MorningForger
10-27-2014, 11:15 AM
The White Deer
By A.M. Smith
The dawn was moments from breaking and a hunter silently perched among the treetops. His lookout had been crafted by his own hands the summer before. He had labored for two days in the scorching sun. He worked the saw back and forth, cutting lengths of wood to place as struts, as floor boards, as guard rails, but only just enough. Beads of sweat ran down his neck and through the tunnels of his shirt and waistband. He worked the hammer to place the lengths of wood at perfect angles. He told himself he only wanted something that worked, but with each stroke of the hammer he aimed not only for the nail head, but also perfection. He poured his desires into the construction of this stand and with each wipe of his brow he envisioned the mighty beast as his ultimate prize. He’d hunted these woods before. Hunted the whitetail. But he never stayed in one place too long. Many busts adorned his cabin walls, but he always sought one that might reign over them. They as his subjects, busied by far-off things. It was this picture that came together, piece by piece, with each rail smoothed, each foothold carved.
Now winter, cold and bleak, the dawn broke over the ridge to the right of the stand. The leaves shifted like whispers and caught hold of streaking sunlight and flicked it around the forest. A mourning dove heralded the new light with its dirge and a squirrel bustled at the foot of the hunter’s tree. Frantic, almost, it searched for something it was sure was just under the surface. It cursed the night’s fresh layer of light snow. The hunter had arrived with pride fully two hours before and settled into the crook of the tree’s splitting trunk. It held him like a cradle and the sounds of the early morning forest had pulled him like quicksand into a quiet slumber. From the next tree over, a horned owl had investigated his soft breathing at different angles with quick and purposeful twists of its neck. It called a single note of approval or uncertainty and fled into the darkness with surprising silence. Now, though, the warm light trickled through the brittle branches and played with shadows on the forest floor. Calls from the crows and the barking of squirrels and crackling of warming twigs and ice created a soft din throughout. Still the hunter did not stir. Those playful shadows coalesced into a form. A chameleonic deer peaked through a gateway framed by two oaken guardians. Her fur was sleek and grey in the adolescent light. She slinked without sound a dozen feet or so and stopped to appraise the land. Her graceful neck bent toward the treetops, through which a fading moon could still be seen. A scent gathered through her nares and sent a signal into the white underside of her tail and it flickered a soundless warning. She sniffed again and seemed satisfied to continue silently on. She disappeared through a copse of prickly ash as quietly as she had arrived.
The hunter shifted in his position in the trees. The polished barrel of his rifle glinted in the dim light and slid to abutment against the bark of his cradle. A soft clink of metal on tree bark, a sound foreign to these woods, travelled to the hunter’s ear and stirred him further.
The cacophonous forest quickly decrescendoed; animals became scarce and leaves hung listless as the cold breeze failed in its course through the trees. A calm settled over the entire forest, and all was still. The light from the cresting sun dimmed and in its place a soft white glow began to metastasize from a single, yet nebulous point, dispelling the trickster shadows. It was as if the snow itself was becoming luminescent. It grew in intensity and cast its own shadows, these reverent in contrast with their impish cousins. A magnificent beast stepped out of the light. The size of a moose, this deer was stately in his body alone, but as he stepped between the same two oaks as his predecessor, his massive antlers towered like their own forest of leafless trees. They hid secrets of their own as they marched through these deep woods. His perfectly black hooves split the white snow with breathtaking contrast. But then his coat seized the eye. It was an improbable white. Purity that made the fresh snow appear marred with ages of smut and dirt. He gazed deep with eyes like black holes bordered by a thin gold line about the periphery. The shadows bowed and swayed back to follow his slow procession through the trees. Each purposeful step proclaimed his majesty as he followed the same path as virtually all of his kin—if indeed they were his kin and not his subjects—the path that led from the oak trees around a hillock and then to a small clearing straight in front of the hunter’s stand before bending north and following a ridgeline that dove down to disappear into the thick prickly ash. He slowed to a stop before the hillock. The muscles of his neck rippled through his beautiful coat as he lifted his head to test the air. Dust, or pixies, caught the light and danced around him in dazzling silence. He came now to the clearing and only then could one fully appreciate his grandeur. Stark against the small insignificance of background trees, he stood like a monument to ancient deities. Sculpted by talented hands that had witnessed the very creation of greatness. He stood in profile and slowly scanned the landscape, turning his gaze finally toward the stand. Silence. Beauty. Magnificence.
A shot tore through the calm silence and the creature seized up and stiffened. His coat speckled with tiny beads of bright red. They gathered and ran together to dive off the small shafts of white hair and bury themselves in the fresh snow, burrowing a tunnel to the old ground with their heat. His shoulder muscles rippled and twitched. The golden ring around the blacks of his eyes stretched to allow for greater gulps of light. The glint of metal in the treetops caught his gaze. Movement, just the slightest. The barrel of the hunter’s gun trailed down to rest against the tree. The creature studied it. Not panic. Hastened awareness. The echo from the report faded. The snow was shifting from soft pink to deep slushy red. A black hoof lifted from its post and the creature took a step forward. His eyes still fixed on the glint spot. Another step. And another. He pulled his gaze from the treetops and vanished into the ash.
A mourning dove called out. Louder than before. Then another. Then a crow croaked its abrasive caw. A breeze coaxed the leaves into a continuation of their hushed conversations. The din of the forest returned and a pool of red snow expanded out from a single point. A new universe born from the blood of a body now turning cold in the morning. The weak rays of sunlight tried to warm it, but the cold was winning. The hunter barely moved. He stared into the clearing in front of him at that new universe slowly expanding toward him. He wondered if it might swallow him up. He stared and a tear fell from his eyelashes and onto the clean, smooth floorboard of his stand.
