Hunt - A Modern Folk Tale

Patrick Alderson

Nathaniel’s heart couldn’t stop racing with excitement. He strolled through the woodland, his thick, leather boots protecting him from the rough bite of the brambles and nettles that covered the land. He kept the musty trail sack close to the ground, its damp bottom marking the air perfectly. Nathaniel could smell its contents even now. And despite its horrid stink, a surge of pride fueled by adrenaline coursed through his muscles with every breath. This trail would get the hounds frantic in no time.

Nathaniel laughed to himself haughtily, looking back at the path he’d already cleared for the hunt. He’d had to go deep into the forest to make sure the trail strayed from the country path, but that wasn’t a problem. The deeper the better. The last thing any huntsman wanted was to have their day ruined by the senseless abuse hurled at them by those low-life cowards who drove past their party every year. Didn’t they have anything better to do? Nathaniel still fumed whenever he remembered the year his father had come home, his best vest drenched in what they’d all prayed was water but turned out to be…something else.

Disgust filled his mouth again and Nathaniel spat into the long grass that hissed like an adder with every crunching step. He scoffed and dragged the sack over a long patch of wildflowers, looking back at the indents his footprints made in their broken petals. Checking himself, he stared out from where he’d come from again. The footpath was far out of sight now, lost as Nathaniel had continued to craft his own maze for the hounds.

The growl of cars had long since subsided, muzzled by the twinkling cries of birds, the buzzing of flies, and the low hum of the afternoon wind as it made the fresh leaves dance.

The boy smiled to himself. There was no chance those saboteur idiots would make trouble now. They knew well that once they were out of public sight, that meant they were on private property. Which meant the hunters had every right to enforce the law.

Be it with or without bloody knuckles at the end of it.

Nathaniel snickered.

His father would be delighted with him. He’d always promised that the year Nathaniel turned sixteen, he’d treat him to his first taste of the annual hunt. And while his friends coveted the freedom of a driver's license or buying their own beer, Nathaniel’s desires ignited after the hold of his father’s prized rifle. His father had called him to his study a week ago, and after sitting his son down beside the mantlepiece where he hung each of the fox tail trophies he collected every year, Christian Mawson allowed Nathaniel’s trembling hands to hold the family treasure.

Strangely, the gun had felt remarkably light in Nathaniel’s hands and he’d tried to look tall as he held it over his shoulder like a child carrying a stuffed animal. His father, the lead horseman of the constituency’s hunting party, had been surprised, but he’d soon burst into a proud stroke of laughter that made Nathaniel’s heart swell with joy.

“There’s a natural if I’ve ever seen one,” his father had bellowed, clapping his son on the back. “Be careful with that though. That isn’t a toy. That rifle has been a worthy partner for more than a decade.” His father’s mustache had curled the way it always did when he remembered the thrill of the hunt. “Since 1998 to be precise. Yes. That was a good year; I caught old Thomas then.”

Old Thomas was the stuffed tod his father kept adorned above the fireplace in his study. It had been fashioned with a small tweed jacket and a little cap above its glass eyes. Nathaniel knew the meaning of the trophy, but he’d always disliked it. Those eyes always seemed to be watching him whenever he crossed the filthy thing.

“Of course,” his father’s voice had lowered, and he’d begun to suck on his pipe. “That was before Mr. Blair made everything so much harder for us.” That name always sounded like poison on Father’s lips. “Before Westminster caved to the bleeding hearts from the city.” His lips smacked on the pipe bitterly. “Apparently we were criminals for protecting our traditions.”

“Rubbish!” Nathaniel had bellowed. He couldn’t help himself. It was no secret what those idiots from the city thought of the hunt. But what did they know? They celebrated Christmas every year, didn’t they? They had no right to judge the countryside for their own traditions. The hunt was a celebration of their culture, a chance for the community to get together and have some fun. The afternoon dinners at The Speckled Hen had been where Nathaniel had met some of his closest friends; they understood the importance of Yorkshire tradition.

