Quiet. Silent, but not really silent. Benevolent breezes brushed delicately against the olive foliage, dense leather footwear crushed fragile branches, the nervous heart pounded frantically against the fear-compacted chest. But away were the other noises; away were all the shouts of agony of a broken arm; away were the blares of sick hitting the rutted, tired, mush-like trail; away were the cries of “hang on!” and “I’m starving” and “may god bless us” over soaked bags of rations, shenanigans of the devilish Kansas river. Right here, right now, Benjamin finally found a fleeting glimpse of solace.

His quadriceps burned from the prolonged crouching position, but he didn’t dare to console it. Not right here, not right now. Not when it was approaching twilight when the deer would be the most active – a hunter’s word of mouth. He had heard it from his grandpa, before he was gone too, by dysentery, on this wretched, never-ending journey west. Shaking off the pain, Benjamin steadied the rifle once more.

Through the kaleidoscope of aureate leaf fonts, a glint of silver edged. Benjamin squinted as the silvery shadow morphed as it came ever closer. A mesh of antlers, jumbled with branches. An elegant neck bent low in a praying position, like what his sister Ruth did when their supplies had drowned, feasting on the tender burgeons. Holding his breath, steeling his mind, Benjamin closed his left eye and…

“Wisp!”

A fiery shot wisped through the serene forest air, snapping the tranquility, splitting the offshoots, missing the buck. In a thunderous tantrum of fright and fury, the majestic stag roared its indignation and sprinted. Benjamin scrambled, aching muscles spasming disapprovingly as he kicked off the ground, rifle clutched, its end still smoldering thick with profuse smoke.

With eyes trained on the galloping beast, Benjamin hurtled. Speeding winds cut through his soft, inexperienced flesh; his young limbs straining to remain contact with earth as a surge of adrenaline overtook his consciousness. And suddenly he was cantering, like a stag himself. All the days of feeling useless, aimlessly sitting in the wagon, came to this. All the times of feeling hollow, an empty vase that his family had to carry, a burden, erupted like a cannon at this moment. The surroundings blurred into mosaics of green and brown, painted with streaks of ivory and umber – his prize. The trees and canopies, once his best companions that shielded his presence to the beast, now turned against him like arboreal guards. Their mazes of roots locked his feet, and their brackens stole his vision. But with sparrow like swift, he ripped through their frail barricade. Nothing can stop him reaching his prey.  

The setting sun, before being fully engulfed by the Grande Ronde valleys and swallowed by the blue mountains, casted one last radiance past the barriers of the canopies to enlighten a barren clearing devoid of trees. A perfect spot.

The stag stumbled hastily into the brilliant luster – the star had entered the spotlight. Benjamin leaped.

Time froze in that second of eternity. Benjamin levitated in the air and raised his rifle, the last shine of the day gleamed golden on its well-worn, rust-bore build. The stag rose from its praying position and locked eyes with him. Large, emerald eyes. Stunningly alive. Pleading. For a fleeting instant Benjamin’s heart trembled. They have already contaminated these primitive dwellers’ heaven with their forts, wood, and wagons. And now robbing their lives?

But then he thought of Grandpa, and father and mother and Ruth on the wagon, all waiting for him and his promised prize.

“Sorry.” He managed to mutter as his fingers, quivering, forced down the trigger.