by M A Bennett
I greeted the girls as soon as they came close, and they all smiled nicely enough, but they ended the conversation they’d been having as they walked, and didn’t start it again, as if they didn’t want to talk about whatever it was in front of me. I moved next to Chanel and grinned conspiratorially. I’d really felt for her last night, and wanted to let her know she had an ally. ‘Bit weird this, isn’t it?’
She looked down her nose at me. ‘I think it’s perfectly divine,’ she said coldly, shutting me down. She sounded just like them. Then she did this freaky thing: she lifted her hair with her hand and flipped it to the opposite parting. It fell perfectly. It was their move, the tic of the sirens; they tossed their hair around 24/7 and now Chanel was doing it too. In fact, she performed it perfectly. God, I thought, she’d make a perfect Medieval. She had bounced back, it seemed, from the ridicule of last night’s dinner and embedded herself right at the heart of the sirens. Very clearly she thought she was their friend, and not mine.
I see, I thought. Four against one.
‘Come on, girls!’ trilled Charlotte in her role as fake-hostess. ‘We’re going in the shooting brake.’ Apparently this was a long car with wooden panels down the side, the most Medieval car you’ve ever seen. We could all sit easily, if not comfortably, in the back. We set off bumpily up the hill, following Henry’s path.
The huntin’ had begun.
chapter eleven
I’m not going to lie; the start of the day was pretty boring. (Of course it got pretty exciting later, but not in a good way.)
Once the cars had dropped us at the top of this massive hill, we just walked – the three (four) Medieval girls in front, me behind.
Don’t get me wrong; it was really beautiful country. In the weak autumn sunlight the hills looked as if they’d been buttered like my breakfast toast, and the purple, heather-covered valleys gave way in the far distance to the glimpse of a glassy lake. Longcross, far behind us, looked beautiful, like some advert for the British Empire. If I’d been told I was going on a walk, I’d probably have enjoyed it. But for a hunt it was pretty – well – pedestrian. No one really talked to me except to ask from time to time if I was ‘all right’ (the Medievals never said ‘OK’), to which I would reply, over-enthusiastically, ‘Great, thanks!’– and then move on. The truth is, I didn’t want to admit I wasn’t having a great time. It seemed like a weakness. This weekend had had such a build-up that to say I wasn’t enjoying it would have felt like I’d failed in some way. And it was OK really. No one was nasty to me; it was just as if I wasn’t really there. The Medieval girls were chatting up Chanel like mad – I mean really kissing her arse. Maybe last night had been some crazy sort of initiation ceremony, and Chanel had passed the test. Or maybe the girls felt bad about how the boys had behaved and were making it up to her. Either way, I was pretty sure they’d already decided she was going to be a Medieval and I wasn’t. I might as well not have come.
After a bit we all stopped, on this hillside, and sort of hung around for ages. People were just chatting and drinking from hip flasks. The hunt servants caught up with us with the gear and another pack of hounds. Chanel was obviously very nervous of the dogs; either she was scared of them, or she was afraid of them jumping up and putting their muddy paws on her immaculate khaki jodhpurs. I could see her eyeing them apprehensively and skirting around them carefully as if they smelled. Which they sort of did.
I’d have liked to chat to the hunt servants, maybe ask a bit about the guns, and the stag hunt, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t the done thing to talk to them. In the end I caught up with Shafeen, who was standing confidently with his gun sort of dangling over his arm. He’d obviously brought his own, but it didn’t look in a very good state – the stock looked separated from the barrel. ‘Is your gun broken?’
He almost smiled. Almost. ‘No. That’s how you carry them. Empty, open and over the arm. Stops you accidentally shooting someone’s head off if you trip.’
‘Oh.’ As he didn’t sound exactly unfriendly I asked, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Our esteemed host – the harbourer – has ridden ahead with his chosen hounds. They’re the “tufters” and they’re selected because they are steady and won’t “riot”, as it’s called, at the scent of a deer. He’ll have separated his chosen stag from the rest of the herd and driven him to another part of the hillside known as a “couch”. Once the stag is harboured in the couch, he’ll stay all day unless he’s disturbed.’
