THE UNTAMED

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 543, 21 December 1928, Page 5 (Supplement)

THE UNTAMED

By

HE spring had come and was ■3! I bountiful, and the herd was u I living in a land of plenty, n Daily they sought from a | Nature’s bounty some sweet grazing; nightly they sought S in the bush a haven. !iJ I The doldrums were at ==l hand, and the herds mingled with a rreedom unknown in the stormy times of autumn. Even Old Granite was indifferent and showed himself but little. In luxurious freedom the hinds were leaving their haven of bush and in the morning sunlight were moving up to their dewy pasture. There were sixteen hinds and two fawns, and they were moving upward with a sublime grace. Here and there a hind halted and plucked some luscious morsel. The matronly Glendoe moved haltingly. Finally she stopped and in her trouble, unnoticed by the rest, sought the secrecy of the dense bush. Away above in the covering tree tops and on the ridges the wind whistled. All day long a nor’-wester whistled and whirled. In the evening as the herd was returning to its nightly haven, Glendoe joined it with her fawn; very shaky on his legs. This time several matronly hinds took playful notice of the addition to the herd, but otherwise the advent of the young fawn, Windwhistle —from the wind which had whistled and whirled all day long—was not an event of Importance. The next day, in a wood of beech, another fawn was born, and so Beechwood and Windwhistle, being much of an age, grew up together. The year blazed up into summer, hot and dry on the plains, but among the hills the grass was still plentiful and sun-sweet. And in the warmth and plenty the deer grew sleek, and the fawns throve and grew strong, and Old Granite’s new season’s antlers became hard and noble. Summer faded Into autumn, but the deer’s nature blazed into the fierce fighting love of the untamed. Old Granite became restive, then marshalled again a herd of hinds. He watched over them day and night, challenged, fought, and paid court to his harem.

Windwhistle and Beechwood were left much to themselves and being of a near age were much togther, going with the herd, it is true, but as a kind of unofficial retinue. Once on the hills that autumn they were initiated into that fear which from time Immemorial has been felt by deer. It was an Indian Summer day with a soft meandering breeze. The herd, with Old Granite in the offing, was grazing peacefully when a hind suddenly sounded that sharp note of fear which Is the unfailing signal for flight. There was a wild scuttle for cover and almost before Windwhistle and Beechwood had time to act or think the soft wind chopped round and bore to them for the first time the horrid odour of the arch-demon, the huntsman. A second later they gained shelter; at the same moment there was a crack of a rifle.

With the swiftness and silence of the shadows of fast-moving clouds the herd had vanished. That night Old Granite came into camp limping slightly and with a dark, red stain trickling from his shoulder, but with his coronet of antlers still erect.

The year went down into winter,, broke forth into spring and reached summer again. Windwhistle and Beechwood still followed a herd together. The summer saw Windwhistle a spiker, past the hobble-de-hoy stage. He was sleek from rich and abundant food, and lissome of limb. Beechwood, with a maidenly grace, felt, with Windwhistle, that it was good to be alive. In spar and frolic Windwhistle tested his powers and found them good. Autumn found him more frolicsome and cocksure. It happened one day when the herd was wallowing in a lakelet. Old Granite had been displaced, for a stag's reign is not for long, and the old-mau stag of the herd had, so far, scarcely deigned to notice Windwhistle. But Windwhistle’s disport this day savoured too much of effrontery, and before the young reveller knew what was afoot the old-man stag had assailed him and driven him from the herd. The experience was overwhelming, degrading, and to the hills he gave voice to his chagrin and dismay. With neck extended and mouth open he roared again and again and the hillsides, which had suddenly become gaunt and bare, echoed in horrid mockery his roaring. Broken in spirit, first by the oldman stag and then by the loneliness, he wandered on roaring his misery. Out of the bush there showed a pretty head with alert ears and soft, mild eyes It was Beechwood. She had evaded the old-man stag and was voluntarily following Windwhistle into exl4fe

Windwhistle stopped roaring and in delight approached his mate. Together they ascended the valley. But the roaring had travelled wide. High on the side of the valley another young stag, similarly exiled, located Windwhistle and Beechwood and roared a challenge. All the interest Windwhistle had in the world was his mate, and facing round he answered the challenge. Down came the stranger, raw- from his recent expulsion and thirsting for the conqueror privilege. Wind"histle slowly advanced across a patch of grass that was soon to be torn with hoofs and spattered with blood. Timid and alarmed, Beechwood stood back to w stch the combat. With the unstudied rashness of youth they clinched antlers and with legs braced urged and Pushed and strove. Wheeling and twisting, they to re up clumps of grass and sod. The struggle became one of life and death. Throats were parched. Antlers clinched and clicked. Backwards, forwards, round first this w ay then that, they urged, each seeking but not finding a. weakness in the other. Blood dripped a nd mingled with sweat. Eyes were red and glazed. They fought on by instinct, not volition. Wounds gaped, tongues were extended, but there was no break. Windwhistle, almost exhausted, dropped to his knees, but the stranger gained

no advantage. It seemed as if not only the maidenly Beechwood stood still and gazed, but also all Nature. But there was something that was not still;

