by Laura DeLuca
Stag Hunt
Laura DeLuca
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Stag Hunt, Copyright ©2013, Laura DeLuca
Pagan Writers Press
Houston, Texas
ISBN: 978-1-938397-51-6
Edited by Tara Chevrestt
Cover by Angelique Mroczka
https://paganwriterspress.com
Dedication
For my brother, Omar Pitras Waqar.
And special thanks to Shawn Terry for telling me how big my rack should be.
Foreword
Author’s Note: Unbeknownst to me, my friend and publisher Angelique Mroczka wrote the following flash fiction piece while I was working on Stag Hunt. Great minds think alike...
The Hunt
A horn sounded in the distance. The hunt.
I tore into the trees, away from the blast. The full moon peeked through the canopy above. The forest lived. Its branches reached out, ensnaring me. Twisted roots slowed my pace. Forward. I kept moving.
Snap. Snap.
Danger! I froze in a clearing. Someone stalked near. Too close. I tasted their stink on the wind. Failure to move would mean capture. I sprinted back into the foliage. Onward.
Forward. I ran, relentlessly. Heart beating so fast that it might explode. Pain. I needed to stop, to catch my breath.
On the edge of a stream is where I paused, concealed beneath the shadows of the ancients. The water looked like a liquid moonbeam. It reflected the rays from the sky—my goddess. Peace washed over me. My fear ceased.
Snap. Snap.
From the protection of trees came a man. He approached, cautious. This time, I did not run. He came to my side. “Thank you for your offering.”
Holding my antler, my throat slit. The man held his palms upward, bloody, as evidence to land, sky, and his people. Peering from the ground, I saw him. The rightful king of the Sidhe.
I shut my eyes forever.
Angelique “Angie” Mroczka wasn’t one of those children who dreamed of becoming a writer, but discovered she had a knack for it in her mid-twenties. She is the owner of Pagan Writers Press and was thrilled to share some of her work in the Pagan Writers Presents Samhain anthology that kicked off the company. She lives in Houston, Texas with her husband Scott, son (known widely as Dash), and their adorable Chihuahua mix named Evy.
Angie originally wanted to be an astronaut when she grew up, but has settled on writing about them instead.
Stag Hunt
Britannia – 427 A.D.
“Race me to the top of the Tor, Balen.” Eartha issued the challenge to her twin brother before gathering the multiple layers of skirts and petticoats she wore and lifting them as high as she could. Beside her, her friend Galiene gasped at the scandalous display of Eartha’s ankles—now in plain view of all the young men in their company.
Eartha ignored her friend’s girlish horror and instead concentrated on her brother Balen. He pretended he hadn’t heard her because he didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of his peers. He knew Eartha was faster than him. However, the other sons of the tribesmen watched with a curious eye, and Eartha knew her twin couldn’t ignore the dare forever.
“Afraid of losing to your sister again?”
The jibe came from a slovenly boy named Arn. At just over twelve years, he was the oldest and by far the largest of the adolescents, though he had yet to learn the basics of cleanliness. The stench of a week’s worth of filth clung to him and matted his tawny hair. Eartha crinkled her nose in distaste whenever he approached. Of all the silly boys at the tribe meeting, he was the most arrogant and pompous. She decided to teach him a lesson.
“I shall race all of you to the top of the hill,” Eartha announced. “No man-child can outrun me, girl or no. Not even you, Arn.”
“The great stag himself is not as swift as I,” Arn retorted. He accepted her challenge by thrusting a rock in her direction. “We shall see who reaches the top of the Tor first!”
Soon Eartha found herself lined up beside seven or eight gangly young men while Galiene watched with wide, innocent eyes. By the set of their jaws, some of them seemed to be taking what was meant to be good fun a little too seriously. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to set the future tribe leaders against each other in open competition. They would no doubt be vying for the title of High King in a few short years. Already there was animosity among them—a trait most inherited from their fathers. However, it was too late to back down. Eartha had a point to prove. No one had ever beaten her in a foot race. She was not about to let a pack of man-cubs do so that day! Eartha stretched her long legs while she waited for Galiene to give the designated signal to begin. When her yellow ribbon fell to the ground, the whole lot of them sprinted up the steep hill.
“You are all mad!” Galiene called out behind them. “You shall fall and break your necks. Or worse yet, the faeries will carry you away!”
Eartha wouldn’t have even heard her friend’s protests if her voice hadn’t carried on the wind. She certainly didn’t allow it to slow her down. She left most of the boys in the dust, but Arn and her twin were close on her heels. There was no way they were going to get the advantage. Eartha leapt over moss-covered rocks and followed the path of stones that had been laid by their ancestors centuries before. Some believed it was possible to wander into the world of the fae and be lost forever in the mists on the winding path of the Tor. Eartha didn’t believe any of that nonsense, but judging by the nervous faces of her companions, many of them did.
It was just another reason why Eartha had no trouble beating them to the top of the hill. She was barely winded and even had time to enjoy the view before the others caught up with her. Though covered in a light mist, a patchwork of green fields stretched out for miles. The animals that gnawed hay and grain far below appeared so small they might have been insects instead of livestock. It was her country—her Britannia, and how Eartha loved every acre of rich farmland, lush forests, and wet marshlands. Just breathing in the delicious scent of the air at the top of the hill gave her a giddy, heady feeling. She treasured the touch of the gentle breeze blowing her mane of chestnut curls and the breath of life that wind carried. She didn’t even care if she looked like a wild child in comparison to Galiene, who always kept her honey-colored tresses swept back in a proper braid.
