The first stag roared and charged at full speed. The other deer swivelled and dropped his head and the stags’ antlers met. Both deer were knocked back by the blow and they dug their haunches into the moist ground and struck at one another again, fencing. This time the approaching deer slipped and then turned and ran. The defending deer snorted and followed him a little way down the hill before veering off and returning to his hinds. Now as he scoured the hill his face bore a proud, almost contemptuous look. His name was Quaich. The deer that had just lost the battle pretended not to notice as he started to graze as casually as he could through the heather.
Anlach was almost over, though, and most of the stags in the herd were exhausted. They had shed nearly half their body weight fighting to defend their hinds, but the season in the High Land was mild and the coming winter would take a light toll. Suddenly, from the bottom of the hill, there was a great burst of laughter. Two fawns were running through the grass, leaping and jumping in the autumn sunshine, delighted with their game of tag.
They stopped, panting, and looked up at the other deer. All across the moor the stags that had mated were patrolling their stands. On the top of the hills the Outriders were looking down on them or gazing out into the distance, ever watchful for any sign of a threat to the herd.
‘I hate Anlach,’ snorted one of the fawns, ‘it’s so boring.’
‘I know,’ agreed his friend. ‘The Outriders are always too busy to play with us.’
‘And the stags never stop fighting.’
‘Let’s go and listen to the storyteller,’ said the second fawn suddenly. ‘He’s over by the burn.’
Suddenly there was another bellow from above them. They looked up and the fawns felt a thrill as they caught sight of the single stag, looking down on them majestically from the top of the moor. Around him the heather rustled in the breeze and his proud antlers showed him to be a fine twelve-pointer. He looked magnificent in the misty sunlight; a royal; a king among deer. About his throat the thick fur was a deep red-brown and his eyes were bold and defiant. In the centre of his head, although it was beginning to fade and blend back into the colour of the ruddy fur around it, the fawns could still see the white oak leaf.
Rannoch turned and walked slowly back to his hinds. There were twelve of them and all but one were sitting down in the grass. The one that was standing was more striking than the rest and she had huge, bold black eyes. It was the head hind. Rannoch came up to her and as he drew near she turned her head towards him. They held their muzzles together for a moment, breathing in each other’s scent, and stirring with a deep and tender satisfaction.
‘Rannoch,’ said Willow quietly, ‘how is the herd?’
‘Well.’ Rannoch smiled. ‘The Outriders have seen nothing.’
‘No humans?’
‘No,’ said Rannoch, gazing out across the mountains.
‘They have gone back to their dwellings.’
‘Then it’s over.’
‘Yes. The Lera say that the Great Land is whole once again.’
‘It’s a part of the Prophecy I don’t really understand.’
‘No,’ said Rannoch, ‘but Crak told me that after. . . after the battle, the humans were fighting by the sea. There was a terrible storm but they drove the men from the north away from the shores of the Great Land. They took back the Island Chain.’
‘Why were they fighting?’
‘Who knows? To be free.’
‘Like us,’ said Willow, smiling. ‘Maybe they are not so different.’
Rannoch looked at Willow but he said nothing for a while.
‘You know, Willow,’ said Rannoch at last, ‘Rurl died at the humans’ battle. The otters told me. He had gone to see what was happening and he got too close to their carved trees. They say he was speared. Poor Rurl, he was always so inquisitive.’
‘Rannoch,’ said Willow, ‘there’s another part of the Prophecy that I think about often. That I don’t understand either.’
Rannoch turned to Willow.
‘You mean the sacrifice?’ he said quietly. The hind stirred in the grass and nodded.
‘I went to see Birrmagnur just before Anlach,’ said Rannoch softly. ‘His calf was sick and on the way I met a Lera. It was a stoat. But when I tried to talk to it, Willow, I couldn’t understand it.’
The hind looked into Rannoch’s eyes. They were suddenly very sad.
‘And Willow,’ said Rannoch painfully, ‘I think I am losing the power to heal. I could do nothing for Eloin when she grew ill.’
Willow was silent. She knew that the hind’s death had hurt Rannoch terribly.
‘All my life I have wanted to heal things,’ said Rannoch, ‘and I have tried. But sometimes I think there is a wound in nature that nothing can heal.’
