Deep in the heart of the Great Wildwood, where the trees stood tall and wise, a family of foxes lived in harmony. Mother Fox and Father Fox taught their cubs all they needed to know—how to hunt wisely, how to listen to the wind, and how to recognize the signs of the seasons.
But one day, a great commotion shook the forest. A group of strange creatures arrived—humans—dressed in stiff suits and carrying large books. They built a towering stone building in the middle of the glade, and on its front, they carved the words: The Grand Academy of Progress.
A man with thin glasses and a long coat stood before the forest creatures and called, “Come, young ones! Come and learn! This school will make you wise and strong! Only here can you find true knowledge!”
The fox cubs, eager and curious, turned to their parents. “May we go, Mother? May we go, Father?”
Mother Fox hesitated. “But we have taught you the ways of the Wildwood. The wisdom of the trees, the language of the rivers—do you not trust what you have already learned?”
The man scoffed. “Oh, but the world has changed! Your ways are old, forgotten, and unworthy of the new age. Here, we teach the knowledge of civilization! We will teach your cubs to walk on two legs, to dress properly, and to think as enlightened creatures, rather than wild beasts.”
The fox parents, wary but unwilling to deny their cubs a chance to learn, allowed them to go. And so, the fox cubs, along with many other young creatures of the forest, entered the towering school.
At first, the cubs were excited. The school was filled with books, chalkboards, and large desks. But soon, they noticed something strange.
The teachers—the Professors, the Lecturers, and the Scholars—did not teach them of the rivers or the stars. Instead, they gave them new books with numbers and words that did not match what they had learned in the Wildwood.
“The rivers do not sing,” said the Professor. “They are just resources to be used.”
“The stars do not guide,” said the Lecturer. “They are mere balls of fire, empty and meaningless.”
“There is no wisdom in the trees,” said the Scholar. “Only in human books will you find truth.”
Day after day, the fox cubs sat in rows, reciting words that did not feel true, memorizing facts that did not match the world they had once known. They were given new lessons:
“You must work for money, or you will not survive.”
“Hunting is cruel. Meat should come from a store, not from the earth.”
“You must obey those with knowledge, for they are wiser than you.”
One by one, the cubs and other young creatures of the Wildwood began to change. Some tried to stand on two legs, though it hurt their paws. Some tried to speak as humans did, though their voices were made for howls and chirps. They began to forget the songs of the wind and the language of the land.
As the seasons passed, the cubs grew restless. They longed for the wind on their fur and the scent of the earth after the rain. They missed the wisdom of their parents. But when they spoke of leaving, the Professors scowled.
“Foolish cubs! Without our books, you will be nothing! If you leave, you will never succeed! You must stay, or the world will forget you.”
The cubs, frightened and uncertain, remained. But deep in their hearts, they knew something was wrong.
Yet their restlessness did not go unnoticed. The Professors murmured among themselves. “These cubs do not sit still. They do not listen well. They are unhappy. They are… sick.”
And so, the Professors gathered the cubs and handed them small bottles filled with bitter liquid. “Drink this,” they said. “It will help you focus. It will calm your wild hearts and make you happy again.”
The cubs hesitated, but they were told that if they refused, they would fall behind. That their minds were broken. That only the medicine would make them like the others.
And so, they drank.
At first, they felt nothing. But soon, their thoughts became slow, their wild spirits dulled. The longing to run through the forest faded. The ache for home grew quiet. They no longer felt restless, but neither did they feel alive.
One evening, when the moon was full, the eldest cub, Redfern, turned to his siblings. “We are not meant to sit in cages. We were born to run in the Wildwood. Let us return to Mother and Father and learn the truth once more.”
The other cubs, fearful but longing for freedom, agreed. That night, they crept past the sleeping humans and fled into the forest.
When they reached home, Mother Fox and Father Fox welcomed them with open paws. “We knew you would return,” they said. “For truth cannot be locked in books written by those who do not see.”
But the cubs were afraid. “We have been given strange medicines. What if we are broken? What if we cannot be as we once were?”
Mother Fox only smiled. “You were never broken. You were only trapped. The Wildwood will heal you.”
And it did.
Without the walls of the school, without the rigid rows of desks, without the bitter potions of the Professors, the cubs no longer felt restless. Their spirits no longer ached. They ran through the trees, felt the wind in their fur, and played beneath the stars.
And they were happy again.
The creatures of the forest soon saw the truth—The Grand Academy of Progress was not a place of wisdom, but a place of control. The teachers were not guides, but gatekeepers. The medicines did not heal, but silenced.
And so, the young ones left the school behind, returning to the ways of their ancestors, where learning was free, and truth was never sold.
And the Wildwood sang once more.
So Be It!