He is Native

A story of deer in the glen

There is a green lawn amidst the heather, high above the vanguard of straggling oaks that cloak the glen’s southerly slopes. It is October, time of the red deer rut, and the green is speckled with russet hinds.

They nip the sweet grass, savouring these last days of growth before winter. And they are gathered together, too, for the ministration of the stag who will father their summer calves. A darker shape amongst the hinds, Damh raises his chin and bellows. His eyes roll. Tongue extends, lips curl.

Sweat shines on his mantled shoulders; his belly is black with potent piss and peat. He has rolled in the pungent mire, and he has thrashed bog myrtle and heather with thirteen points of antler. The rampant, encroaching bracken has been felled by this weaponry, sharp as a dirk. Roaring – bùirich, in this land’s native tongue – his flanks heave. Hooves slit open the brown earth.