Southern Legitimacy Statement: Erik Peters is a father and avid mediaevalist from Vancouver, Canada. His writing is influenced by late antiquity, his family, and his students. Erik has been featured in Coffin Bell, Zoetic, Beyond Literary Words, and Thirty West. You can check out all Erik’s work at erikpeters.ca
**Not sure what Vancouver is south of, sure ain’t the Mason-Dixon Line but we love this anyway, even if he is way, way up north of us.
Leon
When I failed seventh grade, Dad volunteered the two of us for the church’s well-digging trip to Mexico.
“Y’need to grow up, Sam. Get responsible. Build some character,” he gruffed over dinner. “Did I ever tell y’ ‘bout the Spartan an’ the fox?”
“Oh, c’mon, not again…”
Dad waved a scarred hand. “This Spartan soldier. He swore he’d protect a fox. When the huntsmen came, he hid it under his tunic. Dang thing tore his belly open, but he never flinched. Kept his word. Now that took character!”
I glared at my potatoes.
* * *
Dad and the others worked like madmen in the blazing sun. By noon on the first day, I threw down my shovel and collapsed in the shade.
“Sam! If yer not gonna work, y’ can at least get some sodas!” Dad hollered. He dropped his wallet into his shovel and catapulted it at me.
* * *
As I shambled back with the sodas, I saw it. A clump of matted fur on the side of the road. Pouring soda into my palm, I held it up to the clump’s dry nose. A parched tongue lapped greedily.
“Dad! Dad! Look! I found a puppy! He needs food!”
“Huh?” Dad’s head popped out of the well-pit. “Aw, Sam, he’s half dead. Y’ should a’ left him where he was. Now he’s just gonna suffer more.”
I blinked hard and fought to keep my lip steady. I could feel the bundle revitalising in my arms.
“I think he might make it,” I quavered.
Dad’s eyes softened. “There’s some jerky in my bag. Mush it up in water and give it to him. Then get back to work. And wash yer hands, God knows where that thing’s been.”
* * *
We named the puppy Leon because he looked like a lion cub when we cut his matts off.
“We can’t take him!”
“But we have to! Otherwise he’ll die!”
“Give him to the locals.”
“No! I’m responsible for him!”
“Sam,” Dad leaned forward so we were almost nose to nose. “If we’re caught with him I could go to jail. He can’t come with us.”
“Then I won’t go either.”
Dad opened his mouth. I started to back away.
“Alright,” Dad whispered. “But that dang thing better not so much as whimper when we cross the line.”
* * *
I sat in the back of the van. Dad and Father Thom handed our passports to the border guard. Leon lay under a canvas between my feet, gnawing a beef bone.
The guard leaned his head into the van and looked directly at me. I tensed. Leon growled at the bone. The guard withdrew his head and began walking slowly along the side of the van. I reached down and grabbed the bone from Leon’s mouth.
There was a yip as the street dog sank his teeth into my hand. The border guard glared through the window at me. I smiled and pretended to scratch my leg.
* * *
Leon and Dad are long dead now, but I still think of them every time I tell the kids the story of the Spartan and the fox.
