The Fox and The Stag

ALSO BY AYAH ABDUL-RAUF

Paint

Say You’re Sorry

The Fox and The Stag

by Ayah Abdul-Rauf

The Fox and The Stag

{a novel}

by Ayah Abdul-Rauf



Making Metafiction

first published by Ayah Abdul-Rauf

Copyright © 2024

shethewriter.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the author. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

ISBN: 978-1-7327773-2-3 (ebook)—ISBN: 978-1-7327773-4-7 (paperback)—ISBN: 978-1-7327773-3-0 (hardcover)—

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024908869

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

First Ebook Edition 2024.

This one is for those who blame themselves for suffering at the hands of another.

Contents

Author’s Note  ………………………………………………………  i

Prologue  …………………………………..…………………………  iii

Alan’s Brother  ……………………………………….…………….  1

Alan’s Wake  ………………………………………….……………  57

Alan’s Body  …………………………………………….…….…  125

Alan’s Apocalypse  ………………………………………..…  199

Alan’s Flood  ………………………………………………….…  273

Epilogue  ……….……………………………………………….…  387

The Fox and the Stag

Author’s Note

This novel, an artifact of my childhood, is over seventeen years in the making. There is no combination of words that can adequately express what it means to me, so I will not try.

I am indebted to the librarians and baristas who maintained, inspired and supported the environments where a young person could safely do this work. The support of these people kept me safe while I was ensconced—totally—in the all-consuming task of making this thing.

Many people over the years witnessed my obsession with this text; I am also grateful to those who responded with compassion and patience rather than condemnation and judgement, though it was often a mixture of both.

There are many drafts of this book. The one in your hands is not the most recent, but it is the most primordial—the most closeted. I knew when I finished this draft that there wasn’t much I could do that didn’t change the fundamental nature of what I was doing, or salient fact that it came from the heart and mind of a young, unworldly person. This also the draft most closely aligned with Alan’s wishes for it.

While my name is on the cover, I can not take sole credit for the text. The epilogue—not penned by me—was especially hard-won. Let us meet these mysterious co-authors; I start by leaving you in Alan’s very competent hands:

Prologue

Water, Water Everywhere

"If I could put a silver siphon between your eyes and suck out those memories, I would do it.

Art is mysterious, yes—but the feelings it gives you, those should not be. I agree with that—but listen—there will never be time enough. Do you think the abuse of innocence isn’t a commodity of your world? Real people ignore the stroke of their own veins. Fuck coherence.

You ask, why is this language so strange? This is my preference. If my words are on stilts, it’s because I walk among eggshells. You say the text is confusing; this is my preference. Those with no patience should read the text and despair—okay, okay. I hear you. I’ll do it. I’ll do the prologue."

Hi. I see you have overheard some of my chat with the Author—sorry about that. I am no deity, and my grip on metaphysics is loose at best. So I’ll start by introducing myself: I am Alan Cope. I’m the main character of this book. It is about me. (There, I said it).

The Author and I delayed this publication until we could come to an agreement about how to achieve coherence in it. Her proposition: to rewrite the novel (for the billionth time) as a letter to my family, and with a conventional plot.

We managed a decent go of it. I found it laborious, and she delightful. It was coherent, sure, but it was bogged down in detail and stupid Realism. And frankly, it was dishonest. My boyhood never felt sentimental, so why should a book about it be? Basically, I didn’t like it.

The other option for publication was simply to wait longer for the zeitgeist to move forward; until people take the abuse of men and boys as something other than a morbid joke. (Or worse, some of you think that these things live in the realm of fantasy, which is doubly ironic to me). That, we thought, could open people’s hearts to my literary performance, and thus we could publish my preferred draft pretty much as it is. I think we are about as far as we might get with that collective failing. I would be very surprised if this draft is more accessible than it was when it was finished seven years ago, but then again I rarely go on the internet so you can take my opinion with a grain of salt.

Eventually we settled on this—what you’re reading now. She would publish the book as I like it, but only if I write this prologue to give you as much of that precious context, justification and coherence as I can bear.

Still, you’ll find things to be confused about in this pages. You might find it obscure, dark, and hopefully a little sad; I’m nothing if I can’t show people how to live with misery. The Author says reading this book is like reading shadows through chicken wire. To which I say: you wrote it. To which she says: yeah, but said this is what you wanted.

