All The Dark Places

20. Chasing The Stag

    Early morning light filtered through the trees, dappling yellow light upon the damp soil of the forest. Her footsteps were soft, stepping carefully over branches and fallen debris. Resting the riser of her bow on the palm of her hand, she nocked an arrow and kept her bow low, stopping at the edge of a small clearing near the creek. She listened. A rustling of branches and leaves near the creek. Footsteps. Four soft steps and then a gurgling sound. Edging around the trunk of a tree, she saw a deer drinking from the waters. It was a red deer, a male with an impressive rack of antlers. She breathed in and exhaled steadily. Drawing her bowstring, she took aim, her fingertips aligned with the side of her mouth. The stag raised it's great head and stepped back from the stream. She aimed and released. The whiffing sound of an arrow flying through the air landed in a thunk, sinking into the stag's kidney. The stag reared up, kicking and bucking behind him. He started to run, and Rosalind nocked another arrow; this time almost missing and sticking it into a leg. The stag struggled to run, and she tried to relax. It would not do to chase the stag. With two shots, one in the kidney, he would go down soon enough. She only needed to track him.

She paced herself, eyeing the hoof marks in the soil. The tracks were clear with the morning damp, and she saw that they became confused, scissoring and crossing back again. She crouched down and examined wet leaf soaked with blood. So, he had gone this way, bleeding profusely. The poor creature. She felt a pang of guilt, but reason trumped guilt and she needed food. Something more than flour and sugar and salt and that garden would be months before it sprouted anything if it did at all. The stag whined nearby. She found the stag hunched over against a rock; the poor thing in pain and glassy eyed. She reached into her belt and took the buck knife that she had stolen from Toby's garden shed. She approached the stag slowly and tucked herself behind him. Pressing the tip of the knife against the stag's heart, she thrust the knife in and felt the heavy body writhe and then go still.

"I really am terribly sorry," she said out loud and laid down her bow.

She rested a while and then sighed, starting back toward the village, taking note of her way as she walked. In the village, she would recruit some strong men to come back out and help her drag the animal back to the open field where she could set up a butchering station. Hunting was another skill she learned while at the commune in Oregon. A survivalist named John Creedie took her out hunting and taught her how to split a deer from belly to neck, gut it and cut it into proper pieces. She had only done it twice herself and never without John Creedie there to guide her hand, but she had to try. Hopefully, someone in the village could help who knew how to do it properly. She looked down. Her tee shirt was stained with blood. She walked into the pub at the gate of the village, a well-preserved place built in the 17th century and still standing much as it was in the beginning. A swinging wooden sign beautifully painted with a stag and a crown of holly hung over the door with the name; The Stag's Head, and Ros took note of the appropriate name. The Stag's head had stayed open after The Crush, though they no longer served food at all and drink was limited to whatever wine and ale they had left in the cellar, which they sold on a barter system. A container of rice, flour or grain would get you a beer. A dozen eggs bought you a glass of wine. A chicken would buy you a bottle, but no one wanted to part with one.

The Stag's Head was full, regardless. People mostly drank tea and reused the tea bags until the tea was almost only water. People gathered daily to gossip. Rosalind had mostly avoided the place until now. She had too much work to do to consider joining the gossip crew. However, the village's more rough and tumble types tended to hang out there, if there was anyone in the village that could be described as rough, or tumble. Some were the hunting and fishing type. She sat at one of the long wooden harvest tables, at a bench where several men shared a pitcher of beer they likely paid dearly for. A young man who introduced himself as Cillian waited on her. He offered water, tea, ale or wine. She decided to have a bit of a luxury. She offered to pay for a cup of wine with meat she would bring to the pub later that day. Cillian gladly agreed.

"I've shot a deer in the woods and I need two strong men to drag it back to the castle. Whoever helps me, I will give shares of meat to. Five pounds each."

Several men and one woman quickly jumped at the chance. She chose the burliest looking man, and one woman.

"Does anyone know how to butcher properly? I will pay meat and flour and sugar to someone who can butcher a red deer proper."

"I believe I can be of assistance." A tall man she had not seen before spoke up. He was new in the village and that alone concerned her. He was ruggedly handsome, the kind of man women probably went crazy for.

"And who are you?" she asked, hoping she did not sound rude.

"Ethan," he said, extending a hand and taking hers even though it was bloodstained. "Ethan Noble."

"You're new here." Her tone was something close to accusatory.

"Just passing through. I won't be staying. I have a cousin in Bainbridge just East of here. I am hoping to help out at his farm. I'm a good hand with farming. I also hunt, fish and am decent enough with a bit of woodwork and household things. I can butcher that deer for you."

"Excellent. After a glass, how about I lead you out to the butcher block, and we can get on with it." It was a statement rather than a question. She lost her patience for pleasantries weeks ago.

"Of course," he said, sitting down next to her and lowering his voice to a whisper. "I would need to be paid more than five pounds of meat to do that for you."

"Oh? And how much would you be asking?"

"I think twenty-five pounds will do."

She laughed, not taking the bait.

"You butcher that deer and if you get me sixty pounds of meat from it, I will pay you seven, not an ounce more. That meat has to feed more than just you and me."

A dark-haired woman wearing berry colored lipstick and pin curls in her hair overheard this exchange and put her two cents in,

"How much of that goes to be divided amongst the village?"

Rosalind shot her an incredulous glance and to his credit; Ethan Noble did too.

"There is not enough to go around and make it worthwhile." Rosalind said.

"Well, that's not fair, is it?"

Rosalind stood up then and snapped back at the woman.

"Do you know what's fair? Nothing. You did nothing to earn any of what I've been doing since I got here. You and your lipstick and curls! How did you keep your hair that way? Hmm? By sitting on your ass and waiting for someone like me to feed you! Well, that's too bad. You want something; you better work and earn it. I'm not giving you shit, lady."

Gasps were heard all around, but several of the Stag's Head patrons clapped and whistled. Rosalind noted that they were the ones most familiar to her, the ones who had been working for weeks. They were fed up too. The woman, who Rosalind vaguely remembered was named the rather pretentious name of Lavinia, stood up with a pompous stomp and stormed out of the pub.

"A lot of those types around here, aren't there?" Ethan asked.

"Too many." She gulped down the rest of her wine and slapped the table, feeling like a gunslinger in an old western movie. She felt like Ramona Kerr and wondered if Ramona came here often before The Crush. "Let's go get that deer."

She left a note on the table that stated she owed the establishment a pound of venison and a container of flour for the wine and the cheese she nibbled. It was steep, but she had enjoyed the wine and for a moment, if she wasn't bloodstained, she might have felt civilized. She looked at Ethan Noble and realized new rules would have to be made. He had simply walked into the village and had a drink at the pub like it was nothing. No one had bothered to question who he was, why he was there or how long he might stay. More than that, no one had decided if an extra mouth to feed should be allowed in the village. Shouldn't there be some kind of criteria? Perhaps skilled people only. Well, clearly skilled people only, in her opinion. Someone could just walk in and make themselves at home. Anyone. Anytime. The thought brought to light a whole myriad of dilemmas that she would have to discuss at Sunday meeting. Who decided? With a heavy heart and a growl in her stomach she realized it was probably her.