Touching The Stag

a short story

He had never kept any exact count of the years but this was his forty-fifth summer. That was damn sure pretty old for the way this country was and he was proud of it. He was a big burly sod with lots of life still in him and this morning he was set to prove it. He stood there on the brow of the hill, his belly bulging over his woolen kilt, the young Sun's warmth on his face and breast, the blood pumping through the heavy muscles of his limbs, and he leaned on his spear, spying all around below for something big to kill.

There it was, down in that clearing there. Among the shady trees he'd seen some movement then, straining his eyes, had forced his mind into the distant details of the scene and forced the movement into shape. A lone stag was grazing in that bit of meadow. A fair set of antlers stood up like the branches of a birch when it raised its head to glance around. No great rack; the animal must be young. From the way it moved, it must be full of solid meat. The place was large enough for a fight, most like. It was upwind from here. This seemed to be a real hunter's perfect setup, if he got there soon enough. For a long moment though, he carefully studied the distant moving points of light that showed the white-tipped rack of horns and his mouth went dry. His throat tightened up. To his astonishment, his heart suddenly trembled like a little bird. He squeezed his spear and made no move.

All the others, his nephews and sons and cousins, were still back there chewing on their breakfast, lounging under the spreading hilltop oak where they had camped last night. He looked back at them and a bitter scorn rose in his tightened throat. After all this time and all his deeds, there was nothing left to prove to them. But then there was his third son busy honing a knife even while sitting there in the sunlight eating. This had been no promising child at first but now had become his pride and joy. There had been a summer day like this, a year ago, when he took that lazy child out to the hunt and in the dusk brought home an eager lad with rabbits on his belt. Who says an old man makes weak babies? And his young wife swore this was his son. She must be right; he took good care to scare the young braves off of her and she turned her nose up at the other old guys. He stroked his rough white beard and grinned. Three times this winter one of the girls had dragged him off into the woods to get a proper fucking. Over the years he had acquired fine skill and reputation. Not bad for a man his age. Not bad at all.

Now his third son looked over at him and the boy's whole face lit up with pride. He called; "Hey Pop, what is it?" The father only nodded to the boy. "You saw something, didn't you?" But now the man doubted what to do and knew not how to answer. The lad would not be silent and called again, "Come on, what is it? You're not just standing there to piss over the cliff."

He had to laugh at that – it was the kind of thing his own father used to say – and with the laugh that rolled up through him came a sense of wild abandon. "Gentlemen!" he called to them all, "Gentlemen!" Then when they looked; "I'm going for that young stag in that clearing." It sounded right. It felt very good. They stood and smiled at him. It was no boast, what he had said, but only telling his friends where he was going. They all came out to see, he pointed to the place, they stared out there and nodded and rubbed their chins and spoke approval.

But the boy stared out there longer than the rest. He glanced to his father, looked away again, and asked, "You're figuring to go alone?"

And that glance was awful. There was no admiration in the boy's eyes now. It was fear there now, not the jolly fire of comradeship. Doubt squeezed his throat again. Did the boy know something? He ran the calculation quickly through his mind. Only the single beast, young and probably not a veteran of many fights. The trees were thick, the brush was thin and the breeze was holding steady; he could surely stalk right up to the clearing. The place looked large enough for handling the spear and there was his best knife on his calf. There'd never be a better chance for a single-handed kill. The boy was only worried. Instinctively, he reached down now to untie the knife's handle.

So he then came up close to the boy and took his hand just like he would have done a man's. He looked the lad straight in the eyes and said, "Son, I can't just let weakness creep up and stab me in the back. I've got to know if I can still do this. When it's time to quit, I guess I'll quit; but I've got to know."

That also sounded good. There was truth in that for he badly feared his growing weakness. But there was a lie as well. He wouldn't quit, not ever. He would die at this game on some summer day but he wouldn't say so now. What he had said was truth enough.

The boy sighed deep and nodded. They let each other go. The fellows slapped his back and shook his hand. They pulled his buckle loose and took his kilt away – dangerous encumbrance when you're stalking through the woods. He looked down at himself and, just for luck, rubbed the old blue spirals tattooed all around his loins and tugged his dick. "My God!" he said and looked up to the Sun. Now it was time. The others backed away.