I do want it this way: You shouldn’t feel closer to my experience than I felt myself. I was disconnected, out of body and disassociated for most of the events in this book. I hardly had access to my emotions and I won’t give them up to strangers. If waiting could make me ready, the Author would wait forever. But I cannot unpack all terrors.

Maybe there are feelings that you, too, never want to encounter again. How much of your childhood can you actually remember?

This book is the story of my dark and confusing youth: I was kidnapped by a villain and survived. I was (am) the younger brother of a man suffering the ghosts of his past from being kidnapped himself. I was coerced into addiction and did not find much safety in my homecoming.

My memories are not chronological, and the book somewhat suffers for it. Trauma makes memory unreliable. For instance, I know a great deal of things could only have happened during my capital C Captivity, but I distinctly remember them happening long after I came home. We made the editorial decision to split those experiences (and the metaphors of them) between the 2nd, 4th and 5th parts of the book.

And the final question to bear: If this is a story about a boy suffering abuse, where is the abuse? Why the forests, the bears, the antlers and the floods? Which of my memories actually happened to me, and which were imagined?

Why did I give my author such clunky metaphors, instead of the more sordid—and therefore more coherent—details of what I survived as a trafficked-poor-kid-from-broken-American-home?

I don’t know why you will ask this. I find the answer obvious, I find it goes something like this:

Can you tell, from the distanced nature of my language, the strength of my affection for you? The dams I must throw between us, that I might not drown in my own love?

—Alan J. Cope,  2024

"And because I am happy & dance & sing.

They think they have done me no injury…"

—William Blake

I

Alan’s Brother

  A lan Cope wore black shoes with white laces. He wore a real jacket and rode a clicking bicycle. His messenger bag was real. Alan Cope was a real boy.

Alan’s body had thirteen years on it. He rode his bike with just as much experience and discomfort as his age demanded: he maintained balance and contact with the brakes, and he thought that this would make anyone’s hands hurt, because it did for him. He did not ride in a straight line, but weaved with Baroque abandon as he pedaled away from the small, locked house where he lived with his older brother, Roger Cope. The wind toyed with his hair. It dried the blood around his left eye.

Fifteen minutes into this, a dog observed Alan through a window. The dog quietly watched him dismount the skeletal body and pull it over the grass. It watched Alan approach the window. The dog belonged to Jenna and Arden Cope. They were Alan's cousins, on the side of his late father.

Alan rang the doorbell to his cousins' house and waited for Jenna to open it.

Roger hit you, she said.

The dog followed Alan’s entrance into the house with a lowered head and gently wagging tail. Can I keep my shoes on?

You always do. Jenna’s gaze dropped to the bag at Alan’s hip, then back to his bruised face. How long are you staying?

Not long.

She blinked. At least one night?

He was aiming for the wall.

Terrible aim, I guess. Jenna shut the front door. Alan looked at the dog.

While waiting for Arden to return home from her law firm, Jenna and Alan did their school work in the living room. They had the same 8th grade worksheets, and they looked up often but rarely spoke. Alan didn't realize he was grinding his teeth. Understanding subjects and objects. The bear attacked the young hunter. Put a square around the subject. Put a circle around the object. The young hunter was attacked by the bear. Put a square around the subject. Put a circle around the object. Alan felt sick. He thought about going to the bathroom but didn't. Jenna dropped her pencil.

How about some tea?

Alan nodded. Yeah, please. The dog whined. Jenna left the room and Alan, hoping for a distraction, rifled absently through the mail on the coffee table. One envelope had an address he recognized. Someone had already torn into it. Alan pulled the letter out and saw the name Diane Cope.

His vision blurred before he could read it a second time.

The dog barked and Alan slipped the letter into his messenger bag. Jenna returned carrying tea.

The cups match, Alan said.

Of course they match. Are you okay?

Alan’s yawn was enormous. His eyes watered more. I'm okay. Homework is boring.

Jenna nodded and put the matching teacups on the coffee table. Alan wanted to go to the bathroom but he turned to the worksheet on his lap. He drew squares and circles. He occasionally swallowed. They heard the garage door lift. The dog stood and paced at Arden's arrival. Alan could not bring himself to look at his older cousin. She talked at her cellphone and collapsed into an armchair. Alan heard her rifle through the mail on the coffee table. He counted his teeth by feel. Arden's cellphone snapped shut and the rifling stopped. Jenna, she said, have you fed Butter?

Yes, I fed Butter.

Then why is he looking at me like that?

Jenna dropped her pencil again. She went back into the kitchen. Arden stood in front of Alan and he put a hand on his messenger bag. Dog’s not hungry, he muttered.

