How many times had I tracked the white hart, that brilliant albino stag of nineteen points that had eluded me and the other knights a thousand times! Even the combined force of twenty-three men, armed with lasso and nets, could not secure its beauty. The white hart ranked alongside the city of Avalon and the holy grail itself when spoken about great sought-after treasures. He who captured the white hart would become the luckiest, happiest and wealthiest knight in all the lands, so the legend was told many times over a crackling fire and large tankards of frothy liquids.
One day I came upon the trail of the white hart while hunting for deer and squirrel. Removing my quivers and my baldric, I followed the trail through the forest until I came upon a rising vista. Atop the tallest hill stood the beautiful stag, illuminating the trees with its heavenly brilliance. Up the hill I ran, rope in hand to lasso the beast. With a single bound the white hart lept off of the hillside into the forest below. "Wait!" I cried, scampering after the animal. I chased the swift specimen over fallen trees and across babbling brooks. Night came and fatigue overwhelmed my body. I knelt down in exhaustion, hopeless to capture the stag, and unfurled my bed roll near a shallow stream and draped myself in night's dreary shroud.
I rose startled in the early morning twilight. On the other bank of the stream, through the haze of autumn mist stood the bold white hart, drinking from the river's nourishing flow. I gathered my equipment without a sound and hid out of the stag's view behind a tree. The stag lifted its head from its drink and walked slowly into the mist. With as much stealth as I could muster, I followed the white hart through the dense forest. After an hour of trailing I realized I had become lost. My only hope of escaping the clutches of the thick woods was to follow the beast until it led me to civilization. Blind with ambition I tracked the stag for four days and four nights.
On the fifth day of my hunting trip I was ready to give up the chase when the white hart suddenly broke into a run. Surprised, I burst after it. "Stop!" I yelled. "Wait, wait!" I crashed through the trees, thorns and bracken, cutting my face and forearms when all of a sudden the forest ended. I tripped over my own momentum into prairie grass. Looking up, I found I was in the field behind my own estate. The white hart had led me back home, right where I had started. I looked around for the stag, but it was nowhere in sight.
My story I told at the taverns of the countrysides, which received good reply but were never believed. Many a knight claimed to have had an encounter with the beast. Mine was the only story I knew to be true.
Many years ago, that was. I have long since hung up my shield above my bed, my sword above my door, my hunting bow above the hearth. The life of a knight I replaced with the life of a wealthy, married baron. No longer did I live for valor or excitement, just for the pleasing rest of retirement.
Yesterday I was tending my garden by the forest when I looked up to see the white hart, eating a lettuce plant. I walked slowly towards the great stag, now of thirty-two points. I held out my hand.
The white hart rubbed its great strong head against my hand with the affection of a loyal hound. The stag was much prouder than any dog, of course, and after I rubbed its nose, it walked back into the forest.
Now if it was July, I wouldn’t mind so much, taking out the garbage, because it would be warm and sunny outside. But it wasn’t July, it was February. It’s not the fact that it’s forty below outside that frightened me. It was the fact that the sun had gone down about five hours ago and I haven’t even eaten dinner yet.
I protested quite a bit, complaining that I was mid-chapter and I wasn’t wearing any shoes and there was three inches of snow outside, but I didn’t get very far in my argument. Slowly I rose from my bed, like a farmer who had no choice but to shoot the rabid family dog.
Taking as much time as I possibly could I laced on my best pair of running shoes. Walking slowly to the closet I donned my heavy down coat. My coat gave me warmth, but the heavy padding hampered my movement and would offer little protection from the teeth and talons of ravenous wild beasts. I found a rechargeable flashlight to illuminate my path through the snow, but of course the batteries were dead, even though I am positive I had just charged it the day before. I got the trash and, taking a long breath, stepped outside to run the gauntlet.
The arctic cold slammed into my body, instantly knocking me off balance and fusing my nostrils shut. I could see my breath as I walked quickly towards the dumpster. The air chapped my lips and the snow soaked my socks as I walked along the sidewalk. I paused; the area of protection would be dispelled as soon as I stepped off the concrete path. Quickly I ventured into the deep snow, my concentration on the dumpster.
The area around me darkened the closer I came to the garbage. I held my breath as I walked to the dumpster, which released a caustic steam that smelled of rotting corpses. I tossed the bag into the dumpster and turned around. Looking into the hills I saw the reflections of a thousand eyes and the clouds of breath of numerous hungry beasts. Pretending I hadn’t noticed I walked back towards the house.
Suddenly something behind me snapped and I burst into a frantic run. Wet snow flew from my feet and into my eyes as I high-stepped to avoid slipping on the ice. I felt the beast breathing down my neck as the faster I ran, the farther away I was from the door. As I closed upon my house I heard a prolonged, ultrasonic scream, although I couldn’t tell if it was me or the hideous creature at my heels. Before I knew it my hand was turning the doorknob and I dove into my house. I slammed the door to my safe haven as I heard the sound of a huge monstrosity charge head-first into my door. The house shook with vibration. Grabbing a conveniently placed steak knife from the table I whirled around to take on the beast; but looking out the window, there was nothing outside but the telltale footprints and tiny red spots of a bleeding, unsuccessful predator.