Skill. Here was the first skill of a fighting man. He closed his eyes and sucked his belly in and swelled his chest with the delicious morning air. The Sun's warmth boiled into his flesh like steam boiling from a cauldron. The Earth was solid underfoot, solid and damp and alive, just like a woman lying under you, and a feeling like that passion flowed up making every muscle hard as rock. His phallus sprang up. His legs began to twitch, and then his arms. He opened his eyes, fixed them on the stag still down there, still grazing unsuspecting of its doom. He sang to it, "Stay, stay, stay," and let the spear leap up into his hands and point to it and pierce it, and then the glowing spirit of the spear leaped out as quick as thought and thudded into its side. "Stay, stay, stay." His feet were making little steps in place. He let his body crouch. He let his lips curl up into a snarl the way a wolf would do, and let his brow draw tight in furrows. "Stay, stay, stay." Now it was time.

Down the rocky face of the hill, crouching, perfectly in balance, a heavy man stepping quickly with grace and precision. Not one pebble came loose in his hasty descent because the ground itself told his feet everything, and suddenly he was out of sight among the trees below. Now this was another skill, the silent stalking. He had learned it in the same way he had learned to make a woman gasp and giggle, by letting himself be taught.

Now down among the trees he slowed and watched for the way ahead. The trick was to avoid brush and fallen branches and all the time keep your bearings. When he got close he must stay hidden. Here was a stand of bramble which he squeezed around without a pause and without a scratch – the kilt would have snagged if he had not been naked. Now a shady open place and his feet missed every mushroom – no need to step on one and free their musky smell. Now a fallen holly tree forced him toward the right. Through all of this zigzag course he kept his prey's location firmly fixed in mind and tracked himself across the map that he had seen from the hill above. Here were the four tall birches he had seen. Here was the patch of marsh. There was the broken oak.

He passed a boar's den and paused an instant, freezing very still to glance around and mark the place for another time. He crossed a deer trail that went the wrong way; soft fresh dung but he gave it no attention. He hopped down a bank and over the little brook; this was very close. He saw the light change; there was a clearing straight ahead. He froze again. He waited. He was crouched and balanced, ready to move in any direction. All of his senses were open wide. He waited. Patterns shifted inside his eyes as things responded to the breeze. There was movement out beyond the trees. He smelled the stag. It snorted and he heard it loud. A little closer, several steps, brought him up beside a thick ash trunk. A few steps closer still, into a dark piece of shade. Now he could see. There was the beast.

"Stay, stay, stay," he whispered quieter than the rustling leaves. He was not close enough to spring, not nearly. The stag was on the far side of the clearing with its buttocks toward him, head down in the grass. It raised its head a little with every mouthful and peered into the woods, intrigued by distant sounds and smells. He took the opportunity to walk closer, right up to the clearing's edge beside the final tree, and there he knelt. His spear was pointed in the right direction and its long thin narrow head hung very still in midair, embedded in the final bit of shade. Nothing but a stretch of knee-high grass stood between the hunter and the hunted and yet it was too far. If he sprang from here the stag would bolt and be away. If he crept out in the grass some little thing would jump and cry. If he circled round he would no longer be downwind. He could be waiting here all day. Something must be done.

He changed his song. "Come, come, come," he whispered quieter than the new shoots of grass pushing soil aside. The animal made no move. It was not enough. He let the patterns blur inside his eyes. He let the sunlight flow into his shady hiding place, into his flesh until it warmed his blood. He let the cool damp Earth rise up into his crouching form and turn his body hard. He let his muscles quiver as the God and Goddess merged. He sang again, "Come, come, come." The stag's ears twitched. It raised its antlered head. It sniffed the air. For just a moment it prepared to run, but then relaxed and sniffed again. It looked his way.

Now for an instant there was a round brown eye fixed in his soul. Around it flowed the Earth and sunny sky. For half that instant he resisted, but then let go and felt a jet of power leap through everything. He heard his voice out loud, "Come, come, come." Here it came.