HAMISH RUTHERFORD

something that was worming its way into the valley whence the challenging had carried and whence still came the confused sound of battle. And the fight went on. Muscles strained and stayed. Antlers tore and twisted. The advantage the stranger hoped to gain by staying on his feet turned against him. ' Windwhistle placed his antlers under the foe’s throat, gave a sudden upward thrust and twist, and from the stranger’s pierced throat and severed windpipe pumped his life’s blood and his life’s breath. From the sudden stillness in the valley Windwhistle slowly rose and stood in fierce primitive pride of victory over his dying foe. The faithful Beechwood softly called her mate and came to him. A little wind was stirring. The sun was setting. The little breeze stirred and Beechwood and Windwhistle scented again the horrid warning and flew . . . terrified. The air suddenly tore open with a report and cracked shut again, as Windwhistle gained cover. Again the air tore open and Windwhistle saw behind him his beloved Beechwood fall never to rise again. In the hills and valleys the horrid report tore backwards and forwards, hither and thither in the chilling and darkening air, knowing not rest, like an evil spirit. And darkness, utter darkness, came down. Years blazed up into summers and went down into winters. Windwhistle, as his forefathers had done before him. became the possessor of a large herd of hinds. It was autumn again. Now hard and fierce, he jealously herded his hinds and slept not by day or night. He had reached the zenith of his years. Few now challenged him with impunity. He was lord and master of all he could hold, hut none of his hinds was faithful like his first love, Beechwood. He watched unceasingly. The passing years had given him a worldly, cynical knowledge. Huntsmen had sought him, had followed him unrelentingly, had wormed and writhed tfceir ways among crag and tree, and shrub and fern. Rifles had spat fire at him; the very air around him had been lacerated with bullets. The kindly wind, his great namesake, usually gave him early warning, but once, from a great distance, the demoniac sting had torn a searing gash in his hide. Fear carried him to safety. The incident had burned its way into his mind. The faintest suspicion of the Odour sent him fleeing not only instinctively, but with the terrible memory of the sting. And with each year of failure on the part of the huntsmen Windwhistle became a more enviable trophy. It was autumn again—the time when Nature awoke his passions, and the time when his devils walked the hills. The pirate stag was always around. The problem at night was to keep his herd intact; the problem by day was to keep himself concealed and his herd Intact. It was day. A still, warm day. His herd was grazing a luscious pasture. It was new and richly sweet. On three sides was bush and on the fourth a crystal stream rushed into a canyon. Facing the sun, grazing here was warm, and after the stress of the last few days it was a haven. Relentlessly the huntsmen had been stalking. A

week ago the whole herd had to flee from the rocky spurs on the west side of the peak. The next day the valleys below were reaking with the Odour, and the following day the ridge to the east was haunted with the same fetid stench. The following days had been restless shifts and flights . . . first here to apparent safety, then away again when that place became impregnated with the horrid herald of the stalker.

But at last a haven . . . with luscious grass and even some sweet milkwood at which the hinds eagerly tore. And the warm sun was lulling. Long, restless days, with the nerves keyed to au unnatural pitch, and sleepless nights were wearing out even the hardy Windwhistle. Here at last were rest and feed, and the sun was warm. The hinds were herded and were calmly eating, and all was well. He whisked a fly from his hide. How warm the sun .. . just lovely and warm. The warmth lulled him and for a moment, still standing, he dozed. A bark —a terrified bark —was it fear asleep or terror awake? He started to find his hinds had vanished. They had already sought cover as in other recent days. He fled after them, but met the Warning. He turned and fled in the opposite direction, but met it again. He turned at right angles, but was again stopped. He was trapped; separated from his own. Wheeling with the terror the untamed know he entered the canyon; a possible way of escape. Down the creek Windwhistle fled. The canyon terminated at a huge rock over which the stream leapt. Opposite was another rock . . . too far away . . .

and the gulf was too deep to leap down. Was retreat cut off? He went stealthily backwards, but the warning wind told him the horrid truth. He turned again and went back to the last big rock, where he stopped and stood motionless. He seemed to have melted into the rock itself. Whiffs of the Odour reached him. Surely a stalker was never so persistent! And freedom so near; yet. impossible to reach. Impossible? At last, trembling with the terror encompassing him, he decided.

With arrow-like swiftness part of the rock became alive, and a stag of noble stature, crowned by glorious antlers, leapt into the sunlight, reached the rock over which the creek plunged, and sprang for the opposite ledge. Midway across, the air in the chasm was ripped open. The death-dealing shot reached its mark. The air clapped shut. Midway across, the spirit behind the leap was arrested, and with head thrown back the body tumbled to the bottom of the gorge, the antlers doubled beneath and broken. By this time the gorge was echoing and re-echoing; the echo was wandering above and across and returning aimlessly around and below; it was wandering aimlessly and finding no rest. Soon a sportsman emerged from the bush, lowered himself over the rocks to the fallen stag, gazed at it with the look of a deeply-wronged man, cursed aloud at his luck, spat, and waited for his companions. The eyes of the hunter saw the end of Windwhistle; hard eyes with the surface sparkle of the killer. And who knows but that other eyes, soft and brown, looked also upon that last fatal plunge, where Beechwood the faithful awaited her mate in the land where safe roving possibly awaits the snirit.s of the untamed?