HE TOLD HER ALL HIS HEART.
The other said firmly, “If this song turns filthy, I’ll
hear none of it.”
“No, no. She turns him down. ‘She did not laugh – ‘ No,
that’s not it. ‘She told him no’ – I have the matter of it there,
but not the music.”
The centaur guards moved off on their rounds. The
stag remained, then sang softly, to himself:
SHE DID NOT MOCK, SHE DID NOT LAUGH,
BUT SOFTLY TOLD HIM NAY;
HE DID NOT GRIEVE, BUT CHOSE TO LEAVE
AND PLOTTED TO BETRAY.
HE SOUGHT OUT THEN KING PERIS’S MEN;
HIS WORDS WERE COLD AND BLUNT,
“OH, SENTRY HOSTS, DESERT YOUR POSTS:
I OFFER YOU A HUNT.”
The stag stopped and said bitterly, “Ill-rhymed, ill-
metered common trash. The song about my leading Huma is
doubtless long gone, but this wretched lyric – ” His own ears
pricked up at the rancor in his voice, and he bounded after
the riding company.
He watched them look up at the rock and stare in awe at
the Forestmaster. The stag, remembering his own first
meeting with the Forestmaster, nursed his dark heart and
said nothing as the unicorn met the companions, fed them,
advised them.
Finally they were away, born aloft by pegasi. The stag
looked at the ridiculous bipeds, particularly the dwarf, and
felt contempt for the vileness of the winged horses’
servitude. (Cloven-hooved animals feel naturally superior to
those with unsplit hooves: the horses, the centaurs, even the
pegasi.) “How typical,” the stag said to himself, “that they
would degrade themselves in that obedience, as close to the
stars as they are.”
Even after a long and often painful history, the stag was
quite sensitive of his honor.
He entered the glade and called, as much command as
request: “Master.”
“I am here.” The unicorn had returned to the rock
above the glade.
Forestmaster and stag stood poised, as though pausing
before re-entering an old ritual. Each knew what the other
would say.
Still they looked, as though they could not help
themselves. The stag stood proud and erect, as though
posing for a statue. Every hard muscle and taut sinew, every
sharp line of limb and deadly point of antler, was etched in
shadows. As with all shadows in Darken Wood, they
seemed deep and full of death.
The Forestmaster herself seemed all light, as though
the curse that held the Wood could never touch her. Her
mane shone and half-floated, and the arch and curve of her
neck seemed to draw all the way down her flanks and stop
only at the ground. Only her eyes were dark, and those not
the tainted shadows of Darken Wood but the liquid
blackness of a wild thing’s eyes, pure and powerful nature.
The stag spoke first. “I have served you this night.”
“I know.”
“Did I not serve you well?”
“You did.”
“Have I not always served you well?”
“You have often served me well”
The stag seemed not to notice the distinction. “And I
have asked little in return.”
“It was service freely given, gladly accepted.” She
stared down at him, her horn pointing into the night. “You
have more to ask now.”
“No. More to offer.”
“It is the same thing.”
That nearly silenced him. Finally, however, he went on:
“I offer my love. I give it freely, generously; since
there is none like me, a gift without parallel.” “I know.”
After a silence, the stag finished angrily, “Yet you
refuse.”
“I must.” The Forestmaster broke the feeling of ritual
by saying, “Humans say of my kind that only a virgin may
catch me.”
“It is an old legend. That is not why you refuse me.”
“It is old, and it is exactly why.” She spoke less firmly,
more sadly. “And like most old legends, it is twisted and
half true. It is not the humans who must be chaste. To be
who I am, to serve whom I must – ”
“Enough,” the stag said harshly. “Noble vows aside,
you have refused my love.”
The Forestmaster stared into his death-laden, proud
eyes and closed her own. “I have.”
“Why?” The word came out hard and sharp, as fresh