This was the oddest thing that he had ever seen. The stag walked calmly toward him. Not only that, but it looked at him, with its head high and cocked over to one side. Not only that, not only did it see him here, but it knew what he was and what he wanted. He had heard their thoughts many times before but none had ever spoken this directly to him. If it had spoken with a human tongue it would have asked, "Do you dare?"

So did he dare? The animal was waiting a dozen strides away and as he watched he saw the battle fury coming on it. The beast lit up like fire suddenly taking shape in tender. It trembled. It put its head down, waved its ivory-tipped antlers at him, snorted flame, and threw ripped clods into the sky with knife-edged hooves. It thrust its face out toward him and it bellowed.

So there he was, a fat old man clutching a stick with a metal point, kneeling by a tree. A well-armed being two times his size confronted him. A good knife was strapped to his calf. He was not so quick as in the younger days, but still plenty strong. He knew a trick or two. He knew the unity of God and Goddess. Despite the creeping years, he stood now at the very height of human power. He realized suddenly and rationally that all his race could not bring forth a better individual to try this deed. The fathers and mothers were surely watching. There was simply no other thing to do. Yes, he would dare.

So then he summoned in the battle fury on himself once more. He let his vision blur. He let the Sun come in, the Earth rise up and felt their passion stir him like an infant stirring in the womb. He let his breath turn into fire. He let his soul bloom out about the flesh, all flaming red.

Age and trickery were on his side. He had planned this and done this before. He came from the shadows with a shout. The spear was tight tucked under his right arm and aimed directly at the enemy's face; it was really quite invisible. He waved his left hand high and wide to make the creature guard or flee from it, an empty threat. The stag turned toward the left and sealed its fate. But with the spear so badly aimed, and with the left arm out of balance, he was most unlikely to redirect the point so well that it would pierce the heart in that first thrust. Here was the animal's hairy foreflank; behind it here the tiny spot through which a long thin blade could slide by bone and muscle to the target. The spear point was descending toward the spot as he sidestepped and turned to get a straight approach. His right arm, tucked in at such an awkward angle, struggled for the right adjustment. The point touched to the hairy skin and slid in too high by inches; the lungs were pierced but not the heart. There had been too little time in the headlong rush. The beast would die but not at once; its fate was set while his was still unknown. Now all depended on the second stroke.

The spear haft thudding onto the hard flank caught him in midstride. If the butt had not been clutched so tightly he would now be on the ground and subject to the flashing hooves. Even as it was, he must regain his footing and withdraw the weapon properly in hand to strike again, all before the enemy could turn and thereby wrench the weapon from his grasp.

The stag was slow to make its move. It had never been badly wounded before and the pain was a horrifying shock. It stood frozen there as if by winter's icy blast. While he clung to its hairy shoulder and struggled to his feet, he felt the horror through and through its being. The moment's advantage was his and he knew it; the awful pain now shooting through his own chest was only just a brief surprise like wounds that he had felt before. How was he hurt? He did not know, but he knew that he could do the work.

Despite his unknown wound, he took a stance and yanked the weapon free. This was very odd for he felt it jerking free of his own body. The pain was somewhat less. Quickly but very carefully he touched the point just at the proper spot which he had missed before – and felt it touch between his ribs. He leaned hard into the work and yes indeed – he felt the blade slice inward toward his own heart. The stag was still unmoving so he took the time to do it carefully, guiding the blade by the searing sensations which he felt himself. But this was much too slow. He felt the alien mind reach into his, felt its sudden knowledge of his aim and saw the big living body leap up high and whirl away. The blade was free again; the chance was lost.

O Mother, he prayed amid the blazing pain, let this be done and finished! A hoof came up and cracked the spear and sent it flying out of sight. The antlered head came round again, now with the branching horns right at him. As he caught and grappled with them, a point ripped through his forearm and for an instant the animal staggered with the searing flash of his torn flesh. He got his left arm about the antlers at their roots, lodged his wounded right arm in their branches as best he might, leaned back and clung on tight and tried to get his thighs about the snout to rob the animal of breath. Now the shock and shove of beast on beast was all there was.

