“Who killed the Fox?” the Bear asked the woodland creatures.

“It was I,” said the Shrike. She balanced nimbly on the thorny branches of a tree. “He was foolish, and fell right into my trap.”

“No,” said the Bear. “You are too small, and the Fox’s pelt is too strong for your thorns. It must be someone else”.

“It was I,” said the Deer. He stood strong and proud, antlers raised to the sky. “I was too tired of his antics, so I kicked the Fox right in the head.”

“That can’t be,” said the Bear. “It doesn’t look like the Fox had blunt injuries. It must be someone else.”

“It was us,” said the Wolves. They stood together, no individual left out. “The Fox bothered us, so we made an example out of him.”

“I don’t believe that,” said the Bear. “If you did kill him, you would use his meat for sustenance. But he’s been untouched.”

“It was I,” said the Fly. She buzzed right in the Bear’s ear, close enough to be heard. “He was sick, and I laid my eggs in his wounds. Now they are eating him from the inside out.”

“It’s not possible,” said the Bear. “I don’t see any trace of your children. Surely they would be swollen and gorged by now?”

The underbrush rustled, and the woodland creatures all turned to see the Chimera crawling into the meeting. They all bristled, for they knew the Chimera was not one of them.

“It could not be me,” said the Chimera, “for the Fox is not dead. He is merely dreaming.”

“That is stupid,” said the Deer. “I know what death looks like, and it is certainly that.”

“I hace not heard the Fox’s heart beat in days,” said the Shrike. “How is that alive?”