Tales of Heath House

The Stag

When the Stag awoke, he knew at once that everything had changed, the air smelt fresher, somehow and the bird song seemed no longer muffled. This was the beginning of spring. He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. The Stag had seen a dozen of these springs but still each greeted him with a happiness only seasons could bring.

He swung his head slowly, the tight muscles, strained for so many years, clicking comfortably. His eyes lifted over the bursting colour of the forest, as winters frost melted away, he could remember, all those years ago, when he was a small foal, jumping with a large herd through the forest, and smelling that same fruity, syrupy smell of honeysuckle or the floury smell of grass pollen drifting through the shafts of light. And they would hurry in groups to fetch food, or scamper for a new, more comfortable bush to sleep in, when the cold winter nights came upon them.

Now, however, he was alone, am unaccompanied creature, older and wiser, the leader of the pack but always patrolling the wild forest in solidarity, yes, just a few of his kind lay just out of view, a trees length away, but he scarcely made contact, his greying fur preferring to not be ruffled closely by the next, younger stag, ready to take his place, but that time would soon come, he knew it, maybe even before the next spring shone through his tired eyes.

Then, three of his kind came scrabbling across the rough ground and a rumbling brawl brustled behind them, leaves crashing against the ground, and, with one bow of the head from the one in front, he was off, bones crunching from the harsh movement as he leapt from the tangling leaves, into the depths of the forest. The Stag's nostrils rippled in the wind, neck whipping at branches.

Who were they? It had been their forest for a while now, he hadn't even seen a badger strike across his path but something big was coming. He could hear the sound of hooves. Another pack of his kind? Wanting more land? Or something else? He looked behind again, all he could see were leaves hurled through the busy air. He had stared back a moment too long, and had banged into a tree, collapsing in pain, head ringing. But there was light ahead, where his four others slowed down, waiting for him, their leader. The clearing, he thought, that must be it, they could race through and into the forest again. The rustling was growing louder, and he dunked his head up and down, wanting them to run ahead, get going.

Light rushed into his eyes, worsening the pain, but he kept up the chase, wanting to clear the scene before those creatures caught up. He swung his head quickly round, ears slapping the short fur on his neck, and saw something breaking the last line of trees, but the stag had come to the next forest and he, with two others by his side, collapsed onto the short layer of ivy, hidden from view.

It was humans, apon horses, now just slipping off the saddles - a man with dark hair and eyes leading the group. The men were looking around, admiring the spot. The green, untouched grass (for the farm has moved years ago), tall trees all around and a view over the hills at one side all looked incredibly inviting.

'Why are they here? the Stag thought, for they were pacing a pattern, lining the short grass with large leather boots and pointing at different parts of the ground. He bent his head again, curiosity overcoming him but the humans had gotten back onto their horses, the powerful legs heading straight for them, clumping hard against the ground. He fumbled back and behind a

bush as the humans, he counted seven of them, streaked past, the long black haired one in front, smiling gleefully, his large, leather jacket wavering in the wind.

The day dawned crisp and clear, and there stood, the king of the forest, the grand, powerful stag, at the edge of the forest, watching the morning clearing; animals scuttling across the grass as the sun gazed down, disappearing behind clouds before resurfacing minutes later. He hardly moved, eyes staring at the point where those seven men had emerged the day before. His slow breath synchronized with the steady rise and fall of his heavy chest, as branches of trees, waving in the soft breeze, brushed against his back.