I know, Alan. Did you go through my mail? She sighed. You're just going to ignore me and do your homework?

It's really hard and I don’t get it.

You do get it and it’s not hard.

Alan finally looked at her. Why didn't you tell me about my mom?

I just got the letter.

But the date was a week ago.

Why hasn't Roger told you? Arden said. Alan frowned. He wished he had an answer.

I'm going to kill him... Arden leaned her head against her hand.

Do they know for sure she’s dead?

No.

Then why declare her dead legally?

Do you want a lecture on the law?

Alan shrugged, keeping his face turned away. I just don’t want mom to sneak up on me.

I already hired a detective, she’s not going to sneak up on you. She’s not allowed within a hundred feet of you. Legal death is good. This is good news for you. Arden is not known for tact.

Alan started to put his homework away. He chewed on his lip. I'd feel better if someone was looking for her. They heard Jenna cooing to the dog in the kitchen.

Does Roger wear a ring? Arden said.

Alan realized she caught sight of his face. He threw the toaster at the wall. The plug hit me.

Well Alan, I'll buy you guys a new toaster. You need a better one.

Alan stared at her. No thanks, he said, I like the one with the slots just fine, I understand how to use it. Arden crossed one leg over the other.

Have you changed your mind about moving?

No. I want to stay with Roger.

They looked away from each other as Jenna reentered the room. I can't believe he didn't tell you, she announced. She looked no more surprised than she always did; her eyebrows were naturally arched. Alan watched the sisters swing into an argument about eavesdropping. He left his tea unfinished. Arden and Jenna acknowledged his departure with hasty nods. At the front door Alan heard a whine and turned around with his hand on the knob. I'm sorry, dog, he said. Don't get sore; I'll be back soon.

Chills took Alan’s body once he left the house. His facial injury would incite a phase of apologetic compatibility with Roger; Alan wondered how long it would last before the tension in his brother would once again manifest in a violent outburst.

When Alan reached his front door he dropped his bike and knocked and waited. Then he knocked again. Alan wiped his forehead with his sleeve and took heavy steps around the house so he could enter through the back door.

The back door opened to the kitchen. Roger lay facedown in front of the fridge. Alan leaped over the toaster on the floor and knelt by the prone figure. He said his brother's name and shook him. Roger's hair was damp from sweat. He groaned and pulled out his hand mirror.

Are you okay? Don't do that. You scared me bad, Alan said.

Roger opened the mirror and rubbed his eyes. Candy was right. His voice had the self-denouncing quality of a smooth, dark stone falling in a chasm: I have a pixie-face. It’s a stupid face. No one can love this face.

What’s wrong?

Nothing, I'm fine, kiddo. My head hurts. Roger smoothed his eyebrows. How long has it been?

When did you hit your head? Alan voice returned to its accustomed tenor. 

I didn't hit my head. Roger rubbed his eyes for a moment. Then he rested his cheek on his arms. My legs went out after you left. I was just thinking on the floor and...I actually fell asleep. He laughed. His legs went out because he has intermittent paralysis.

Alan was smiling. I should have left you alone, then.

Roger's eyes flicked to Alan’s messenger bag and back to his brother's face. You went to Arden's house, didn't you? I thought you'd stay there until tomorrow.

So did I. A pause happened.

I didn't know you were behind me when I threw it, kid, Roger said.

It's alright.

Your face is swelling.

Alan shrugged. It's no big deal.

But I scared you. You grabbed that bag and ran out the door.

Another pause. Alan dropped the bag on Roger's legs. Can you feel that?

You put it on my legs?

Yeah...How long is this gunna happen, Roger?

It won't take more than three hours. I'll know when my legs are coming back. It hurts a lot. Alan could not bring himself to point out that Roger had misunderstood the question. He brought pillows into the kitchen.

Thanks, kid, Roger said as he slipped them under his head. Don’t linger. Go finish your homework. I want to see if I can sleep again...

Alan picked up his bag and hesitated. He stared at his brother's long, dormant legs. Can I ask you something?

Hmm?

Why didn't you tell me about Diane?

What about her, kid?

Have you checked the mail?

Roger opened his eyes. No. Are we orphans?

I don't know, Alan said, she's legally dead. No one's looking for her.

The phone rang and Roger looked at him. Arden will fix that, Alan. Don't panic.

I'm not panicked. But what if—, The phone interrupted with a second ring. What if Diane finds out no one's looking for her?

