The Stag Whose Heart was Healed

In a land twixt the realm of night and the reign of day, there lived a white stag.  Noble in bearing, regal incarnate, such a creature was born to the authority that he wielded over his land.  And so he lived and ruled all within his purview, unquestioned and held in awe by those who acknowledged him king.
   So steady and routine was the nature of his rule that the stag was unprepared for the coming of a white doe to his land.
    When first he looked upon the doe, his eyes were filled with wonder at the sight of her.  Upon a second glance, he noted the kindness and care she gave to those she encountered.  And the third time his eyes cast her way, he saw that where she tread, green things grew and blossoms began to bud, as though she herself begot Spring.
   But his gaze sharpened when he saw the reverence paid her by his creatures.  A hardness fell upon his heart, and admiration gave way to jealousy.  In his envy there were planted seeds of hate that sprouted fast and rooted deep until they began to consume.  So it was that he bade his creatures have nothing to do with her kind and gentle ways.   And it was not long before all his land gave rise to petty spite and cruelty.
    So consumed he was with his hatred, that the stag did not notice as the land itself began to suffer.  The ground had turned from green to brown, and from brown it turned to gray—and in such grayness, it developed rot.  He did not notice, that is, until the day came that he found himself atop a hill surveying all that was his to rule.  For on that day, his heart had hardened so that he could not tear his eyes away from what was his, and he fell into a pit of rotted bog.
    The pit was full of splintered roots, and it was amongst these that he tumbled, until suddenly his body was held fast by the wood.  And just in front of his chest, a needles’ breadth from his heart, a bit of sharpened slate stuck out; should the land shift, he would perish.
     When the sound of hoofs caused the ground to tremble, he cried out in fear, begging that they stop.
    In an instant, the hoofbeats quelled.
    And in the silence, the stag felt vines wrap themselves around his body.  Slowly, he rose, and when the vines placed him alongside the pitted bog, he found that he was staring into the eyes of the white doe.
    Around her the grey had turned to green, and a gentle breeze had begun to take away the smell of rot.  The sound of birds filled the stag’s ears, the first songs in a long time.  And the ground that had turned bog began to harden.
    The stag felt a bitterness rise in his chest at the doe’s power, but it was no match for the beauty his eyes saw all around him.  A lightness grew within him.  And in overwhelming gratitude, he lowered his head as he bent his front legs.
   The doe laughed gently and nudged him rise with her nose.  It was together that they walked down the hill, as greenery grew wherever they stepped—over land that was no longer his.  And in that knowledge, the stag found his heart had healed.

Popular posts from this blog

The Library at the Edge of the Universe

 There was, of course, a library at the edge of the universe. It was built to fit the space. That space, for the moment, was infinite. But it was the kind of infinite that was smaller than other kinds of infinite — both space and libraries are funny that way.     This library had an agenda. Most do. But this one's was more specific than most. It wanted to hold all the books in the universe, whether they liked it or not. And it got the books by poking and prodding the universe in all kinds of different ways, until it gave up the literary ghost. Well, all the literary ghosts.     So. There sat a library at the edge of space that housed all the books in the universe. It mostly sat, anyway. Sometimes it stood. Occasionally it stretched a bit. And on two occasions, yawns were recorded as galaxies doing a funny little seismic shift.     It might yawn again. In an eon or two.     Because it is waiting.     It's been waiting for an infinite amount of time. One of the smaller infinites
Read more

The Shadows

The light shown on Anya’s fingers. It curled around her palm and danced. This, she thought, was the sheer pleasure of having magic.       But in the midst of her play, a shadow grew.   It was not unexpected; it was the cost of doing magic, for it always begot shadows.   But it never ceased to offer discomfort.   If she could find a way to practice her craft and leave behind the adjacent darkness, she would.          Anya was not fond of the dark, or shadows, or of the sense of unease that grew whenever she let the flickering brightness dance.   But, too, there was a feeling of wholeness in her work.   How could that be, such fulfillment when darkness lay about her?   A constant wonder—the weight of it only born by extinguishing the light for a time until she could bear it again.       Today was such a time.          Anya took the light, and threw it at the darkness.   The next breath, and it was gone.   Elimination brought palpable relief, while at the same time she felt the loss of
Read more

As Usual

 Once upon a time, when the air was colder and the nights more dark, a fire gleamed in the distance.      It moved and crept and finally it swept, the whole world engulfed in it's flames.     When the flames died, all that remained was char. For a time.     Until the first shoot rose. The thought of fire died a death made only by forgetting.     And, as usual, the world went on.
Read more