‘And we’re about to disturb him?’
‘Correct.’ He pointed to a tall man in the inevitable waxed jacket. It was human basilisk and headkeeper Perfect. You couldn’t see his feet for hounds. ‘See that fellow there? He’s the whipper-in. Henry will have arranged with him to bring the hunt party to this spot, hoping that the stag will break cover here.’
I felt pretty sorry for the stag at this point, but at the same time I really wanted to see him. I’d only ever seen heads of stags, once they were dried and desiccated and stuffed and mounted. Jeffrey and all his body-less cousins.
‘Is Henry coming back?’ I asked casually. I remembered his farewell: See you up there.
‘Yes, don’t worry,’ Shafeen said drily. ‘He’ll come back once the stag breaks cover, to change hounds. The whipper-in will take the tufters, and Henry will take the rest of the pack. Essentially he swaps the calm dogs for the crazy ones. The killers.’ I looked at the black-and-tan hounds that were milling around Perfect, wagging their tails. They looked pretty harmless.
‘For most of the day the stag will stay ahead of the hounds, outrunning them easily. But it has to run across moor and woodland – hard terrain – and leap walls and streams and fences. Eventually it gets tired.’
I felt tired already. ‘Do we follow it all day?’
He nodded. ‘The hounds follow its scent, and we follow its “slot” – that’s his track. Hoof-prints in mud, splashed rocks … those kinds of things give it away. The beat keepers –’ he pointed to Perfect’s flat-capped underlings – ‘stop him getting too far off track. And of course there’ll be a lunch somewhere. The upper classes never kill without eating.’ That was the strange thing about Shafeen; he obviously was the upper classes – he clearly knew every single thing about stag hunting, for example – but he spoke of his people quite scornfully, as if he was outside of their world. I couldn’t figure him out.
‘Then what?’
‘Well, when it can’t run any more, it will turn and face the hounds. That’s called the stag at bay.’
‘My dad’s told me about that. They find water, and stand in it, to try to lose the hounds.’
‘Except it doesn’t work. They’ve been known to swim for their lives, with the hounds swimming after them with their teeth in the stag’s hind parts.’
I swallowed. ‘And then?’
‘Then,’ he said, ‘it’s all over; one of the guns, the “dispatcher”, shoots it dead at close range. And the stag is rewarded for having provided a good day’s sport by having its belly cut open and its guts thrown to the hounds.’
I must’ve made a face.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, more gently. ‘Most hunt followers won’t actually get to see the kill.’
‘But it will have happened,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter if I’m there to witness it or not.’
He looked at me in an interested way and opened his mouth to say something, when suddenly, and without warning, a fricking great deer shot past me, leaping through our company, so close to me I could feel the disturbance of the air.
I staggered back, hand on my chest. ‘Jeee-sus.’
Shafeen steadied me. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’ I watched as the deer bounded away across the heather. It was a beautiful sight, but sort of unexpected. In my mind’s eye I’d pictured some sort of cartoon Bambi deer, all cute and big-eyed and wobbly-legged. But this was a lithe, gristly beast; all greasy dark fur and hard horn. He was fast; he’d put a fair distance between him and us b
efore I’d even regained my balance. To my surprise, no one moved. The hounds yipped sharply, but their handlers held them back.
‘Why don’t we go after that one?’
‘That’s not the designated deer,’ said Shafeen. ‘Henry will have picked out a “warrantable” stag, one that’s over five years old. That one’s too young. They choose their victims carefully,’ he said sardonically. ‘If they murder that one now, what will they kill next year?’
Again, he’d used the word ‘they’, as if he wasn’t of their number. He was really hard to read, especially as he’d turned away from me and was scanning the hillside.
‘Look.’ He pointed. ‘There he is. He’s a wily old one – he sent the other deer running and then lay down in the heather.’
