



Out on the moor, there stood a red deer.

A fuzzy-antlered buck. It lifted its head, surveyed the rippling moor. Veritable waves of purple heather and golden wheatgrass under a broad cathedral of driving clouds. It sniffed languidly. The moor smelt of honeycomb and alfalfa. It chewed, kept back to munching the floral scrub.





There was a whistling in the breeze. An angry, nearing whine.

No sooner had the deer's ears pricked, than a bladed ash shaft stove deep and wet into its side, passing through. The buck bolted two dozen meters, muzzle frothing red. Abruptly, it staggered, went to its knees, tipped over.





"A fair shot," said a voice over a distant heathered rise.





"Ah do believe so," nodded another.





On a hill, some ways off, there crouched on the scrub and heather two men in leather jackets and twill traveling cloaks.

One had a crossbow in hand.

The other: a bundle of kindling. They stood, cloaks and unshorn locks whipping in the wind. "Aye, Wheelan," said the bowman, a blond, raspy fellow, shading his eyes. He nodded, satisfied. "Ah believe e's right stuck 'n scuppered."





Wheelan grinned, started off down to the kill. "Waste no time, then, G

arles." He scampered down the rustling hill. "I've an intention to smell venison before the sun's full down."



They walked. Wheelan retrieved the crossbow bolt where it had stuck, bloody, opposite the buck; and Garles, with a length of rope, tied the buck's legs for transport. Together, they dragged it over the soft earth, trekked a few hills over.



There, in the forested lee of a great glacial rock, they'd put up a camp. Wheelan quickly struck up a match, began to coax fire to life. Garles produced a knife, and, with a hank of their rope, dressed and strung the deer up to bleed. In little

time, the mingling smell of smoke and spilled iron filled the sheltered spinney.





Some time later, as a few lingering gold rays faded round their rock, Garles was carving healthy cuts of backstrap. He worked his curved knife through the flesh with gusto. “Been awhile since Ah've put a shot to anythin',” he commented. He slapped a heavy cut on a rock beside, kept cutting.



Across the fire, Wheelan squatted, teased cherry coals together under a cast iron pan. “Aye.

No' since that nest o





Garles grunted, satisfied, slit another good and bloody cut off the back. "Plenty pleased to be shootin' deer, 'nstead o' them bastards."



“Rather enjoying life. Without summuch necessary violence, ye know?” With a knife, Wheelan carved a pat of butter from a jar, slid it spitting into the pan. "Maybe it's the hunter's life, for us? Maybe leave



"Could be. Might do." Garles stooped, proffered the bloody steaks. "Can't be makin' decisions onna empty stomach, tho', can we?



Into the burbling butter went the venison, along with a handful of marjoram and a pair of quartered leeks. Wheelan seared the lot, turning with a big fork, sniffing eagerly. "That's the stuff."



"'Tis, indeed," said Garles, buffing a steel plate with his sleeve. "N' the rest'll fetch us a fair bit." wretches , few weeks back.”Garles grunted, satisfied, slit another good and bloody cut off the back. "Plenty pleased to be shootin' deer, 'nstead o' them bastards."“Rather enjoying life. Without summuch necessary violence, ye know?” With a knife, Wheelan carved a pat of butter from a jar, slid it spitting into the pan. "Maybe it's the hunter's life, for us? Maybe leave cuttering behind?""Could be. Might do." Garles stooped, proffered the bloody steaks. "Can't be makin' decisions onna empty stomach, tho', can we?Into the burbling butter went the venison, along with a handful of marjoram and a pair of quartered leeks. Wheelan seared the lot, turning with a big fork, sniffing eagerly. "That's the stuff.""'Tis, indeed," said Garles, buffing a steel plate with his sleeve. "N' the rest'll fetch us a fair bit."





"Aye. Fair bit. Hold that out, now, it's ready," indicated Wheelan. He forked up a steak. Butter sizzled into the coals.





"Much obliged."





Wheelan divied up the grub, and they tucked in with their knives. But they managed not even two scant eager bites before a peculiar sound gave them pause: A faint clacking and a clattering, like dry shims, beyond the trees.





Garles froze, a speared bit of meat halfway to his lips. He looked to Wheelan, eyes white. Whelan had hunched as if someone pinched him between the shoulder blades. He whispered: "Whot was tha'?"





"A rum sound, fer sure," muttered Garles. He put down his knife, looking about.





"Wha …" Wheelan started, trailed. Garles raised a finger to his lips.





For the rattling came again, dry and overlapping; like chimes of hollow bone. Not loud. Passive, as if swayed by wind, or by the gait of a stalking creature.





Wheelan's eyes widened. He hunched further, frowned. "No. Couldn't be. We don't kill that much. And it's not been so long since we have. Couldn't be. Couldn't be … "





Garles waved at him. "Shoosh."





Wheelan piped down. " Could it?" he repeated, small.





Their eyes tracked over to Garles' crossbow; to the hanging, bloody buck . "Couple 'o weeks is long enough," said Garles, low. "Bloody well could be."







Wheelan looked at his steak. He looked to the hanging buck, longingly. "Than wha' do we do with these?" he said.





"Only one thing ta do." Garles tucked back into his food with haste, shaking his head. "We finish up, and we leave the rest for it."