing but light.

"They've taken it, you know," came a voice, smooth as honey and sharp as thorns.

Corinne whirled to find a fox sitting at the garden's edge, its russet fur gleaming copper in the sunlight. Its eyes, amber and knowing, fixed upon her with unnerving intelligence.

"Foxes don't talk," she said automatically, her hand slipping into her pocket to grasp the pouch of salt her mother had given her.

Corinne and the fox

The fox's whiskers twitched in what might have been amusement. "And humans don't lose their shadows—unless the fair folk steal them."

Corinne's fingers trembled. "Why would they take my shadow?"

"Why do the fair folk do anything? Boredom, perhaps. Or maybe they sensed something special in you." The fox stretched, its tail swishing lazily. "They've been watching you for years, you know. The girl who sings to her herbs and weaves patterns of starlight into her dreams."

"How do you know about my dreams?" Corinne took a step back.

"The same way I know about your shadow. I observe." The fox stood. "You have until sunset before the theft becomes permanent. After that, you'll never cast a shadow again, never be fully part of this world. You'll fade a little more each day until you're nothing but a whisper on the wind."

Fear clutched at Corinne's throat. She looked down again at the sunlit ground where her shadow should be, suddenly feeling lighter, as though she might float away. "What can I do?"

"Follow me," said the fox. "I know the paths between worlds. I can lead you to where the fair folk have hidden your shadow."

Every warning she'd ever received screamed through Corinne's mind. Never follow strange creatures. Never enter the woods alone. Never trust what cannot be explained.

"Why would you help me?" she asked.

The fox's eyes gleamed. "Perhaps I have my own quarrel with the fair folk. Perhaps I simply enjoy chaos. Or perhaps"—it tilted its head—"there is a price I'll name later."

Corinne hesitated, glancing back at her cottage. She could wait for her parents to return from the village, but sunset was only hours away. The fox had said the theft would soon be permanent.

"I need to leave a note," she said finally.

The fox dipped its head. "Be quick. The paths shift with the sun's journey."

Inside the cottage, Corinne scribbled a hasty message. Then she filled her pockets with salt and iron nails, tucked her grandmother's silver scissors into her belt, and grabbed the small jar of honey her mother kept for special occasions. The fair folk were said to be unable to resist sweet things.

When she emerged, the fox was waiting at the tree line. Without a word, it turned and slipped into the forest. Corinne took a deep breath and followed.

The woods seemed to close around her immediately. Though she'd lived beside the forest her entire life, she'd never ventured more than a few yards past its edge. Now, as she followed the fox's flicking tail, the trees grew denser, older. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in shifting patterns, never quite reaching the forest floor in full strength.

"We are walking the boundary," the fox said after they had been traveling for what felt like hours. "Between your world and theirs. Can you feel it?"

Corinne could. The air had grown heavy, charged with something that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. Sounds seemed muffled yet somehow clearer—the rustle of leaves distinct but distant, like she was hearing them through water.

"There," the fox said, stopping before an enormous oak tree. Its trunk was so wide that ten people holding hands could not have encircled it. "The entrance to their realm lies through that hollow."

At the base of the tree was a dark opening, just large enough for Corinne to crawl through if she bent low. No glow of daylight shone from within.

"How do I find my shadow once I'm inside?" Corinne asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Shadows are kept in the Court of Reflections. Follow the sound of water—there's a stream that runs through the heart of their realm. But be careful not to drink from it, no matter how thirsty you become. And eat nothing, touch nothing that glimmers." The fox sat, curling its tail around its paws. "I cannot enter with you. The fair folk and I have... an understanding that prevents me from crossing their threshold."

"You're leaving me to go alone?" Panic edged into Corinne's voice.

"I'll wait here. If you're not back by moonrise, I'll find another way to help you." The fox's eyes softened slightly. "Remember, Corinne—they'll try to distract you, to make you forget why you came. Your shadow will recognize you; call to it when you reach the Court."

Corinne knelt before the hollow. "You never told me your name."

The fox's whiskers twitched. "Names have power in the twilight realm. For now, friend is enough."

Friend. The word hung between them, neither a promise nor a lie.

Taking a deep breath, Corinne crawled into the darkness of the oak tree. The passageway was cool and damp, smelling of earth and moss and something else—something ancient and wild that made her pulse quicken. After several feet, the tunnel opened, and Corinne stood to find herself in a world bathed in perpetual dusk.

Oak Tree to the Fairy Realm

Before her stretched a forest unlike any she had ever seen. Luminous fungi spiraled up tree trunks, casting a ghostly blue glow over a carpet of silver ferns. Distant music drifted through the trees—haunting melodies played on instruments she couldn't name. And there, just visible between the strange, twisting trunks, ran a stream that sparkled like liquid starlight.

Corinne squared her shoulders and stepped forward. She had until moonrise to find her shadow and return to her world—or risk becoming nothing but a whisper on the wind.

 ***

Corinne stepped deeper into the dreamlike forest, her boots silent on the mossy earth. The air was thick with fragrance—sweet as overripe plums, but tinged with something metallic beneath. Her pouch of salt bounced lightly at her hip, her fingers brushing the silver scissors at her belt as if for comfort.