I looked, but all I could see were the tops of antlers, just peeping above the tussocks like a gorse bush.
Then the hounds started baying and the stag rose up from the gorse. Back legs first, then front legs, in a graceful, rocking motion. He was absolutely enormous, much bigger than the decoy deer. This was a noble-looking beast, his head almost as big as a cow’s, his antlers towering above. He looked directly at us for a split second, then turned his head to the hills and started to run.
Just then there was this big kerfuffle and Henry rode into sight, his hounds at his heels. He tumbled from the horse and exchanged his pack for Perfect’s. The hounds were let go, and the hunt was on. My heart gave a leap as I watched, but it was the stag, not the hounds, that I was urging on. Go on, go on, go on, I said under my breath, using the force, willing him to outpace them. I was Obi-Wan Kenobi from Star Wars. This isn’t the deer you’re looking for. And, as if my Jedi mind trick had worked, the stag outran the hounds easily.
‘Look at him go!’ crowed Piers as everyone moved off to follow the bounding deer. ‘He loves it! Let’s get him.’ I hated him at that moment.
‘Show time,’ said Shafeen, shouldering his gun.
He looked as if he knew what he was doing. ‘Have you shot before?’
‘Just tigers,’ he said, and moved off ahead of me.
I couldn’t tell if he was being funny or not.
chapter twelve
At some points through the hours that followed, as we stalked the stag through coppice, stream, hill and valley, I pulled myself up short and thought about what a weird ritual this was: all the servants, all the Land Rovers, all the expense, just so a handful of rich kids could kill a stag.
At other moments, when we caught sight of our noble quarry, I even found myself agreeing with Piers. The stag, at times, seemed to get some sort of enjoyment from outwitting the baying hounds. And if it could have stayed that way, with us following and him always getting away, it would have been fine. But, of course, it didn’t.
We stopped for lunch, the stag safely ‘harboured’ and apparently happy to hang around for an hour or two for our chase to resume. We all trooped into a little building on the hillside called ‘the bothy’. It was a cheerful place – just a single room with stone walls and roof beams and wooden floors, like a mini-barn, but it had a fireplace with a cheerful fire in it and a long table set for lunch. Over the fireplace hung – you’ve guessed it – a pair of antlers. No head this time, just the antlers.
Lunch was lovely, and even after my massive breakfast I was starving from all that walking. I was sitting opposite Henry and next to Shafeen, so I felt a bit like a small satellite state between two warring superpowers. I mostly kept my head down and ate. We had shepherd’s pie made with venison, Brussels sprouts (which I’ve never had on any day but Christmas before) and carrots, followed by apple-and-blackcurrant crumble. Then there was Stilton cheese served, bizarrely, with ginger cake. The lunch was served by an entirely different set of servants, obviously driven up here just for this bit. Just as at dinner, there were no normal things to drink like juice or Coke, but just wine. I learned that posh wines are not called red and white but have their own names. This red wine was called claret and the white wine Sancerre. At the end of the meal there was no port this time, but a choice of damson gin or whisky. Basically, if you didn’t want to drink alcohol you had to drink water. I noticed again that the Medievals drank like adults. (I know they were mostly eighteen, but you know what I mean.) The girls weren’t too bad, and if Henry was he didn’t show it, but Piers and Cookson drank heavily. And they couldn’t take it.
I thought, as we ate and drank, about the stag outside, panting in the heather. No food, no drink, maybe mouthing at the bitter grass. Did he allow himself to lie down in the gorse and rest his weary legs? Did he think he’d got away with it? That the baying hounds and braying humans had gone away? That he was safe for another day? Or did he know how this went, and that if he ventured too far he’d be turned back by the beat keepers stationed about the hillside to keep him pinned?
