The buck spun in place and turned back the way it had come, trying to return to an area it thought safe.
Only now did my hands start to shake. My breath came in great gasps as adrenaline overwhelmed me. In moments, my whole body shivered and trembled, and I needed to lean back against the tree for support.
The wait after the shot was the hardest part of hunting for me. I didn’t mind the cold. I didn’t mind sitting in nature for hours on end. I didn’t mind still hunting all day. What was hardest was waiting after you’ve shot the deer to pursue it. I checked my cell phone and set a timer. I was going to wait forty-five minutes before pursuing the animal.
The goal when harvesting a deer was to achieve a quick, clean kill in a matter of seconds. That was achievable with a well-placed shot. A poorly placed shot, however, could cause unnecessary suffering, something that I avoided.
An inexperienced and anxious hunter often begins chasing a wounded animal immediately, but this can be a mistake. My father had taught me I was better off waiting to pursue an animal to ensure it has enough time to die, minimize stress and suffering, and to improve recovery of the meat.
When you let a wounded deer stop to lie down, it will typically go to sleep and expire quickly. If you chase it, you can trigger a flight response, causing it to run further and faster, allowing the deer to cover more ground, making it harder to track and recover.
I nocked a blunt arrow while I waited, hoping the second grouse would return, but when my phone vibrated to indicate the timer was up, I returned the arrow to my quiver and walked straight to the spot where the deer had been standing.
The first order of business was to identify a blood trail and, perhaps, find my arrow. I found it in less than a minute, the blaze orange fletching making it stand out against the snow. I picked up the arrow and inspected it. It was covered in blood and a bit of pink flesh was stuck on the fletching.
“Lungs,” I said, pumping my fist.
The blood trail was easy to follow even in the drizzle and fading light. I had taken no more than ten steps along the trail when I stopped and clapped my gloved hands. The deer had run no more than twenty yards before falling against a downed tree, where its body now lay.
I took a blunt arrow from my quiver, approached the animal cautiously, and touched its open eyeball with the blunt tip. As I expected, there was no reaction. I had waited forty-five minutes, but the animal had died within a few seconds. Still, as my dad would say, “Better to be safe than sorry.”
I checked my cell phone again. It was 2:34 pm. I had about ninety minutes to get the animal field dressed and back to the road before dark.
I knelt beside the deer and placed a hand on its still-warm flank. A wave of gratitude washed over me, mingled with a profound sense of loss. Each hunt brought me back to memories of my father. I remembered his strong hands guiding mine, showing me how to hold the bow steady. “Respect the life you take,” he had always said. “It’s a grave responsibility.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. I felt a connection to this creature, a silent bond forged in the shared wilderness. Harvesting an animal was never just about food; it was about survival, respect, and an unspoken understanding of life’s delicate balance.
As I began the process of field dressing, my hands moved with practiced ease, but my mind was full of thoughts. “Dad, I hope I’m doing this right,” I whispered, closing my eyes against the sting of cold and tears. The memory of his voice, his guidance, and his love for these woods gave me strength.
As I worked, the forest around me seemed to quiet. The drizzle slowed, the wind stilled, and the silence became almost tangible. I looked up and noticed a soft, ethereal light filtering through the trees. The air seemed to shimmer, making the snow-covered ground sparkle.
I caught my breath, my eyes wide. Emerging from the mist, a figure approached with the grace and silence of a deer. It began first as a humanoid shadow moving toward me, as if the person was backlit by a lantern. But that wasn’t quite right.
It took only a moment for me to realize the light was coming from the figure. It was a girl, a woman. It was very nearly like looking in a mirror, except the reflection was far more beautiful than me. Like me, the figure was lithe and athletic, but her presence was more commanding while, at the same time, gentle, with an aura of untamed wilderness that seemed to meld seamlessly with the forest around her.
Like me, the figure’s hair, dark as the night sky, cascaded down her back in loose waves. Unlike me, delicate silver vines entwined her tresses, and tiny glowing flowers shimmered in her hair with a faint, otherworldly light. Her eyes, a striking shade of green that seemed to capture the essence of every forest, glowed with wisdom and fierce independence. She wore a tunic of soft, supple leather that blended perfectly with the natural hues of the woods, adorned with intricate patterns of leaves and animals. Astonishingly, her feet were bare and nimble, seeming to float above the ground, leaving no trace in the snow.
I still knelt, looking wordlessly at the woman, astonished as she moved closer. Her eyes locked on mine, radiating a sense of recognition. She reached out a hand, her touch light as a feather, and placed it on my shoulder. The warmth of her presence seeped into my very bones, bringing a sense of calm and reassurance.
“You honor the hunt, young one,” the figure said, her voice a melodic whisper that echoed through the trees. “Your respect for the life you take and the balance you maintain does not go unnoticed.”
Awestruck, I could only nod, my breath catching in my throat.
“Much is needed of you, young one,” my more beautiful doppelganger said. “When my emissary comes, welcome her.”
I began to speak, but then the image was gone. The light was gone. I was alone in the woods with my kill. I jumped to my feet, twirling, looking for the familiar stranger, but there was no one there.
“Hello? Hellooo!”
There was no response. The only sound was water dripping from pine needles. I blinked, suddenly aware of the cold seeping back into my bones. I looked around, half expecting to see some trace of the vision, but there was nothing. Only the deer, the snow, and the quiet forest.
I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of awe and disbelief. “It couldn’t have been real,” I whispered to myself. I wondered if I had a fever. Maybe I was getting delirious. Or I could have made a mistake with those mushrooms from yesterday. Maybe one of them was bad.
“I must have imagined it... a hallucination from hunger and the cold,” I said. I shivered, but it was more from the experience than the cold. As I resumed field dressing the deer, the warmth of that touch lingered on my shoulder. Whether it had been real or a figment of my imagination, the experience left me with a sense of awe.
Finishing the field dressing, I wiped my hands on the snow and stood up, looking down at the deer one last time. I felt a deep appreciation for the life that had been given to sustain mine. It was a cycle as old as time, but one that always carried a weight of sorrow and respect.
With a sigh, I began the task of dragging the deer back to the road with the grouse in a game pouch and my bow slung over my shoulder. The physical effort warmed my muscles and provided a welcome distraction from my swirling emotions. I knew that tonight, as I prepared and shared this hard-earned meal, I would honor the deer’s life, just as my father had taught me.
I loaded the deer in the back of my dad’s old pickup and wondered how many deer the vehicle had carried in its nearly half million miles of life. This would probably be the last one. There was no way it would pass inspection in the spring.
When I got in the truck, I blinked my eyes. My right wasn’t focusing. I reached up and touched my eye.
“Dangit!” I said. I’d lost a contact lens.
I drove home, both the road and my mind in a fog, my vision blurry. The memory of those green eyes, wise and kind, stayed with me. What astonished me most is that the eyes had been my own somehow, as if an older version of me had come back in time to visit. But if so, what the heck had the mysterious figure meant by an emissary?
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.