As she approached the stream, the soft music that had drifted through the woods grew clearer. It sounded like glass being plucked, like wind chimes caught in a distant gale. The water glittered as though stars had fallen and melted within it.

She hesitated. Follow the sound of water, the fox had said.

But it wasn’t just water now—it was voices. Whispers, murmurs, laughter—lilting and hollow and untrustworthy.

And then she saw them.

Three figures danced across the stream’s surface without disturbing it: a tall man in a coat of silver leaves, a woman with eyes like moonstones and hair that flowed like a waterfall, and a child whose laughter echoed unnaturally, too round, too large for her tiny mouth. None of them cast shadows.

“Welcome, Corinne,” the woman said. She didn’t ask how they knew her name—somehow, she expected they’d always known it.

“We’ve been waiting,” said the child, her voice like two bells ringing at once.

The man only smiled, and she felt that smile in her bones—cold and ancient.

“I’m looking for my shadow,” Corinne said, keeping her voice steady. “You took it.”

“Did we?” the woman asked, her head tilting in slow, inhuman curiosity.

“We only borrow things that shimmer,” the child chimed. “Things that don’t belong entirely to your world.”

Corinne held her ground. “I want it back.”

The man gestured, and a ripple passed through the forest. Trees bent subtly, bowing away, and the stream’s current shimmered a deep purple. On the opposite bank, a small figure stood in the half-light—a shadow, flickering like smoke, shaped just like her.

“Your shadow waits,” said the woman. “But if you want it, you must give us something in return.”

Corinne’s hand tightened around the jar of honey.

The child giggled. “A sweet! A treat! A taste of sunlight trapped in sugar!”

The woman reached out a graceful hand. “Honey is fair. Honey is pure.”

Corinne stepped forward carefully, uncorked the jar, and held it out. “This... and one question answered.”

The trio exchanged glances. Bargaining was dangerous, her grandmother had said—but it could be done if the price was fair and the phrasing exact.

“Agreed,” said the man, taking the jar with a gleam in his eye. “Ask.”

“Why me?” Corinne asked. “Why my shadow?”

The woman’s gaze softened. “Because you’re not entirely of the waking world. You dream in their language. You sing things into bloom. And we”—her pale hand brushed Corinne’s cheek—“we are so hungry for that warmth.”

They stepped aside. Her shadow looked up. Its eyes—her eyes—glowed with the same starlit shimmer as the stream. It didn’t move.

“You must call it,” the fox had said. “It will know you.”

So Corinne did what came most naturally—she hummed. A lullaby her mother used to sing. A tune she’d always woven into her garden work without thinking. Her voice trembled at first, but then it found its rhythm. True and clear.

The shadow stirred and stepped forward.

The woman hissed, the child cried, “No!”—but they did not stop it.

Corinne opened her arms, and her shadow rushed into her like breath returning.

The forest flared—light and dark mingling wildly—and then collapsed in upon itself.

She stumbled out of the oak’s hollow and fell into the grass, gasping. The sun had nearly set. Her limbs ached, and her vision swam, but when she looked down, her shadow lay beneath her once more.

The fox waited nearby, licking honey from its muzzle.

“You did it,” it said. “Didn’t expect that lullaby.”

Corinne sat up slowly. “You knew I’d have to give something.”

The fox nodded. “Always a price. But you paid with honey and song—clever girl.”

“Will they come for me again?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” the fox said, standing. “But next time, they’ll know not to take from you lightly.”

It turned, pausing only to glance back. “Keep singing, Corinne. That’s your true magic.”

And with a flick of its copper tail, it was gone.

Corinne lay back in the grass, her shadow long and solid in the waning light.

For now, she was whole again.

But the twilight woods never forget those who cross into their realm.

And neither, Corinne suspected, would she.

Teacake Tidbits

1. Fairy Rings Are Dangerous Portals

In Irish lore, fairy rings—naturally occurring circles of mushrooms—were considered sacred and perilous. These were believed to be places where the Aos Sí (the fairy folk) danced during moonlit revels. Stepping into one could cause a human to vanish, be taken to the fairy realm, or fall into a time slip where years pass in the blink of a moment. Tradition advises walking around the ring, never through it, and leaving offerings if one feels they've trespassed.

2. Never Say “Thank You” to a Fairy

It’s considered bad luck to thank a fairy—or someone who might be fairy-touched. In fairy etiquette, gratitude implies a debt has been settled, and the fey expect reverence or repayment, not thanks. A better response would be “I acknowledge your gift” or simply offering a respectful bow or another gift in return. To thank them might offend their pride—or worse, release you from a bargain you didn’t realize you’d made.

3. Changelings and Fairy Midwives

Irish folklore warns of changelings—fairy substitutes for human infants. The fair folk were believed to steal particularly beautiful or healthy babies and leave behind sickly fey children in their place. To protect infants, parents would place iron scissors near the cradle, sprinkle salt at doorways, or burn rosemary and thyme in the home. Interestingly, some tales speak of mortal women being kidnapped to serve as midwives to the fairies, returning days or years later with tales of otherworldly births and strange oaths.