Majesty

• Arlea Whelan, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2017

Majesty
The thick layer of ice coating the road’s surface threw the vehicle around, making it skid dangerously this way and that. A seemingly impenetrable curtain of snow obscured Smokey’s vision and fell in great sheets all around the lone ute, carpeting the ice in fluffy powder. A string of curses flew from Smokey’s lips as he swerved yet again, narrowly avoiding a dark hunk of rock which had appeared as if from nowhere. Why had he taken this shift again? It wasn’t like he particularly loved his job or anything – there’s not much to love about driving through bad weather to deliver supplies to very much out-of-the-way places. Who would live so far this way out of town anyway? With bears and wolves to worry about, not to mention the constant freezing weather, Smokey couldn’t see the sense in it. Still, if driving to villages like Kholduu Gazar afforded him an income, who was he to complain?
As the falling snow thinned just a little his mind wandered to the strange people of Kholduu Gazar, with their half-underground dwellings and odd customs. Perhaps this job did have some privileges that most people would never experience. Even with the limited contact Smokey had had with these people, he understood that their values were very different to what everyone back home in England was used to. There was virtually no crime, and the community was so tightknit that everyone knew everyone; nobody was a stranger.
The forty-five-year old’s weathered hand rose absentmindedly to scratch the stubble that had formed on his chin over the past few days, exhaling heavily as he cast his eyes out through the screeching wind and blundering snow which was rapidly turning to sleet. Droplets of moisture clinging to the windscreen trapped facets of light, which danced about inside the tiny orbs of water. Fleeting shadows tugged at the edge of Smokey’s vision, toying with his imagination. Large white wolves and grizzly bears came to life inside his head, making him jump when the ute sped past a bush that was swaying animatedly in the wind. He really was going too fast but it was almost four; he didn’t want to be driving in the dark, which would descend within the hour.
Smokey squinted at a blurry shape that seemed to float, ghost-like, ahead of him. Stupid, stupid, he was just imagining things again. “Pull yerself t’gether man,” he hissed under his breath. Suddenly the shape rose up and stood at least thrice the height of the ute. Smokey clutched at the wheel and the car swerved dangerously as he was lurched painfully in his seatbelt.
With a sickening crash the vehicle slammed at almost thirty miles an hour into an old oak on the side of the road, span round and around, tottering frighteningly on two wheels before skidding to a bumpy halt. The snow continued to fall gracefully, soaking up the silence. Smokey held his head in both quivering hands in an attempt to stop the spinning feeling, sighing in exasperation as he tasted blood on his lip. Throwing the door open, the dazed man fell out of the badly damaged vehicle to get a glimpse at what he had almost hit, bunching his hands into fists and stuffing them in his armpits to save his fingers form frostbite. The cold nipped at his face and burned his throat. Straining his eyes in the frantic snow, Smokey gasped in amazement at what he saw.
Before him stood an immense white stag, exuding majesty, crowned with the most spectacular antlers Smokey had ever laid eyes on. They towered one and a half times the height of the creature itself, and were a strange grey-white that seemed to shimmer in the falling snow. This beast was surely larger than any of its kind, thought Smokey. He had the strangest urge to bow. Wondering what on earth he was doing bowing to a stag, he bent from the waist and lowered his head. When he rose, the magnificent creature was gone.