Curved bark of the Phandar tree brushes my palm. It’s moist, dampened by the thick autumnal forest air. The bark curved impossibly, coiling like snakes. They faced one way, away from the wind. Rain had just fallen, we bathed in it, washed our scents away so that we melded into the Wealdath. I watched her stalk. O’Si, mother. She was now something to be feared. Not nurturing, nor caring – a hunter now with bow and spear on her back and in hand. A curved obsidian edge, molted, sharpened stone and gem – faint flecks of blood dried its sheen. Beyond the Phandar we saw Him; white gossamer fur, antlers proud and fully grown. We pause. She gestures for silence, and I dare not even to breathe. We watch Him graze, then stride, then graze again. He is beautiful, a singular white thing imperfectly camouflaged in a sea of orange and faded greens. I plead, wordlessly, to let him go. Her eyes are not on me, she still watches Him, needle-eyed. I feel grief for Him, then young tears come, but they do not fall silently. He cranes his neck sharply as the wind blows from past our backs. He cannot smell us, yet I wish he did. She nocks an arrow, then draws. The hempen bow-string strains, her arm quivers, but she breathes out one long breath, her aim solidifies then. I yell out as the arrow flies as both word and arrow find Him. He jolts, then springs away into the orange brush, beyond the Phandar. Mother still does not look at me. We follow the scarlet trail through the Wealdath. He turned sharp left, then right, deep strides made into the mud and soil, crushed Alder leaves, some soiled by blood. Then He is gone. The mud lies perfectly still, fallen leaves untouched. Mother nocks another arrow. I feel her fear, then even more so my own. The wind shifts, blowing against us, then something sharp breaks – like bone and flesh, a sound carried by the wind. We move through the Wealdath, and into an open grove. Below the Great Oak, that white thing laid. He was torn apart, limbs had gone and entrails eviscerated. He was not eaten. He was merely killed. Plucked prematurely from His death march by another terrifying something. She looks at me now, and I look at her. She is no longer the hunter as she wipes the tears from my cheeks. O’Si plucks me from the ground, holding me close to her chest. Nimbly she dashes through the Wealdath, beyond the Phandar. My misted eyes blind the gore left to rot beneath the Oak. Some other something looked back at me, past the gored elk, past the Oak and past the orange brush and the Wealdath – the monster of my reverie.
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