Teardrops Of Blood

A soft, moist leaf spiralled gently to the ground as Brin pushed aside a thick, low hanging vine blocking his path. His breath steamed in the early morning chill, as he bent to touch the rugged, damp earth. The small herd of wild deer Brin was tracking had sensed him several times previously, bounding away before he caught even the slightest glimpse of them. The horizon was beginning to lighten to a steely grey with the coming of dawn, and the damp fogginess of the chilly night was leaving the air, when Brin came in sight of his quarry. A sudden break in the trees led the well used animal trail he was following into a dense patch of underbrush, which suddenly opened out into a small clearing a few metres ahead. The clear morning sunlight sparkled brightly off the gleaming coats of a half dozen young bucks. The deer were grazing peacefully only few mere metres from where Brin crouched in the still apparent shadow of dawn, ears pricking up at the slightest sound. As Brin drew closer, the deer seemed to sense something out of the ordinary, and looked up alerted. Brin tightened his bowstring and knocked an arrow. He slowly crept forwards, the only sound of his passing the rustling of the long, dew-covered grass. As he drew within range of the magnificent creatures, Brin sank into a patch of coarse heather at the side of the trail, shielded by young ferns, and selected a beautiful, strong buck with a tiny star of white on one up-pricked ear. Brin steadily raised his bow, in the space of a moment feeling the pressure of the wind against his arm and encompassing the morning’s glimmer in his aim, the fine horsehair string grew taut with pressure, and he sighted and released the arrow in one sure, fluid movement. As the arrow sped in a low arc towards the as yet unstartled young buck, a light breeze rustled the golden leaves of the trees and the sun’s rays glimmered off the arrowhead, startling the herd. But the arrow had struck home. The stricken young buck attempted to follow after the others, but his muscular legs gave way and he collapsed in a terrified heap on the soft, sparkling ground. Brin hurried quickly to the poor animal’s side, dropped hastily onto one knee and whispered a few soothing prayers in its ear. The terrified animal began to relax, its breathing deepening with the coming of death, yet even so, Brin placed a rough hunting knife against the soft brown fur of the animal’s neck, and as the blade tore through the thin hide and bit deep into its flesh, Brin watched as the glowing light left the animal’s eyes, and as the soft brown clouded over, a tear rolled gently down one cheek, and onto the shining grass.

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