The Hunter

The morning sky was burnt orange as the low sunrise cast an eerie light over the countryside. The broad mountains with steep peaks cast long, cold shadows over the famously green fields of Ireland. Tall trees enclosed a circle where the lone deer stood hunched over eating grass. Thin clouds drifted in from the Atlantic Ocean in the west and dissolved in the morning rays.
         Brendan lay motionless, face down in the dew dusted grass, watching the deer closely. The scene was silent save for a few distant birds and a faint whistle of wind bouncing off the imperious mountains. The rifle in Brendan’s hand began to feel heavy. He gripped the trigger firmer and cleared his throat. The fields were so quiet that even from forty yards the deer rose abruptly and turned to face Brendan’s direction. The deer’s impressive antlers jagged out into the skyline and Brendan thought they looked like the horns of some beast more threatening than a deer. Brendan  adjusted his prone position an inch and the deer ran. Brendan muttered a curse then rose to his feet and propped the rifle on his shoulder. He squinted slightly to sharpen his vision, held his breath to steady himself then pulled the trigger. The shot echoed across the fields, up the steep mountains and scattered birds that had been resting in the trees. The deer buckled as the bullet penetrated its side and shredded its organs. It tried to struggle to its feet but collapsed again as blood started to spill onto the grass. Brendan slung his rifle over his shoulder and trotted over to his wounded prey. Then something emerged from behind a large tree in the direction the deer had fled. Brendan stopped and crouched as he saw another deer. But this one was smaller and thinner and had squashed, brittle antlers. The younger deer bounded over to his fallen father and tried to stir him as if he were asleep. Brendan aimed the rifle at the fragile deer who took no notice of him. He lined up the barrel so that the bullet would pierce the deer’s small skull. But Brendan saw something in the young deer’s strangely human eyes that he had not seen in an animal before. Fear.
         Brendan turned and fired the rifle up and towards the murky sky. But the young deer did not run. It stood still, maybe with fear, maybe in defiance. The deer remained fixed in place directing an unrelenting stare into the approaching Brendan’s moss green eyes. The hunter slowly knelt down and lifted the dead deer’s legs up over his shoulder. The young deer remained like a statue and just watched as its father was dragged away across the fields.