And in the end, what did it matter if some red-tailed vermin got disposed of? They did nothing good for the forest. They just existed to steal precious produce from farmers, rifle through litter, and just be a damned nuisance for the land. Why should anyone care if the hounds got a bit of excitement out of them?

Oh well. It wasn’t like it mattered.

After all, the country soon realized that there were ways the hunt could continue. Even if it wasn’t the same, Nathaniel still dreamed of the day he’d be following behind his father on the trail hunt, whooping and cheering as the hounds got into a frenzy on the thick scent. He could see himself with the army of men, striding atop brutish horses, bursting through the woods in their dazzling coats of red, a storm of power and action, drinking in the elation of the chase. And even if their triggers went untouched, the rifles would still be close at their sides, adorning them like scepters. For a few hours, they could roar with the electricity of being alive.

And if a few foxes were encountered on the trail. Well… it couldn’t be helped, could it? Hounds were hounds after all.

His father had refused to let Nathaniel ride the horses until he said he was properly prepared. But he had allowed Nathaniel the honor of marking the trail this year. That was enough for him. To be part of the hunt, in any way at all. That was enough for him.

Besides, Nathaniel had learned over the years the perfect tips for marking a trail. He knew just where to go to make sure it was the most exciting hunt.

He’d already marked past several old foxholes hidden among the hedgerow, it wouldn’t do any harm to mark a few more.

The quarry, which the hunt traditionally traveled through, was part of the land owned by Mr. Westgate, the owner of the local brewery and a good friend to many of the hunt participants. Every year, though he never took part, he was always giddy to hear the annual report. He was more than happy to uphold the customs of the town and was equally more than happy to call his security on any saboteurs that dared interfere. He’d gotten his own blows in last year when a group of them tried to vandalize the trail with an assortment of other scents. In the ensuing chaos, he’d dragged away a young woman with a bleeding nose by the throat and kicked her off the property himself. He’d treated himself to another drink for that victory.

Nathaniel patted the black riding crop at his side. He knew how to treat those kinds of rats. A part of him, deep and dark in his stomach, itched for the confrontation. If he came home sporting a saboteur’s blood on his knuckles, his father might just offer him a taste of brandy.

But to Hell with the brandy, the hunt was all Nathaniel was thirsty for.

Nathaniel couldn’t help but notice how quiet the forest was. Usually, on a morning there was the dance of birdsong high above the leaves that rooted atop the ancient oak. But today, save for the crunch of his boots or the drag of the trail-soaked sack over the crisp leaves, the quarry was still and silent, like a deer caught in the headlights. Nathaniel knew he would have scared off any wildlife as he invaded their territory, but he couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at the stillness of the forest. Even the whistle of the wind had been swallowed away by the dense thicket of trees.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. Nathaniel still felt air on his face, so there must have been some kind of breeze. In fact, if he focused just enough he could have sworn he felt it crawl over his cheeks. Hot and damp.

He shivered once then quickly shook his head, grunting as he loosened the collar of his tweed jacket. His mouth tasted dry and unpleasant. He needed to stop wasting time and get on with it.

Ahead, the path upturned on a raggedy hill strewn with flowerless grass, a few rabbit holes sank into its side like dark sores. Nathaniel smiled. Where rabbits were, foxes weren’t too far away. The hounds would have some fun up there. He began to climb the small mound, kneeling to balance himself as he crawled up. He grimaced as his hands touched the dry grass, it scratched against his palms like pins and broke away without any force, making him scramble for another grip. He even had to place his feet into the rabbit holes as if they were rocks on a climbing wall.

Eventually, his hands gripped onto a flat patch of ground and, laughing triumphantly, Nathaniel hauled himself up, grunting as he was suddenly overtaken by a wave of fresh, minty air. He almost felt the brush of shadows wrap around him, though he never felt the safe glow of sunlight disappear as he clambered to his feet, too busy brushing the dirt from his knees.