That’s absurd, Alan. She won't. The phone rang again and Roger sighed through his nose. Listen, you’re safe because—

Because of you, you won’t let anyone near me blah blah blah.

"Don’t blah blah blah me. Will you please just get the phone?"

Leena Strang was on the phone. Alan could tell because Roger's voice got the timbre he reserved for women; and especially for Leena.

Hey there, doctor-doctor. I'm grand. How are you?

Alan left his brother's sight but lingered on the stairs to listen. It was no secret that Roger was smitten with his doctor. But Leena never seemed to condone or discourage his affection.

I'd like to check, sweetheart. I'd like to check my schedule. But the calendar you gave me is in another room and I'm quite paralyzed.

And what a curious thing it was. No one had yet been able to explain Roger's paralysis. Leena's attempt to heal him had made her nearly as famous as the phenomenon itself, or so Roger seemed to think.

Yes, I suppose I was under stress... It’s not serious, I promise.... Saturday? Are your sure that's the only day we can reschedule? Oh no, Leena! No, I need to see you this week for sure. I've been having the most horrible nightmares.

A survivor of kidnapping was already anomalous. But a victim who insisted that he'd spent his captivity in another universe posed an even more unique challenge. Alan was certain that any doctor would leap at the chance to study the first person with Cope Syndrome, but Roger wouldn't accept critical examination from anyone but Leena.

"Don’t worry, Doctor Strang, I haven't watched the news. But you know my birth... birthday. Coming up. It’s freaking me out. But not Saturday. Alan won't be in school. He can't be alone for that long."

Alan shook his head and a small smile snuck onto his face. He knew Leena would not indulge Roger's protective little habits.

Arden works on Saturdays. And Jenna's always out with her girlfriends, I can't make him join, he gets shy.

That part was true. Alan loved girls. He loved the way they smelled and when they said smart things in soft voices and the many shapes of their eyes and he loved how plant-like they were, breathing everything in all the time. He thought often of botanical varieties in stem and blossom and pollination. It made him like a mouse in a bush.

Roger, on the other hand, was taller and rabbit-like and miraculously unafraid of women, even though they always looked at him first.

"….Perhaps you could come over for an in-house appointment? I'm sorry, Dr. Strang, I can't leave Alan alone. Please, please, you’re here all the time anyway. You know I just can’t do that…well, well Leena, the world is full of questionable characters, they might try to take advantage—,"

Alan heard the combined sound of Roger yelping and the phone hitting the floor. He ran back into the kitchen. Roger was biting his knuckles. Alan snatched up the phone and spoke into it:

Hi Leena, this is Alan. Roger dropped the phone. His legs are hurting him. Yes ma'am, he's fine. Don't worry about Saturday, he’ll be there.

Roger tried to grab his brother's ankle and Alan stepped away from him.

Yes, ma'am, Roger's nodding at me. I expect he doesn't want to talk now. He's been a bit sore about his birthday next week, but—, oh, me? I'm fine. Yes, ma'am. Good-bye. Alan hung up the phone. Roger glared at him.

You eavesdropping punk. He croaked, don't interfere with me and her! He rolled over on the floor.

Why can't I just go to Leena's office with you?

You'll be with Jenna and her friends. Roger said, I have to call Leena back now. Give me the phone. He stood up slowly, using the fridge for support. Alan wanted to help but was wary of doing so.

I don't want to follow the girls, it's a pain.

Give me the phone, kid.

Take me with you.

A muscle twitched in Roger's jaw. He seized his brother's arm and took the phone from him. Alan stepped back with a hand on his stomach. Roger stared at him.

What is wrong with you?

Nothing. Alan walked backwards.

Where do you think you're going?

Alan didn't answer. His arm burned. He went upstairs and the messenger bag thumped his hip with every step. When Alan reached his bathroom he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. He saw big dark eyes in the water and closed them. Alan touched his tongue and the blaze spread to his neck. He reached beyond his teeth and probed tender flesh. The burning sharpened. He vomited for the first time in two weeks, finally, and felt like a fever was drifting off of him in waves.

Alan stared at his hands as he washed them, straining to hear if Roger was outside the door. He curled up on his mattress and pulled his jacket tightly around him. Alan listened to calm breaths and sensed a dry, gasping quality to his skin. The house creaked as Roger paced the ground floor. His voice echoed up the stairs:

"…it's under control. I organized my doses. I have that box with the days of the week on