Hunting on Hallowed Ground: Episode 1: Sacred Stag

Episode 1

Sacred Stag

Trevor Barnett

A cold whisper began the melody of the wood. The leaves of the trees obeyed the whispers; they drifted and meandered to the ground. Branches swayed and danced for the sacred–frigid whispers. All the birds, awakened, heard the soft call; their sanctifier would soon ascend into the heavens. Whispers permeated that ancient hallowed wood, all of its subjects listened. This whisper spoke of a ritual–for the rising sun.

A deep breath of autumnal air, filled the breasts–of the birds. That breath anticipated the sun’s ascension. Released! Hymns sprung out of the pious birds and filled the air– with praise and worship. Royal hues of reds, pinks, oranges, and yellows dyed the tenebrous and chalky sky. Rays of holy light parted the dense mist. White crystals shimmered and reflected morning’s first light. Their saint, the sun, had risen and purified that hallowed ground of the wood.

Lo, an outsider observed this ritual of consecration.

Light scattered and crept through the morning fog; it slowly made its way to an ambiguous and umbral mass, who was perched in a tree–in an unnatural way.

The light began to reveal the face of the man, in the tree. It was a soft face that had never left adolescence, but his wryly, twisted, and unkept black beard contradicted his cherub features. Those eyes were irritated slits squinting at the hazy incandescent sun.

His hat was repulsively bright and obnoxiously orange, a color so rude and synthetic; it could only be made by man. He pulled down the brim of his offensively orange hat, hiding his eyes–from the morning sun. The brim of the hat casted a shadow, and soothed his irritated slits. The man’s eyes were relaxed almonds, which revealed the gray color.

The portly man gazed upon an open field covered in frozen dew, from his artificial perch. His gray eyes surveyed a landscape of charcoal gestured trees, against a background of morning pastels. The rosy flesh that housed those gray scanning eyes, waited for his game.

Stiff gelid digits fidgeted with a golden coin. Even with gloves, the man’s thumb could interpret the raised ridges and project an image into his mind. His dead thumb traced a shallow triangle that encompassed a prominently carved seven. The tip of his thumb caressed tactile words: words like true, self, and unity flooded his mind. The man flipped the coin and felt the words that made up a prayer: he it knew by heart. He started to recite the prayer, to himself: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cann–. An arctic gust cut through the man and disturbed his prayer. He put the coin back in his pocket.

He was on the brink of chattering teeth. The man knew any noise could spook the chase; he tried to suppress his body’s natural response to the cold weather. An attempt, he hoped to remedy his frigid condition; his rigid fingers objected as they bent and gripped to tear open two plastic packs. Each pack contained two handwarmers, and they began to radiate heat when they met the frosty air. He shoved a handwarmer in each glove and boot, which tried to mimic his surroundings. This man had hoped his newfound warmth would prevent the chattering.

Even though, the husky man, who appeared to be fatter than he was, had many layers of clothing and handwarmers–the cold was winning. Shivering limbs and chattering teeth had now overcome the man’s will. He was beginning to wonder if he should call the hunt. Before he decided to climb down from the stand; his almost achromatic eyes would scan the field–shrouded in fog. The fog revealed nothing to those hopeful eyes. As a last attempt, the cold black-bearded man would peer through his black spy-glass, the magnification of the glass revealed nothing new. Just as, he was about to lower his scope–he saw a faint movement. The infant-bearded man thought his eager eyes betrayed him, but something big sauntered toward him. As his excitement grew, so did the clarity of the creature that wandered the fog.

Antlers! The man saw antlers appearing from the mist. He had never seen so many points, on antlers so massive. His mind rushed and was franticly counting points: How many points! Sixteen, maybe even eighteen! The fog revealed a creature so beautiful to those gray eyes, filled with anticipation. It was a white deer.

This man had seen many deer in his lifetime, but none compared to the perfect creature that presented itself. The stag was whiter than the frozen dew, he stood upon; a stag so brilliantly white he appeared to glow in that morning fog. The man’s eyes searched for a blemish of color on that deer’s coat–he only saw white, a white so pure. Long powerful legs jutted from that broad white stag, and it’s size was comparable to a Clydesdale, maybe even bigger.

That powerful white stag solemnly walked even closer, to the galvanized hunter. The silently ecstatic man thought to himself: Wow! This buck must be a record, no it’s too big to be a deer! Maybe an Elk… impossible! He’s no further than a hundred yards away!