When he finally looked up, he almost gasped. The land stretching out was a brisk flush of greenery; tall ash trees, flat with the taint of age, stood tall beside a lone weeping willow that brushed the ground gently with its long leaves. Its bark was a sharp chocolate color that sparkled with every emerald glint of its swaying branches.

Beneath it, the ground was bristling with flowers, all a striking red. At first, the boy thought they were poppies, but they didn’t look like any he’d ever seen. Their petals were thin domes, dangling from their stalks as if they were dying under the shadows of the trees. But they couldn’t be dying. Their petals still glistened with their crimson colour as if they’d just bloomed. It was almost like they were sleeping.

Nathaniel wouldn’t have been shocked if they were. Actually, he was more shocked they were alive at all. The whole overgrowth was an impenetrable dome of trees, their branches and leaves entwining so tightly it was as if they were throttling each other.

But they still glimmered so brilliantly. Every leaf pumped with rich green light. How? The sun hadn’t been that strong before he came here, had it? Or had it just been the clouds? He stared at the scene, flourishing like a dazzling viridescent tunnel. They seemed to cover the whole forest.

Most of all, the area looked untouched. Every flower, every blade of grass, even the dirt itself, looked raw with nature.

Instantly, a small smirk came to Nathaniel as he imagined the hounds raking them all away with their claws. This would be a perfect area to trail through, if this place really was untouched by people that meant wildlife would definitely gather here.

Maybe everyone would come home with a trophy this year. That would definitely make him popular in the country club. He could practically see his father now, his warm hand on his shoulder as he presented him with his very own hunter’s vest. The culmination of all his patience and hard work.

Tightening his grip on the sack, Nathaniel was just about to make his first determined marking over the strange flowers.

Then the weeping willow began to move.

Or its leaves did. Nathaniel paused, staring at them curiously. He hadn’t felt a breeze around here. If anything, the air was as unusually thick and warm as it had been just minutes ago. In fact, it might have been warmer. A few drops of sweat had already begun to swell on his forehead.

Wiping his face frantically, Nathaniel took a step forward, his eyes fixed on the weeping willow. It still swayed mildly.

Then behind the leaves, something moved. Grass snapped like teeth as something rustled.

Nathaniel’s hand instinctively went to his crop, tight on the end as he felt his heart begin to pace. There was definitely something behind the leaves. Something flashed behind the green, bright and fiery.

Nathaniel rubbed his eyes again, bracing to a halt. His hand lay ready on his crop. He could now see the splintering shadows that lay sheltered in the leaves. Whatever it was, it was big. Not an animal. Was it a person? A saboteur perhaps?

“Come out of there! I see you!” he yelled in a way he knew was threatening, the way father had taught him, “You’re on private property, you-”

Two hands slowly slipped through the leaves, pale as bone, and slowly pulled them apart.

Nathaniel’s hand tensed, then slid off of the crop.

Under the shade of the willow, a woman stood, naked.

Her skin was as white as ivory, from head to toe, save for the wild forest of ginger hair that cascaded down her face, hiding her eyes. She had thin, pink lips, pressed together in a tight line. But somehow, Nathaniel could tell she was smiling.

She was gloriously beautiful.

Nathaniel tried to ask one of the many questions that bellowed in his head. But for some reason, his throat was tight and his words came out in an unintelligible stutter. He felt his cheeks surge with warmth.

The woman’s body shivered at a silent breath of air. The weeping willow leaves limply fell on her shoulders, slowly falling away as she gently shook off their grasp.

Nathaniel’s eyes began to glaze. Light off of every leaf that surrounded him seemed to burst awake and stare straight at him, making his sight blur. A low rumbling came out of his throat, furious with inexplicable desire.