“You…you run like a hare being chased by a fox,” Balen complained as he struggled to catch his breath.
“And you run like a woman heavy with child!”
Eartha relinquished the glorious view to give her brother a smug look, but still lent him her hand as he struggled up the last few steps of the steep incline. Her twin gave her a good-natured smile, and green eyes that were mirrors of her own twinkled with amusement. She couldn’t help but return his grin. Eartha and Balen were more than just siblings and playmates. They were the closest of comrades and shared everything. He never treated her like a weak little damsel, and he never blinked an eye when the other boys ridiculed him for allowing his sister to tag along when they practiced their swordplay and archery. Though she teased him, Eartha was secretly glad Balen was the second to reach the top of the Tor. None of the other tribesmen’s children could stand up to their united front, and the boys couldn’t hassle Balen when a female had bested them all.
Several minutes passed before the other youths finally inched their way to the end of the trail. A red-haired boy whose mother had been a gift from the tribes of Gaul looked as though he would be the third to reach the top. But just before the lad took the final steps, Arn came up behind him and shoved him roughly to the ground. Arn sneered and stepped over the fallen boy.
“Barbarian scum,” he muttered before racing to the edge of the hill where he proclaimed his victory with an ear-piercing war cry.
One-by-one, the children of the tribe leaders gathered atop the Tor. Most of them didn’t understand politics yet, but far below, their parents were in peace talks with the priestesses of the Isle of Avalon. It had become a custom for the council of elders to meet at the sacred spot every spring. For centuries, the tribes had fought among themselves, which led to an easy takeover when Rome invaded. Eventually, the common threat united them and they overthrew the Romans. Her grandmother had told Eartha stories of those final battles, when the last of the Roman soldiers were driven from the land.
But no sooner had they left than a new threat arrived. The Anglo-Saxons were inching their way to the shores of Britannia, and unless the peace among the tribes held and they presented a united front, they had no hope of defeating this newer menace.
A grudging peace had been formed under the rule of the High King, but already there were whispers of an uprising. The king had sired only one child—a girl—and though she was scarcely eleven years old, already the noblemen fought over who she would marry. It made Eartha furious that Galiene would have no control over her own future. Yet as her friend lumbered up the Tor—the last to arrive—the very would-be men who would someday vie for her hand rolled their eyes at her breathless and flustered appearance. Only Balen’s eyes shone with adoration when the fair-haired maiden was in his company. As usual, he fell mute when she sat down beside them in the lush green grass. He gawked at her, his mouth hanging open for a few minutes, before making an awkward dash to join the other youths skipping rocks from the hill.
“So, tell me, Eartha, who was the victor of this game? Or should I guess?” Galiene cast a reproachful glance in Eartha’s direction. “I have no idea how you manage to run so swiftly in your skirts. It’s scandalous, really, the way you behave as though you were one of the village boys.”
Eartha only giggled. “Luckily for me, I will never bear your burden, Galiene. I will never be queen, and I care nothing for being a lady. I shall run when and where I like.”
“I do envy your freedom.” Galiene sighed. Her lapis-blue eyes fell upon Balen, and in their depths Eartha saw the same flicker of affection that Balen wore so openly. “I dread the day my father will choose my betrothed.”
“Are you not the daughter of a king?” Eartha challenged. “Marry whomever you will. Or better still, marry no man and rule on your own. Look at the priestesses of Avalon. No man commands them! It should be no different for any woman.”
Galiene shook her head. Her sad face suddenly made her seem much older than her eleven years. Childhood was a gift they were all clinging to, but which soon would come to an end. For some, like Galiene, adulthood was arriving far too swiftly.
“The land is my first love, and I will marry whom I must to ensure the peace between our tribes,” Galiene confided. “But that is all many years away. For now, let us think of happier tidings. Eartha, as the winner of the race, you are entitled to take my ribbon as a token of your victory.”
Eartha only snorted as Galiene held out the silken thread. “And what, pray tell, do you expect me to do with that? I have ribbons enough of my own that I do not care to touch. Give it to Balen. He was the second to reach the top of the Tor. Balen!” she focused her attention on her brother’s figure in the distance, “get your arse over here.”
“My, must you even swear like a solider?” Galiene fretted. “It’s simply appalling! You could at least pretend to be gentile!”
Eartha only rolled her eyes as they waited for her brother to jog back to their side. His cheeks were scarlet, and he had trouble looking Galiene in the eyes. Eartha noticed his hands were filled with a spray of wildflowers he had gathered.
“For my beloved sister.” He divided the flowers and handed half to Eartha. The second bundle he held out to an equally red-faced Galiene. “And for my future queen.”
“And for you, Balen, gallant champion of the race.” Galiene lifted the yellow ribbon, and it danced in the breeze. “A token of my great esteem.”
Though the race and the reward were only their childish mimic of the very real war games going on below the Tor, Balen still clutched the prize to his chest as though it were made of spun gold. Eartha’s heart gave a sympathetic tug. Balen and Galiene were the two people she held dearest. It seemed unfair that the harsh realities of life would soon destroy a union born from love. Yet Eartha was no fool. She and Balen were children of one of the lower tribesmen. They had no castle—only a cottage nestled upon some meager farmland. They were barely nobility at all. And though their father was a trusted advisor to the king, their low social standing made Balen the last possible choice among Galiene’s many suitors. Of course, that didn’t stop their fingers from entwining as they exchanged their gifts. Eartha sighed as she watched their blossoming courtship and found herself wishing things could be different for them.
