Temporary Diversion

The bus stop looked the same as it always had — flaking blue paint, cracked tiles slick with rain, wind rattling the outdated schedule board.

I had exactly three goals for the first day of high school: don’t trip, don’t embarrass myself, don’t do anything stupid.

I was succeeding so far. The bus stop was empty, I hadn’t forgotten my backpack this time, and the morning air was cool enough to keep my nerves from aggressively sweating through my shirt.

Something brushed against my leg.

A fox — small, russet, eyes the autumn-warm color of honey. It sat beside me and stared straight ahead.

I didn’t know there were foxes in this area.

“You look terrible,” it said.

I blinked. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” it replied, very matter-of-factly. “You smell like fear. And coconut shampoo.”

I decided I was positively hallucinating. Maybe I’d hit my head getting out of bed. Maybe I was still asleep and the day hadn’t even started yet.

“You made it,” it said.

“Made it… where?”

The fox tilted its head, as if the question itself were utterly inappropriate. And in that moment, the world around me — the bus stop, the road, even the clouds above — shifted, like something turning its face.

Looking straight at me.

The sound of the rain paused. Not stopped — paused. Every drop hung, suspended, trembling in the air. The fox stood, its tail brushing my knee.

“Try to stay calm,” it said. “They don’t like it when you panic.”

“Who doesn’t?” Definitely hallucinating.

It didn’t answer. The light changed then — or maybe it was the air — and suddenly the bus stop wasn’t there anymore.

All that remained were trees. Endless, whispering trees, tall and knowing.

The fox sighed — like I was already going to be a handful.

I wondered when I would wake up.

OK, I concluded, there’s no way the bus will get here, so no school. Missing the very first day! And it wasn’t even my fault! Now it was my turn to sigh.

The trees looked unfamiliar, and I wondered if they were real. I touched one, patted it, and yes — it did feel real.

“Thank you!” said a deep voice slowly.

The tree?

“Could you also scratch me two meters further up?”

I apologized for not being tall enough. And I wondered about myself — how easily I accepted a talking tree, though the culprit was quite obvious. I turned abruptly to face the fox, who seemed to be watching me with interest.

“You! Fox!” I shouted, louder than planned, then calmed myself, as staying calm seemed to be important.

“I have questions — many of them. Don’t make me ask them all. Speak.”

The creature flinched at my initial outburst. Had I intimidated the small fox?

“Weeelll, I’m not that good at explaining,” it said. “Let them do it. I was only sent to fetch you and see to it that you wouldn’t get lost.”

Them again, I thought. Should I try to dig deeper, or go directly to the source of all this? I felt energetic now and made an impulsive decision.

“Alright. So where are we going?”

The fox answered by pointing its muzzle. “We just have to follow this path down, towards the creek. Just be wary of the water.”

And indeed — once it was pointed out, I recognized the narrow, partially overgrown path. I took a few seconds to gather myself, then started in its direction.

“Be careful!” whispered the tree as we left.

The path opened into a clearing that looked suspiciously like a waiting room. Mushrooms in a line. A crow holding a clipboard. Somewhere — though I wasn’t sure where — a bell dinged.

As we walked, I noted with pleasure that I hadn’t tripped once. At least something was going according to plan. I could see the creek now — and hear it too, the water humming its steady melody.

“Name?” croaked the crow.

“Sorry?” I snapped back into reality. If you could call it that.

“Name?”

“Uh,” I muttered. “For what?”

“For existing,” the fox whispered. “They keep records.”

The crow clicked its beak impatiently, black ink dribbling from the tip of its feather pen. It was a crow’s feather, oddly enough. Around us, the mushrooms shuffled forward, mumbling to themselves and to each other. A squirrel in a vest hissed when one of them tried to skip the line.

“State your business,” demanded the crow.

“I’m just—”

“Transit,” the fox cut in. “Temporary.”

The crow gave us a long, suspicious look, then stamped something invisible in the air.

“Proceed. But don’t touch the water.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“You’re not allowed to go beyond,” said the crow.

That sounded alarming, to say the least, but the fox was already trotting toward the creek. The surface shimmered silver-blue, reflecting a sky that wasn’t ours. When I looked closer, I could’ve sworn I saw my bus stop in its depths — and a version of me still waiting there.

“Is this real?” I asked.

“Define real,” said the fox — but its voice sounded smaller than before.

As if we were underwater.

The reflection moved, although I stayed still on this side. It lifted a hand — mine but not mine — and the ripples spread toward the shore.

Behind us, the bell rang again.

While I was still staring into the water, a voice addressed us from behind.

“We are here!”

I turned and saw, to my surprise and horror, two rusalki swinging from the branches of a tree, their long green hair moving freely in the breeze. They seemed to be the only ones here who were enjoying themselves.

They took turns talking.

    “Oh, look, sister!”

        “A human! Almost as requested.”

    “But it’s too skinny!”

        “And too short!”

Perplexed, I started, “What—” but they ignored me.

Instead, they both looked at the little fox, sighing in unison, the tone dropping from a high pitch to a deep low. The fox cringed but didn’t move.

Then they began to dissipate, until they could no longer be seen. A tiny splash followed, and when I turned toward the creek, I saw new ripples in the water.

“Dismissed!” said the crow, who had suddenly appeared at my side.

“Come back when you are taller.”

My vision became foggy and my knees wobbled. Was I to dissolve as well?

I had to sit down.

When the brain fog cleared, I found myself sitting at the bus stop again, at the exact moment the raindrops stopped being suspended and began falling once more.

“Mushrooms!” I thought. “Hallucinations!” — although I hadn’t eaten any of them.

The bus eventually arrived, and I boarded it in autopilot mode. I noticed some kids my age and briefly wondered if they would be new classmates, but I needed solitude to readjust. I took the seat furthest away from them, next to a window.

As the bus started to move, I noticed a small fox by the roadside, looking at me. Its gaze followed me until the bus disappeared from sight.