The woman’s smile broadened, and she took a step towards him. Her slender frame seemed to suck in the filters of light that slipped through the overgrowth, gleaming on her like a star.

She padded towards him, bare feet not making a sound. With every step, Nathaniel felt the forest spin. His boots began to tremble and sink into the soft grass. His legs and arms began to swell and tremble with the rising warmth, pumping through his body like his heart was some kind of hammer. He didn’t even notice as the sack fell from his shaking hands and lay limp and forgotten in the grass.

Its smell did nothing to mask the breath of the forest.

The taste of oak, the tang of dew, the cutting aroma of grass, the chatter of paws and the cry of birds barrelled Nathaniel’s senses mercilessly. His stomach had begun to twist again, and sweat had slithered down to sting his eyes. And then came the hazy glow of the woman, blurry as Nathaniel slid to his knees, reaching for his collar once more. It was becoming hard to breathe.

Everything was beginning to slip away. His job, his dreams, not even his father found shape in the mist clouding over his senses.

Soon not even the charge of the hunt blazed in his mind anymore.

It was then that he realized something was wrong.

And as if sensing this, the woman finally let out a laugh. That delicate throat released the barking cackle that Nathaniel knew was a sound no person should ever make.

He wanted to stand.

He wanted to run.

But when his heart screamed at him to move, all he could do was crawl.

His hands, burning at the end of lifeless arms, gripped the grass beneath him, tearing his body around as he fell on hands and knees. There was something thick in his throat, leaking into his airways like sap, making his breath feel like fire with every desperate gasp. Pain bit into his palms as he felt the claws of grass and briar rake his hands as he writhed over the dirt.

Every move was becoming more difficult. His hands buckled under a strangling weight and he was helpless to stop his face from slamming into the ground. He held back a whimper as he pushed himself up again, trying to ignore the tattered gash burning on his cheek. His eyes hazed with a misty blur, whether it was sweat or tears he wasn’t sure.

Then he looked ahead and he knew that he was crying.

The edge of the forest was gone. The path he recognised, the trail he’d made, all replaced by the deep dome of ash trees he knew was still behind him, expanding like a void.

The light behind the leaves didn’t glimmer anymore. All that was left were shadows.

He didn’t dare look back, but he knew he could hear that cackle again, rumbling and growling from every dark crevice, snarling victoriously as it followed its prey.

Like an animal, Nathaniel scrambled across the grass. Gasping and grunting, he muttered wordless pleas. If he’d looked back he might have seen the shape of the woman twist and weave like the shade of fog, he might have noticed a small ginger shape uncurl from behind her back, swaying like a tail, or the glistening fangs protrude behind her lips, or watched her hair brush away to reveal two hungry, amber eyes that looked so much like Old Thomas’.

But by then, the forest had swallowed him whole.

The search lasted a week before the party gave up.

Every member of the union had done their bit to help find the Mawson boy. They didn’t need the description from the police, everybody in the alliance knew the young man. Behind his screaming, howling father, they’d raked through the forest. It didn’t make sense. No trail marker from the previous hunts could understand where he’d gone. The forest wasn’t that big, there was no reason he couldn’t have found his own way out if he’d gotten lost, and there was no sign of a struggle to be found.

There was nothing at all, not even a footprint.

By the time the police and the union had reluctantly accepted the futility of their search, no one had the energy to carry out the hunt that year.

So, as the hunting party laid down their uniforms, as the bloodhounds let out their dissatisfied barks from their cages, and as Christian Mawson buried himself in his study, weeping under the watchful eyes of Old Thomas, the forest floor was unmarked by blood.

Not from any fox anyway.

Deep in the woods, its patch untouched and undisturbed, nobody found the tweed jacket, the dark riding crop, or the leather boots that lay in a small pile underneath the whispering willow.

Over time, they decayed and broke apart, becoming nutrients for the forest. Soon nothing grazed that patch apart from the small, bloody red paw-print that helped the crimson flowers bloom.