The Devil’s Hart

They had long been riding west upon expeditious and stead of hoof mounts, albeit it was cumbersome and problematical as their mounts bore them swiftly over briar, through bush, over hill, through dale, through gale, over fire, they rode throughout, somber as mourners in a sudden downpour. The Master of the hunt was ever unceasing in rousing the hunt party, rather like a weary housewife is wont to stir the sullen, banked coals of a yesternight’s hearth, until the minute crimson and fallow gold heart pulsates through the hoary and chill blanket of ash, alighting upon meager offerings of seasoned splinters of long-dead trees and miss-matched yarns, like the yawning maw of a great and terrible God. Ever and anon, the Master of the Hunt would take up the brazen trumpet, and press lips kissed by the Maiden of Spring, her kiss at once stippled with the vague remembrance of a lazy summer’s noon beneath the drowsing boughs of a Weeping Willow, the brisk steel of the Ice Queen of Winter’s yearning sigh, and the spent refrains of youth, and blow into its battered convex. Then, hailed and called forth by the clear peal of the trumpet, the weary hunting party would cease to trail in a graceless manner of pairs and a greater oddity of uneven numbers, and would instead surge forth, like a restless sea breaking upon a shore enshrouded in fog.

Furthermore the hunting part galloped forth unceasingly, the swan-like necks of their mounts outstretched, hooves drumming a rhythmic cadence. The sun now sat upon her throne, and her crimson and fallow gold stallions that drew her chariot across the mantle of the heavens pranced amongst the hoary clouds, maws working the bit round and round within their fire-passioned mouth, eager to gallop apace once more and make the day flee. When the hunt had begun, the dew lay thick upon the warm jade of the grass, placing a queer haze about the topography, so that none within the party could see much further than perhaps a long stride or two, as dew from the early morn was a hoary vapor that puffed and billowed above the grass, like land-born clouds, before dispersing into the sky to become true clouds. They had appeared like solemn wraiths then, the ghosts of great kings of men, astride pale horses of milk-white jade, against a steel backdrop. Near at hand the dew was gone; though it crowned the tip of the hill-top like a wreathe of white smoke, and rose like steam from a hoary river that chuckled and muttered to itself as it wound its way through the foot of the plain. They seemed to have left winter clinging to the high mountains, as the air here was warm and agreeable, and they seemed to have left winter clinging to the high mountains, as the air here was warm and agreeable, and it seemed as though spring was here, and sap was again stirring in the great green things of life.

The hounds, minds muddled with boredom and the absence of some sort of quarry’s presence to bell out and pursue, were apt to run amuck, banner-like tails caught on high by hope and enthusiasm, as they pressed forth, trails unbraiding like whips in the grass. Ever and anon, their attention was caught fast by the pallid flash of a hare’s tail as it bounded forth from cover as they drew nigh, sprinting for the shelter of its burrow, and the dry whisper of scales rattling over pebbles, until they were quite excited and their minds held no intention of being called to heel, nor of minding the commands of the Master of Hunt. So it was that the lordly gentlemen of the hunting party soon tired of the monotony of the eventless hunt. Some even proved inclined to turn back, and forsake any hopes of a merry sport, so dejected and disgusted were they. So it was, in a fit of exasperation and anger, a young man, witless as a doe blinded by the sudden flare of headlights in the hours of darkness, gave forth a most unfortunate and regrettable outburst. “If only the Devil himself were to appear before me now, why, such a merry run should I give him!”

The words had scarcely passed his lips, when one of the lead hounds cast his tapered pate upwards, and gave an eager, pealing bell. Then, he gathered himself, and dashed forth, leaping now and again to clear the deeper swards of grass, the rest of the hounds raising elegant muzzles, nostrils dragging at the air as they caught scent of quarry of a sudden. Then, their bells echoing the baritone keen of their pack leader, they, too, leapt forth, yelping and belling and fair whining in their eagerness. The Master of the Hunt, gladdened by this sudden change in the winds of fate, lifted the trumpet to his lips once more, and blew with gusto, until his cheeks billowed out quite forcefully, and he grew quite purple in the face. The hunting party, hooting and whooping, drove forceful heels into the sides of the steeds they sat astride, compelling the steeds into startled gallops in pursuit of the wavering banners that were the hound’s tails as they vanished round the bend.

