Since I was a child, my mother, Bia, had told me about her little fox, whom she had raised since she was a baby and who had died in a cruel way, which she could not accept. But, the best thing to do is to tell her story.

It was 1923, and Bia was 8 years old; she was a skinny girl with dark skin, hardened by life outdoors under the strong Algarve summer sun. She had big, dreamy brown eyes, but very little to dream about. At that time, she was the only daughter of Zé N'Aquereu and Isabelinha.

The family lived in an old Algarve house, on top of a hill, at the foot of Cerro de São Miguel, in a place they called Cova da Onça, but from where they could see, between two hills, a small strip of blue sea that, in the late afternoon, was filled with the white sails of the fishermen's boats from Fuzeta when they set off to fish. At night, as if by magic, the sea was transformed into a large avenue, lit by hundreds of lamps that shone in the darkness of the clear summer nights: those were the lights of the fishing using the lamp that covered the sea.

Bia's house was poor, like many others in the neighbourhood. It was built with thick stone and clay walls and had a roof made of reeds covered with Arabic tiles. In the middle, there was a kitchen with a large chimney darkened by smoke, where her mother Isabel prepared meals for the family in a wood-fired oven and black clay pots. The floor was covered with red clay tiles, worn down by years of use. The rooms were small and windowless. To light them during the day, all that was needed were the doors, whose locks, if they ever had keys, were long since lost.

When night fell, life was ruled by solar cycles, an oil lamp was lit and the whole family sat around the kitchen table to eat corn or stew, made from grains or beans, which had been cooked during the afternoon.

In those days, there were no state subsidies for the poor; life was a constant struggle for survival, working and working, from sunrise to sunset. The maxim that if you don't work, you don't eat was the law.

Some, who were not satisfied with this life, managed to emigrate to Argentina or Brazil. This was not the case with Zé, who was attached to his land and family.

Zé N'aquereu married young, he was a tall man for the time and had enviable strength. Since a child he dug the dry earth, being his arms, the hoe and the pickaxe, the weapons that fed him and his family.

When he was called up for military service, it was 1916, and Bia was already born. These were the turbulent years that followed the establishment of the Republic and the course of the First World War. Without him at home, the family's difficulties were enormous, as follows: on the first leave he took, a few days before returning to the barracks and possibly being mobilised for the war, for a few nights, with his marching order in hand, he lived in the dilemma of whether to return or stay, until, on the eve of his return, he burned the order and became a deserter. He managed to escape from the National Republican Guard for 25 years.

Perhaps to avoid being found, he became a shepherd of a flock of goats. During the day, he would wander around the foothills of Cerro de S. Miguel, which allowed him to observe first-hand the approach of strangers, who could only arrive by rocky paths, on foot or on horseback. In addition to being a shepherd, he was a farmer, sowing peas, broad beans and grains on the rocky land of his small place in the first rains, which would help feed his family.

Isabelinha, after having a flock of goats, began to sell the milk from her animals and from another shepherd, João Albino, in the small and poor fishing village of Fuzeta. Every day, well before sunrise, weather permitting or not, there she went on her little grey donkey, traveling about 7 kilometres along rough roads, carrying two jugs of milk in a gorpelha she distributed from door to door to her customers.

On her return, she would bring supplies for the family to eat, usually fish, which were abundant at that time, bread and some grocery items they needed.

It was in this environment of poverty, but without going hungry, that Bia was raised. When she was around 7 years old, she went to Aunt Anica's school, which was called a paid school. The teacher was a local lady who was more literate, that is, she knew how to read and write, and, using João de Deus's maternal primer, she taught her children the first letters in exchange for a few cents. Bia was intelligent and liked school, and so, in a few months, she managed to learn to read and write there. She read everything she could find, especially pieces of newspaper that her mother brought wrapped in some grocery item.

Her school days were short; she had to go and help take care of her father's flock since, in addition to working his own land, he also worked other people's land. So, she could be seen jumping from rock to rock, with a piece of newspaper under her arm, calling the catita and the malhada, who insisted on gnawing on the fig trees of uncle Manuel Anica or uncle Paulino.

Father Zé N'aquereu was a man of many trades: at night, he was a poacher, he hunted rabbits with traps and he also used a ferret whenever possible. These were forbidden activities, but when the need arose to get more meat, for a deserter, taking another risk meant little.

At that time, in the twenties, it was fashionable for ladies to wear fox fur stoles. Zé N'Aquereu, who knew the surrounding terrain, became an expert hunter of these small carnivores, took their skins, dried them and sold them to middlemen.

Once, he caught a mother fox who was still nursing a baby fox; he brought the little animal and gave it to her daughter, who was delighted with such a gift. She raised it with great care, feeding it with milk from the goats she tended. The animal became an inseparable companion to Beatriz and her flock; they played and shared their daily life outdoors, each growing at its own pace.

Credits: Unsplash; Author: gary-bendig;

One day, Mother Isabel arrived from her shop in Fuzeta and, as usual, everyone was waiting for her for lunch, including the little fox that was hopping around there. She tied the donkey under the carob tree and began to unload: sardines to grill, bread and potatoes and, in addition, she brought something special, a beautiful red-crested rooster with its legs still tied, which she had dreamed of for a long time and which would allow her to increase her livestock, which at that time consisted only of chickens.

Even before the presentation and barely placed it on the ground, the rooster was already in the mouth of the little fox, who was already a big fox, master of his natural instincts as a predator of chicken coops. There was confusion, the big fox ran ahead with his prey in his teeth, grabbed by the neck. Mother Isabel ran right behind, followed by Bia, who cried, anticipating the outcome.

In the end, the big fox was caught, but too late; the red-crested rooster had stopped kicking, Isabel's dream of seeing the chicken coops grow was postponed. Bia, seeing her companion whining, hanging by the neck from her mother's hand, was inconsolable and tried to intercede on his behalf.

Nothing moved Isabel, who had become accuser, judge and executioner. The sentence was quickly decreed, and her daughter's appeals were of no avail. The sentence was death by hanging, which was immediately carried out in the carob tree where the donkey was still tied. The poor fox struggled for a few moments at the end of the rope, to the despair of her owner, who never forgot the scene and, with sadness, always recounted it.


Author’s notes

Gorpelha – Portuguese name given to a tool made of palms that, in the Algarve, placed on the saddle of a donkey or mule, open in half, was used to transport carob pods or other objects.

Catita and malhada – Portuguese names given by goat herders to some of the animals in the flock.

by José G. Gago