The hunter’s mind printed magazine covers, him on the front with his glorious white stag. His mind produced possible titles of the articles written about his hunt: Hunter finds world’s largest buck on record, and it’s albino! Albino Elk found in Alabama! His mind kept producing images of fame and glory, and was ready to pull the trigger; but, his fingers were not as eager as his mind. His mind began to wonder if such a beautiful creature should be slain, in the name of sport. It was so white, so perfect, so innocent. He would be the prize of my collection! But… but, come on don’t let him go!

As the stag approached the hunter–he stopped dead in his tracks. The birds began to chirp louder and the wind that was once a whisper–roared. Blue eyes stared back at the hunter through his scope. Blue eyes? I have never seen a deer with blue eyes. That magnificent white stag reared, and showed the hunter how tall he was; the morning sun perfectly hung in between those colossal antlers, as he stood on those monstrous hind legs. The giddy hunter in the tree was amused with the stag’s odd performance. Does this buck know I’m here? He shows no fear, of me. Ifff… I was as big as him, I wouldn’t fear anyone either.

On its hind legs, the stag lifted its head to the sky; a cacophonous cry erupted from the white stag. That deafening cry shook the trees and the innocent hunter in the stand. The ears of the hunter rang with excruciating pain. Ahhhhh! What the fu–. That stag’s front legs fell back to the earth, and the ground quaked. Unsteady, the hunter struggled to put the stag in his cross-hairs. Come one! Come on! Keep your aim steady, it’s just a damn deer! The stag majestically paced on the open field, never averting his gaze from the hunter. Then he reared again releasing another cry–louder than the last. The hunter covered his ears in a lame attempt to stop the agonizing decibels, from entering his ears; in doing so, the hunter dropped his black rifle, but he quickly snatched it. He had never heard such a loud cry from a deer, or any animal before.

His fingers trembled and perspired as they reached for the trigger. Shaking, he looked through the scope and put his cross-hairs on the white stag. Eyes, such powerful eyes stared back at the hunter! Take the shot! He’s gonna look real nice in my shop! As the hunter trembled, he had long forgotten about the cold. The white stag stood still as a mountain. A hoof was raised at a rapid speed and struck the earth beneath him, like a hammer hitting an anvil. The stag blurred in the hunter’s scope as his rifle reverberated that mighty stomp. A final cry, louder than the prior two, vibrated the land, the man’s soul, and every molecule of his being. Ears rang and the hunter’s head felt like a bell that was about to shatter. Through the scope, the hunter stared at those sapphires that were the white stag’s eyes. His cross-hairs were on the white stag; the hunter began to recite the prayer, on the back of the coin, which he knew by heart, “ God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

A sound of thunder desecrated the land! Phantoms danced and swirled around the end of the barrel. The hunter was unable to hear the sound of his own gun; his ears ached and rang from the cry, of the stag. A smoking barrel was the only evidence the hunter had, to know he had pulled the trigger. He looked to see if the colossal stag had fallen. It was darting away from him at a blistering speed.

Birds fell silent and stared at the man. Wind that roared was now silent.

Frozen dew protested as it crunched beneath his boots. The man followed the blood-trail of the missing deer. Couldn’t have gotten far. This blood-trail is thick. What was once a beautiful pastel morning of reds, yellows, and oranges, was now an ominous overcast. He astutely followed spots of crimson that contrasted the icy ground. The hunter felt the sardonic stares that came from the trees. Guilt overwhelmed the man as he followed the trail of blood, and he did not know why.

Finally, the hunter had followed the blood-trail, through the thickening fog, to its end. His eyes saw a small lump on the ground. Did I misjudge the size of this deer? My nerves must have really gotten to me. As he got closer he was horrified to see feet, instead of hooves! He scurried closer to the body that laid quiescently on a bed of ice. A boy with ivory skin and blue streaks marbling his body was revealed, to the panicked man. A crown of twigs, with two prominent protruding branches gave the illusion of antlers. This pagan crown adorned the blonde, almost white, hair of the dead boy.

The man fell to his knees. Shaking, he reached down and scooped the boy into his arms. He studied the bare and dead babe that rested in his arms, dwarfed in comparison to the large man. Those dead blue eyes of the boy reached the gray ones of the hunter. Panic, fear, and guilt consumed the man on his knees. Tears rolled down from his gray eyes. He lifted his head and let out a cry.

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