My strong sympathies for the stag, who seemed destined for fireplace decoration, made it hard to listen to all the guff I heard at lunch about sustainability, and culling, and animal control, and how it was good for the deer population. Mostly this came from the girls and Piers and Cookson, talking over each other in their upper-class voices. Henry didn’t join in. ‘Is that all true?’ I asked him. He shrugged and took a sip from his wine glass. Above the crystal rim of it, a familiar light shone in his eyes. ‘I just like to hunt,’ he said, and I had to respect his honesty, even if I didn’t agree with him. ‘In all seriousness though,’ he said, and the whole table went quiet and everyone turned to look at him, ‘nature is all a question of order and balance. If an inferior species begins to get too robust, or threatens to grow beyond the boundaries of what is natural, then it must be culled.’
‘It’s true,’ agreed Cookson, Henry’s echo. ‘Deer, for instance; if they become too numerous, they can be a menace for farmers – they can damage the habitats of wildlife but also interfere with cultivated herds like cattle.’
‘Dashed nuisance,’ agreed Piers, slurring slightly.
‘In order for the higher orders of species to thrive,’ Henry went on in a measured, reasonable tone, ‘the lower orders must be curbed.’
There was a weird energy at the table, a hungry attentiveness.
‘So, what you’re saying,’ said Shafeen slowly, ‘is that some species must not be allowed to get above themselves.’
‘Got it in one.’
‘You’re speaking, of course, exclusively of the animal kingdom?’ asked Shafeen.
Henry turned cool blue eyes on him. ‘What else?’
After lunch, we prepared to go back out. Chanel had gone to the toilet and the Medievals went into some sort of huddle. There was a lot of sideways glancing and nodding, and a weird air of anticipation and eagerness. Shafeen, at my shoulder, narrowed his eyes at the little group.
‘Wonder what that’s all about.’
I shrugged my jacket on. ‘Got me.’
Chanel came back, and we all headed out again. I hadn’t been wrong – there was a real sense of excitement among the Medievals. They were fairly buzzing with it, and I assumed that they were jazzed by the prospect of the approaching kill. In contrast to this, Shafeen, whom I’d hoped was becoming an ally, became more and more withdrawn and silent as the afternoon drew on, and the chase approached its end.
And end it inevitably did. There was a growing sense of urgency, as the sun was dipping to the horizon and the dusk beginning to fall. As the light dimmed it grew colder, and even the jumper and the waxed jacket couldn’t keep the chill from my bones. Chanel was shivering too, and, as we made our way down the valley I saw Henry catch up with her, take off his tweed jacket and drape it over her shoulders. It was a move I’ve seen in films a million times, particularly old black-and-white ones, but when Henry did it, it didn’t seem cringy, but gentlemanly and considerate. Chanel kind of snuggled down into it, hugging it to herself and thanking him prettily. I felt, just for an instant, a little jag of jealousy. Did Henry like Chanel? The thought somehow made me even colder.
We made our way down
the hill to the lake that lay at the bottom of the valley like a dropped mirror. I knew, everyone seemed to know, that we would find the stag there. And we did. The deer was cornered as my dad had said, as Piers had said, as Shafeen had said, in water. He stood nobly at the edge of the lake, his legs disappearing below the surface, his reflection, on this clear autumn day, perfectly replicated in the water.
A beautiful day to die.
The hounds crowded on the foreshore, staying out of the water for now, if not for long. They seemed in no hurry, now the outcome was inevitable. They didn’t even bark; they didn’t need to. They knew there was an ending.
The stag looked at them, and they looked at the stag. Hunter and hunted faced each other. The deer looked as if he was posing for one of those portraits you’ve seen reproduced a million times on shitty souvenir plates or watercolours, or stitched onto cushions in twee tea shops: The Stag at Bay. He looked so noble and beautiful, so much more noble and more beautiful than any of us. I could have cried. ‘Down,’ said Henry, fingers spread, palms facing the ground. ‘Everybody down.’ And we all got down onto the cold, prickly heather, on our elbows like commandos, hardly breathing.
‘Greer,’ said Henry, in a low, slow voice like a hypnotist, never taking his eyes off the stag, ‘looks like you’ll be our dispatcher.’