He was too heavy for the stag to really raise its head but it plunged and shook and kept him off his feet. With every plunge and shake the ivory points came near to gouging out his eyes or ripping through his cheek. He feared that his arm lodged in the horns might break. Hot blood welled up choking inside the chest. There was no chance in Earth that he could reach his knife this way. The animal was tiring, half smothered, half drowning, racked with pain, but he was breathing just as hard and tiring just the same. If he dropped off and got his knife then he would have to fight the hooves again. His mind spun in and out of blackness.

He did not dare to plan his move for fear the animal would know. He simply let his body do the work like in a dance. The head came down, he landed on his feet. The head went up, he got his back into the job and forced it on up farther. It backed away, he got his right arm loose and grasped an ivory tine for better leverage. That was the winning trick. The weary head went down then up again, he forced it farther up again and this time twisted. Blood spouted from the wounded flank. Pain gushed from his flaming lungs all up his back and neck. One time was not enough. The head came down, he got a better grip. The head came up, he twisted. He was unconscious for an instant, blind for a moment, but still he stood. There had been the awful crack of live bone splitting. Life drained out of him.

The stag's knees bent and its whole frame collapsed so that it lay down on its breast. The man collapsed onto the Earth as well and there lay caught, his legs beneath. The man was breathing. Somehow still, so was the stag. Someone somewhere spoke, "Let this be done and finished." So then, animated by this unknown voice, the man struggled to sit up beneath and pull the stag's head across his lap. He reached and found and drew the knife. Their breathing was slow and shallow. Their limbs were twitching. He laid the knife's sharp edge on the great strong throat, across a throbbing vein. He laid his other hand upon the forehead above the round staring eyes, full of surrender now. He whispered, "Young son, let it go." He pressed down hard upon the knife and slid the edge across and let the blood gush out onto the ground. He closed his eyes, leaned aside to lie upon the body. Speaking to himself: "Now let it go."

Now came a magnificent vision. He was sinking deep into profound sleep and yet his soul was still awake. The stag was with him in that realm of dream. They stood together, each leaning heavy on the other, the man's arm over the broad muscular shoulders. He had never been so close to such an animal in peace before. A misty silver fog was all around and yet a light gleamed straight ahead and so they walked toward it pressing one another side by side. All but that light was deep gray shadowed weariness. Both of them felt the weariness. With every slow step they panted and moaned. Now the mist cleared a little, just around them, and there was the black mouth of a cave. In the steep face of a hill, one great rock lay slantwise on another and there was room for them to walk beneath. They stood and gazed. That tiny piercing point of light shone deep within.

He felt the light calling. It was the first gleam of the Sun on New Years morn. It called, "Let everything be born again!" The big stag nickered and went ahead. He stood and watched it go. The creature descended into that dark place till it was wrapped in blackness, till its footfalls and its panting could not be heard.

Then came a breeze at his back, standing there, but not a breeze of air. It was a wind of souls. At first he only felt a few but then he saw the river of ghostly beast and human shapes. There was no end of these departing wraithlike souls, countless in their number, flowing all about him, brushing past like the rolling waves of a swollen stream running by an island rock, into the black cave, toward the shining light. Deep in the cave there was a pool of rest and comfort; there they flowed and as they laid themselves into the phosphorescent liquid, myriad voices sighed in release.

Then rose the Sun. Over the lake of souls within the Earth, a great light dawned. Beams reached out to every recess of the rocky cavern and struck on glinting jewels. The light was suddenly so huge that all melted in it; the lake, the souls, the shining jewels, the boulders of the cave itself; and there he stood amid a meadow with the Sun ahead.