The End.
By A.M. Smith
The dawn was moments from breaking and a hunter silently perched among the treetops. His lookout had been crafted by his own hands the summer before. He had labored for two days in the scorching sun. He worked the saw back and forth, cutting lengths of wood to place as struts, as floor boards, as guard rails, but only just enough. Beads of sweat ran down his neck and through the tunnels of his shirt and waistband. He worked the hammer to place the lengths of wood at perfect angles. He told himself he only wanted something that worked, but with each stroke of the hammer he aimed not only for the nail head, but also perfection. He poured his desires into the construction of this stand and with each wipe of his brow he envisioned the mighty beast as his ultimate prize. He’d hunted these woods before. Hunted the whitetail. But he never stayed in one place too long. Many busts adorned his cabin walls, but he always sought one that might reign over them. They as his subjects, busied by far-off things. It was this picture that came together, piece by piece, with each rail smoothed, each foothold carved.
Now winter, cold and bleak, the dawn broke over the ridge to the right of the stand. The leaves shifted like whispers and caught hold of streaking sunlight and flicked it around the forest. A mourning dove heralded the new light with its dirge and a squirrel bustled at the foot of the hunter’s tree. Frantic, almost, it searched for something it was sure was just under the surface. It cursed the night’s fresh layer of light snow. The hunter had arrived with pride fully two hours before and settled into the crook of the tree’s splitting trunk. It held him like a cradle and the sounds of the early morning forest had pulled him like quicksand into a quiet slumber. From the next tree over, a horned owl had investigated his soft breathing at different angles with quick and purposeful twists of its neck. It called a single note of approval or uncertainty and fled into the darkness with surprising silence. Now, though, the warm light trickled through the brittle branches and played with shadows on the forest floor. Calls from the crows and the barking of squirrels and crackling of warming twigs and ice created a soft din throughout. Still the hunter did not stir. Those playful shadows coalesced into a form. A chameleonic deer peaked through a gateway framed by two oaken guardians. Her fur was sleek and grey in the adolescent light. She slinked without sound a dozen feet or so and stopped to appraise the land. Her graceful neck bent toward the treetops, through which a fading moon could still be seen. A scent gathered through her nares and sent a signal into the white underside of her tail and it flickered a soundless warning. She sniffed again and seemed satisfied to continue silently on. She disappeared through a copse of prickly ash as quietly as she had arrived.
The hunter shifted in his position in the trees. The polished barrel of his rifle glinted in the dim light and slid to abutment against the bark of his cradle. A soft clink of metal on tree bark, a sound foreign to these woods, travelled to the hunter’s ear and stirred him further.
The cacophonous forest quickly decrescendoed; animals became scarce and leaves hung listless as the cold breeze failed in its course through the trees. A calm settled over the entire forest, and all was still. The light from the cresting sun dimmed and in its place a soft white glow began to metastasize from a single, yet nebulous point, dispelling the trickster shadows. It was as if the snow itself was becoming luminescent. It grew in intensity and cast its own shadows, these reverent in contrast with their impish cousins. A magnificent beast stepped out of the light. The size of a moose, this deer was stately in his body alone, but as he stepped between the same two oaks as his predecessor, his massive antlers towered like their own forest of leafless trees. They hid secrets of their own as they marched through these deep woods. His perfectly black hooves split the white snow with breathtaking contrast. But then his coat seized the eye. It was an improbable white. Purity that made the fresh snow appear marred with ages of smut and dirt. He gazed deep with eyes like black holes bordered by a thin gold line about the periphery. The shadows bowed and swayed back to follow his slow procession through the trees. Each purposeful step proclaimed his majesty as he followed the same path as virtually all of his kin—if indeed they were his kin and not his subjects—the path that led from the oak trees around a hillock and then to a small clearing straight in front of the hunter’s stand before bending north and following a ridgeline that dove down to disappear into the thick prickly ash. He slowed to a stop before the hillock. The muscles of his neck rippled through his beautiful coat as he lifted his head to test the air. Dust, or pixies, caught the light and danced around him in dazzling silence. He came now to the clearing and only then could one fully appreciate his grandeur. Stark against the small insignificance of background trees, he stood like a monument to ancient deities. Sculpted by talented hands that had witnessed the very creation of greatness. He stood in profile and slowly scanned the landscape, turning his gaze finally toward the stand. Silence. Beauty. Magnificence.
A shot tore through the calm silence and the creature seized up and stiffened. His coat speckled with tiny beads of bright red. They gathered and ran together to dive off the small shafts of white hair and bury themselves in the fresh snow, burrowing a tunnel to the old ground with their heat. His shoulder muscles rippled and twitched. The golden ring around the blacks of his eyes stretched to allow for greater gulps of light. The glint of metal in the treetops caught his gaze. Movement, just the slightest. The barrel of the hunter’s gun trailed down to rest against the tree. The creature studied it. Not panic. Hastened awareness. The echo from the report faded. The snow was shifting from soft pink to deep slushy red. A black hoof lifted from its post and the creature took a step forward. His eyes still fixed on the glint spot. Another step. And another. He pulled his gaze from the treetops and vanished into the ash.
A mourning dove called out. Louder than before. Then another. Then a crow croaked its abrasive caw. A breeze coaxed the leaves into a continuation of their hushed conversations. The din of the forest returned and a pool of red snow expanded out from a single point. A new universe born from the blood of a body now turning cold in the morning. The weak rays of sunlight tried to warm it, but the cold was winning. The hunter barely moved. He stared into the clearing in front of him at that new universe slowly expanding toward him. He wondered if it might swallow him up. He stared and a tear fell from his eyelashes and onto the clean, smooth floorboard of his stand.
The End.