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The Clash of Antlers – a very short tale.

"Deer rut short story - Wayne Marinovich

Red deer stag – © Marinovich Wildlife Photography

The silence as the mist enveloped me was unnerving. Thin slivers of sunlight tried valiantly to burn through the grey gloom around me. It was a black and white day.

Icy condensation formed on the back of the camera as my breath quickened. I could see the shadowy form approaching. His roar echoed out ahead of him and my finger inched down to trip the shutter.

He appeared through the mist. His determined head slowly swaying under the weight of the polished antlers. He purposefully placed one hoof in front of the other, crunching through the frost covering on top of the dying bracken. He was an old warrior of several ruts and carried the scars of battle on his face. Battles, both won and lost.

With slow hoof falls, the beautiful animal walked down the path towards me, oblivious to my camouflaged presence. My heart stopped when I realised that he would be in front of me before even noticing I was there. Surprise could be a dangerous thing in this line of work.

Indecision wrenched my head away from the camera and I looked over the lens at the approaching animal. Anything I did would alert him to my presence and the chance to capture that illusive unperturbed natural image of him, would be gone.

I had no choice, so stepped off the path in a slick movement and stopped him in his tracks, his glare bored into me and calmness turned to anxiety. I wondered whether the tripod resembled the inverted antlers of slain opponents long gone. I caught my breath again as he lifted his head, trying to catch my scent. The rapier like branch of horns silhouetted against the white mist.

Long seconds passed and he continued his approach. He threw his head back and roared in my direction, enquiring my reply. I could barely breathe as he stopped just meters from me.

He was an old stag with deep scars from years of lust driven battles, his thick neck was drenched in briny urine and the overpowering musk smell stung my nostrils. Glassy eyes looked me over before focussing on the distant trees at another rival who roared somewhere behind me. I got the feeling he was past his prime and would be the underdog in any fight. I liked him already.

The instinct to rut overpowered all his senses and he strode off towards his rival to be met with another roar from the much younger male who strutted over to meet the older challenger, his head towering over the frosted bracken.

In slow motion, they turned to walk alongside one another, like two street fighters circling each other in the mist. There was danger present as stags often perished in these encounters.

For several minutes they walked together like two hostile prison inmates pacing up and down an invisible fence. Neither would back down. Only conflict could resolve this. My head dropped back down to the camera again.

The stags moved in amongst the trees and suddenly their heads turned slightly to one another. I blinked and they launched at each other, the antlers clashing with a sound like the clatter of wooden swords. They tussled, pushed and thrust like two old medieval knights vying for the hand of a group of maidens. The sound of the camera shutter in my ears drowned out another ferocious smash of heads and so it continued. The old male appeared to have weakened, his eyes focussed on the ground in front of him as he shoved. Was he finished or was it his experience of several years of rutting, luring the younger male into a false sense of strength.

They pirouetted around with their antlers still locked and the old male thrust once more, sending the younger stag stumbling back against a nearby Oak tree. The panic showed as he quickly disengaged and turned away. Sensing a chance the old veteran drew on more reserves of strength and lunged at the deposed stag, piercing the flank as the loser fled.

He chased his vanquished opponent for a few more strides before pulling up, knowing that he had to conserve his energy – the young stag would be back in a few days. The vanquished would become the challenger again, just as he had done. He was now master of the stand, the king of the harem.

With his ribcage expanding to draw in much needed air, his warm breath exploded out into the icy morning. The shutter fired again. That was my photo.

He roared his triumph and walked over to his prize.

 


October 28, 2013 - 7:38 am

Admin - Thanks Mrs. M

October 20, 2013 - 1:27 pm

Anneli Marinovich - What a wonderful short story – having seen many of your deer rut images it paints a very vivid picture of your experiences with these majestic animals. Really enjoyed reading this!

October 8, 2013 - 5:53 pm

Cameron Pearce - Hi Wayne!

Your red deer shots are FANTASTIC! May I please ask where you had these incredible sightings? I’ve recently moved to the UK and am looking to concentrate on this species a little.

Many thanks,
Cameron Pearce

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