The hounds, a good few strides abreast of the hunting party, ran apace, belling and yelping, their yodels growing high and shrill in volume, often squeaking upon the crest of the octaves, as they pursued the fleeting, ebon shadow. The land swelled as though it were a green sea, up to the very foot of mountains. A stream that had trickled like a hoary serpent amongst the folds of the earth, vanished into a deeper growth of cresses and water plants, and it could be heard tinkling away in green tunnels, down along gentle slopes towards the fens of the Arcane Vale. Mountains rose like a bald ogre’s pate from the misty plains that both hound and party alike traversed. At long last, just as the hunting party hove into view, the hounds condensed in a loose circle about their quarry, who had, at length, swung round to make a stand. The hounds yipped, maws wet as they slavered and snapped, salvia flecking their whiskers and the faces of their fellows. Of a sudden, a great anguished cry rang through the din, and a bitch broke from the circle, keening her agony, maw opening and closing in shock, sides heaving, a patch of crimson staining her pallid snow-hued pelt. “That’s no hind!” Came a whoop from an eager youth, as he canted forward in his saddle and kicked his steed forth into a stately trot. “Aye!” came an echoing cry. “It will be a stag that’s gouged the bitch like that!”

At this, a murmur of excitement arose from those still in the back of the hunting party. A stag! What a fine mantle decoration his rack would make! Then, just as a hind grazing up the warm jade of sweet meadow grass may of a sudden take fright, and flash her pallid flag as she dances away, so, too, did the hunting party surge forth in silent agreement, driving spurred heels forcefully into their weary mount’s sides, until at last, snorting in remonstration, weary mounts cast downcast heads upward, great, wrinkled, velvet nostrils dragging at the air, ears canted forth and straight, like that of a docked ship’s sails aquiver before cast off from a dock, minute whickers of divine knowledge and pleasure escaping once silent throats, bugles peeling like bronze and silver bells as they lift fatigued and iron-burdened hooves and canter forth, drawn on by the clear ring of a brazen trumpet and the bell of hounds.

The stag, hocks obscured in the hock-high grasses of the meadows, sides aheave with exertion and marred with the darker stains of sweat, great ocher eyes rolling back into it’s tapered pate from fright, salvia gathering in pallid bubbles tinted with pallid crimson round its mouth, mucus gathering white round ebon nostrils, lifts its tapered head, ears canted forward at the sudden strident peal of the trumpet, and gives tongue to its fear; a sound to chill the marrow, for it is the sound of a broken soul echoing back like ripples in a pond from the ninth circle of Hell. It shakes its crimson-tinged tines in earnest, menacing the hounds, who still snap and harrie and drive it back round its hocks. A shout sounds from the Master of the Hunt- “A twelve count tine! A twelve! A royal!” At this, the party ceases hooting, and instead presses forth in deadly earnest now, each intent to be the one to claim such a marvelous rack for himself.

The stag again gives tongue, and then, with a flick of an ear and an inclination of its head, clears the tapered pates of the astonished hounds, before leaping high, and making for the darker line that marked the wilds. The hounds are so astonished, and so befuddled at the sudden escape of their quarry, that they continue to snap and bell at the empty air. The hunting party now begins to scream curses and damnations, the likes of which are too offensive for me to repeat to you, gentle reader. In a gallop born of rage, they press on, crops and whips finding their mark on the muddle hound’s pates and backsides, causing a miasmas of pained and confused yelps and snarls, until at last the hounds right themselves and are away, baying as they go, sniffing and snuffling the earth as they try to regain their quarry’s trail.