Grass was sprouting from the fertile soil. He saw it stand up and wave, brushing at his legs, and saw the little mice all scurrying among it. Insects whirred and fluttered in the light. Then meadowsweet and thistle sprouted, stood up tall and bloomed. Then seedling trees came up and grew to saplings, reaching out their limbs to hold leaves in the Sun. Then larger furry things appeared, squirrels and hedgehogs, ferrets and badgers and bear and wolves, hurrying about their business in the forest that now grew tall. There were deer passing before his eyes. There were human voices calling somewhere distant. But the light grew brighter still, flooding through the woods, flooding through his eyes, and the all-enveloping world spoke to him. In a female voice the world said, "So it is done." That voice was echoing in his ears. His eyes were open. He awoke.

He sat still with the dead stag's muzzle cradled in his lap. Sprinkles and rivulets of blood around them dripped from the trampled grass into the soil. A livid aching flame was burning in his back; it must be sprained. The beautiful dead beast was laid down neatly on its breast as though in sleep, but the long thick neck was twisted half around in a most unnatural way with the head propped up by the antlers between his knees. He saw that the ragged gash along his arm had already closed and certainly would heal. How long had he been in the land beyond?

He reflected on the meat this animal had now become. All of his people would share. The creature was now hide and hair, sinew and bone, gut and glue. There was some handsome jewelry in its horns. So too, he would be meat for wolves and worms and crows someday. His ribs would make a trellis for the roots of things that love the Earth. Meanwhile his soul would do what the stag had done, return to dance in all that lives. It was all so beautiful.

The knife was in his hand. There was another thing that he should do. There was a custom in this country when you kill a valiant foe. The mothers and fathers and the children had their due.

So now he disentangled his legs from the branching horns, pulled himself from under the heavy head. It was a struggle and the torn muscles of his back were screaming. He managed to stand and then, a matter of pride, to straighten up. He hobbled around to the beast's side, knelt as comfortably as possible, shoved and heaved the body to bring its belly toward him. Then he finally held up the knife. He looked up toward the distant hill where his fellow men were surely watching.

But they were not there on the distant hill. They were here close among the trees just at the clearing's edge. The fellows had raced together down here from the hill and then they had stopped in various poses. Their faces stared at him with obvious enraptured awe. It seemed that his own young son had halted them, for the boy stood poised ahead with arms out in the gesture of holding back a crowd. They looked so comical he had to laugh. They all looked like marvelous satires of themselves, except the boy who seemed so much like his dead grandfather.

Very well; the final act would be done better with them close by. He shut his eyes. He reached out to the men and found their awe had opened them fully to the power of this ritual. He reached back to the village miles away to find the women and children at their work and play. He reached out to their burial mound and stood there at its cavern door for a moment to call the ancestors' souls. He gathered all of them, past and present, into his arms and flew back to this little clearing where he stood them all close around.

Now all of them were here. He had never before felt their presence so strongly. He had never before known the meaning of this act so clearly.

Now he came up, standing on his knees, the knife in hand, and opened his arms to the whole world. All the plants and animals of his vision were suddenly with them. Everything suddenly was vibrating with a song, one perfect tone, a harmony of male and female voice. The stag was alive once more, lying still and calmly waiting.

He descended to his work, brought down the knife, sliced the tough hide of the belly, opened it and reached inside. Here was the purple liver, organ of the courageous power that made this creature great. He gripped it and cut out the little bit around his fingertips. He held the morsel up for all to see. He could not tell which world it happened in, but somewhere all the folk cried out in joy.

Now he held the morsel out and squeezed a drip of blood onto the soil; now he laid the bit into his mouth and sucked its juice down to his belly. A silent bolt of lightening struck. Here was all blood, all juice, all fire and water, all power of life. The world's song rose to a thrilling pitch and then began to throb; it was the beating of all hearts. He gulped the morsel down and let its power spread out to all who were gathered there. All flesh was one. All souls were one. He held them for a moment more then let them go. He let them drift away, each with a portion of the power that the hunter and the hunted conjured here. The glowing light that lingered from the lightening bolt, the throbbing song, the presence of the multitude began to fade.

The man struggled to his feet and stood up straight again. The other world was with him still and always would be. His pain and injuries were nothing to this joy. He opened his arms again to the men, to the women and children, to the mothers and fathers, and spoke; "Thus we shall eat."