"Each year?" the woman asks, pen twitching in her long fingers like she's itching to write, and the huntsman watches it warily.
"Just why do you want to know?" the huntman asks. "What do you write for?" and she only looks out at the sky, which is pale, unchanging; nothing for her there.
"My own research," she says, "a private thing, like I told you; please, if it happens every year, that must mean there's a pattern."
"A pattern? Aye, well," the huntsman says, "he comes when I call." The tale has been building in him for years, and the woman across the table doesn't narrow her eyes or sign a ward but listens, taking notes with that pen of hers.
"Some years, no need," he tells her - the woods full of game, plenty for the folk and sport for the lord; some years ... "but when the woods are barren, and we go hungry - it's not like the tales, like they tell," and the woman stops mid-line, and her handwriting is very fine.
"Then how is it?" she asks.
"His coming is no storm or a curse, nothing like that awful wild hunt, tearing trees right out of the ground, howling, dead riders, none of that; not at all like a curse, mind. The glen grows verdant, quick-like, more beautiful than you've ever seen, like he's fluffed it up, sweet as a mam with a down pillow, making it fresh and fine. Then he comes and he runs."
When his narration cuts off abrupt like that, she looks up from her notes and her pen goes still. "And then what happens?" she asks, and the huntsman shrugs.
"I hunt."
"You hunt? That's it?"
"What else did you expect?"
A fumbling noise that reminds him, pen or no pen, city airs or none, she's just a girl. "I was hoping for details," she says. "The hunt - what is it like?"
She doesn't mean the rich pockets of grouse that scatter at the barking of a hound, or the deer that weren't there the week before; he doesn't try to tell her how the world goes green and the game seems to burst out of the ground, all the hungry children fed; he only shrugs, and he asks her:
"Have you ever been hunting?" She shakes her head. "No, I expect you haven't." No more could he explain colors to the blind.
"It's the hunt I have in my dreams," he says, averting his gaze out that same window so he doesn't have to watch her scratching pen. "Like I'm back in the prime of my life. Like these woods are what they used to be, twice the size they are now, and I can skip three creeks without sight of another man. Like the land, in that way dreams do, like it don't obey its own rules." He closes his eyes and there it is again: the sweet sharp scent of pine and loam, and the low growl of a dog with the fox cornered.
"There's a clearing," he says. "Eastways, and uphill, the ground gives way to rock. There, when I come up on it, is where I find him."
"Him?" she says, and he nods at her interruption. "It's no curse," he reminds her. "He still is the devil."
She opens her mouth, shuts it. "Go on," she says, and the huntsman shakes his head.
"What is it that you're writing there? For a book of fairytales, something to tell the wee ones? For your research?" he says. "What is it that you're after?" and the girl - the young woman, he should call her - takes a breath.
"I'm hoping to meet something like him," she says, laying her confession out in the table. "If I can."
The huntsman sighs; her hand is steady, though, and the pen poised: no tremor of a lie there. He turns his eyes to the sky and shrugs.
In the clearing - not always the eastern clearing, but there more than once: the black fox, sun shining like oil on the sleek of him. His panting mouth, tongue curling in a grin. The eggshell fangs, the flash of it - like he's laughing.
The way the huntsman's aging heart hitches when time stands still, and then the drumbeat in his chest pounding alive, alive, alive, as that damn black fox stands and chases him right back down that hill.
He can't bring himself to tell her. The words have been building in his chest, and, those ones, there they stay. He's earnest, though, when says, "Then I hope you do, lass. I truly hope you do."
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His Gallant Huntsman
Date: 2024-02-22 12:59 am (UTC)"Just why do you want to know?" the huntman asks. "What do you write for?" and she only looks out at the sky, which is pale, unchanging; nothing for her there.
"My own research," she says, "a private thing, like I told you; please, if it happens every year, that must mean there's a pattern."
"A pattern? Aye, well," the huntsman says, "he comes when I call." The tale has been building in him for years, and the woman across the table doesn't narrow her eyes or sign a ward but listens, taking notes with that pen of hers.
"Some years, no need," he tells her - the woods full of game, plenty for the folk and sport for the lord; some years ... "but when the woods are barren, and we go hungry - it's not like the tales, like they tell," and the woman stops mid-line, and her handwriting is very fine.
"Then how is it?" she asks.
"His coming is no storm or a curse, nothing like that awful wild hunt, tearing trees right out of the ground, howling, dead riders, none of that; not at all like a curse, mind. The glen grows verdant, quick-like, more beautiful than you've ever seen, like he's fluffed it up, sweet as a mam with a down pillow, making it fresh and fine. Then he comes and he runs."
When his narration cuts off abrupt like that, she looks up from her notes and her pen goes still. "And then what happens?" she asks, and the huntsman shrugs.
"I hunt."
"You hunt? That's it?"
"What else did you expect?"
A fumbling noise that reminds him, pen or no pen, city airs or none, she's just a girl. "I was hoping for details," she says. "The hunt - what is it like?"
She doesn't mean the rich pockets of grouse that scatter at the barking of a hound, or the deer that weren't there the week before; he doesn't try to tell her how the world goes green and the game seems to burst out of the ground, all the hungry children fed; he only shrugs, and he asks her:
"Have you ever been hunting?" She shakes her head. "No, I expect you haven't." No more could he explain colors to the blind.
"It's the hunt I have in my dreams," he says, averting his gaze out that same window so he doesn't have to watch her scratching pen. "Like I'm back in the prime of my life. Like these woods are what they used to be, twice the size they are now, and I can skip three creeks without sight of another man. Like the land, in that way dreams do, like it don't obey its own rules." He closes his eyes and there it is again: the sweet sharp scent of pine and loam, and the low growl of a dog with the fox cornered.
"There's a clearing," he says. "Eastways, and uphill, the ground gives way to rock. There, when I come up on it, is where I find him."
"Him?" she says, and he nods at her interruption. "It's no curse," he reminds her. "He still is the devil."
She opens her mouth, shuts it. "Go on," she says, and the huntsman shakes his head.
"What is it that you're writing there? For a book of fairytales, something to tell the wee ones? For your research?" he says. "What is it that you're after?" and the girl - the young woman, he should call her - takes a breath.
"I'm hoping to meet something like him," she says, laying her confession out in the table. "If I can."
The huntsman sighs; her hand is steady, though, and the pen poised: no tremor of a lie there. He turns his eyes to the sky and shrugs.
In the clearing - not always the eastern clearing, but there more than once: the black fox, sun shining like oil on the sleek of him. His panting mouth, tongue curling in a grin. The eggshell fangs, the flash of it - like he's laughing.
The way the huntsman's aging heart hitches when time stands still, and then the drumbeat in his chest pounding alive, alive, alive, as that damn black fox stands and chases him right back down that hill.
He can't bring himself to tell her. The words have been building in his chest, and, those ones, there they stay. He's earnest, though, when says, "Then I hope you do, lass. I truly hope you do."