So it comes to pass, gentle reader, that one young man of considerable wealth and ambition, and with a heart reputed to be as ebon as the coat of the steed he was astride, peeled away from the party, and charged up the steep embankment towards the wood, in search of the great stag himself. So it came to pass, that after many hours of unproductive searching, cursing, and errant footfalls from his mount, each more pronounced than the last, and each more likely to unseat him, he digs spurred heels into his poor horse’s sides, and jerks sharply at the rein, wheeling the mount in the direction he surmises the hunting party to be, due to the ever distant belling of the hounds, he begins to pick his way back to the party.

Suddenly, there comes a brisk crackle of underbrush, and a flicker and a sigh, that sets the youth’s stallion to rearing, front legs troubling the air, great hooves lashing all around, as it dances upon its rear most legs, bugling, eyes round and rolling white with fright. “Steady, boy, steady,” babbles the youth as he manipulates the reins and digs his heels into his steed’s sides. But it is all in vain, for the poor horse has, in his fright, taken complete leave of his senses, and has taken the bit between his front-most teeth as well, so that all his master’s flailing and curses and nudges prove for naught, and he begins to slide off of the stallion’s great backside. “Oh, damn!” he exclaims crossly from the leaf litter, pounding a fist into the earth and snapping small twigs.

In a sudden fury, he regains his feet in a nimble jump, and is attempting to snatch the reins of his mount, when he sees a flash of ebon, and he peers down at his ankle to see an pure black fox, with eyes of sullen flame, peering back up at him. The youth looks down upon the fox with rapt fascination. The fox, with a snort through its nose, bares its wicked white teeth, and promptly sinks them into the ankle of the youth, before bounding off. The youth roars, more in wounded pride than in actual agony, seizes the trailing reins of his steed, leaps astride, and bellows “Tallyho!” with vigor, causing the surrounding hillsides to ring with his cry. Then, with a mad gleam in his eye, he spurs his horse onward in a mad-cap gallop in pursuit of the ebon fox.

It is not long until the hunting party, hailed by his cry, soon espy him and the ebon fox, running mad-cap spirals and rings about the youth in a merry chase. The hounds bay, and off they bound, while the cry of “Tallyho!” is taken up among the ranks, and they, too, trail after the youth and his fox. I shall not bore you with the details, gentle reader, but it suffices to say that the ebon fox brought his pursuers no end of bleak misfortunes. Ten of their number were unseated as he raced beneath the mounts they were astride, causing the beast to shy and rear, or jig aside in fright, or merely take to their heels, driven senseless with fear. Others fell short of jumping felled trees, or got tangled up with downed riders and horses, or overran the hounds. So it was when a mere handful of the party, including the brazen youth, espied the ebon fox calmly sitting upon idle haunches and daintily licking a forepaw across a small brook, they began to hoot and slap one another’s backs, all smiles and kind words. “We have him now, boys,” shouted the youth, cheeks flushed with impending victory, “He’s nowhere to run, now.”

The fox, attention held fast by the shouting on the other side of the stream, slowly raised its head, and blinked its flame-hued eyes. Later, some of the men would prove a good laugh at the local tavern as they retold what occurred next. The fox appeared to smile a private smirk. Then, the hunting party watched with transfixed fascinated horror as the fox seemed to stretch into the most mad-cap and unnatural shapes, until it was the self-same ebon stag they had pursued. Then even the stag bent out of its natural form, until a towering man with a twelve-count rack upon his head and feline eyes stood across from them. “Well run, little mortals,” he boomed. “Well run, indeed. Call upon me again, should you ever be deprived of quarry. For I am The Lord Of The Hunt.” When most of the remainder of the hunting party had spurred their horses into a blind gallop, with shouts of “Run! ‘Tis the Devil* Himself!” The youth alone trailed behind. As he wheeled his mount about, he gazed up into the twin suns that served as the Devil’s eyes, and said, “Thank you, my Lord, for a marvelous day’s hunt. It was a splendid chase!” And with that, he, too was gone...

A\N: *In old ballads and tales dating back to the mid to late 1800s-1900s, hunters often claimed that they chased the devil, when in fact, still older songs and stories say that it was not the devil, but Cernunnos, The patron god of the huntsmen. *Grins*