‘And it makes you unhappy,’ said Willow quietly.
‘In the end, Willow, I had to heal myself,’ answered Rannoch, ‘and you have helped me do that. I am content to live as a Lera.’
Willow looked fondly into Rannoch’s eyes.
‘This mark on my head is fading too,’ Rannoch went on quietly, ‘and sometimes when I think back on everything that’s happened, I wonder if it was just a dream. Sometimes it’s like a mist that comes down. I can’t understand the world any more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that I think that is the true sacrifice, Willow. The Herla are free, thank Herne, but my power and my understanding . . . I must give it up. To be a Lera.’
‘But you wouldn’t rather be like them? Like the humans? That’s what Sgorr wanted.’
Rannoch shook his head but again he said nothing.
‘The evil comes from them,’ said Willow. ‘Do you remember what you saw in the glen?’
‘No, Willow,’ said Rannoch, ‘the evil does not come from them. The evil comes from hurt and fear and trying to deny Herne’s Law. But the fight is within each of us – it’s just the humans can see further. Sometimes I think that must be very terrible for them.’
Willow nodded. She was looking out across the herd now.
‘You know, though, Willow,’ said Rannoch suddenly, looking down on the herd, ‘in a way all life is a sacrifice, for one day I too will be overthrown as Lord of the Herd, so another stronger Herla may take my place to protect the herd.’
‘Rannoch,’ said Willow quietly, ‘I have something to tell you.’
‘What?’
‘When spring comes there will be another little Outrider in the herd.’
Rannoch threw up his head.
‘What?’ he gasped delightedly.
‘Yes.’ Willow nodded. ‘I can sense him already. What shall we call him, Rannoch? How about Brechin?’
As they neared the burn the two fawns that had been playing together caught sight of the storyteller standing by the water, a group of yearlings gathered round and listening attentively to the stag.
‘He was the only one to defend her,’ he was saying as he strolled back and forth proudly, ‘then Captain Bankfoot rose up on his haunches and cried, ‘‘To me, to me.’’ ’
‘But we’ve heard that story,’ cried one of the yearlings.
‘Oh you have, have you?’ said the stag, looking down at him and smiling. ‘Then what would you like to hear about?’
‘I want to hear about the Outriders,’ said another yearling.
‘The Outriders?’ said Tain.’And what do you want to know about the Outriders?’
‘What’s it like to be an Outrider?’
‘It’s a fine thing,’ said Tain. ’The best thing for a stag. Unless, of course, you’re a storyteller.’
‘You were a captain, weren’t you?’ said the yearling.
‘I still am a captain,’ laughed Tain, ‘but it’s true I’m not much good to the Outriders with this leg.’
The yearlings craned forward excitedly to take a look at the deep scar on Tain’s leg.
‘You got it in the battle, didn’t you? The last battle.’ Tain nodded.
??
?And Rannoch healed it?’
‘That’s right. Though I’ve still got a limp.’
‘Bankfoot’s got a scar too,’ said another fawn. ‘He showed it to me the other day. He told me that he wouldn’t have made it but for Rannoch.’
‘But my mother says that Rannoch doesn’t like to heal the Herla any more,’ said one of the fawns suddenly.
Tain looked down at the fawn.
‘You mustn’t say that,’ he whispered. ’Rannoch is very busy, that’s all.’
‘Why?’
‘The Lord of the Herd has a hundred and one things to do. Now stop asking so many questions. I thought you wanted a story. What’s it to be?’
‘Starbuck,’ cried all the calves at once.
‘But I’ve told you all the stories about Starbuck,’ laughed Tain.
The fawns looked very disappointed.
‘I tell you what,’ said Tain, ‘I’ll tell you a special story. Winter will be coming soon and it’s a story for the winter. Birrmagnur told it to me.’
‘Birrmagnur,’ cried the fawns delightedly. All the fawns were fond of the reindeer and they often crossed the moor to visit the small reindeer herd.
‘Yes,’ said Tain, ‘and this one is about Herne, though Birrmagnur calls him Hoern. It’s also about Urgin, the bravest and the most famous of all the reindeer.’
‘Urgin?’ said one of the fawns.
‘That’s right. There are lots of stories about Urgin. There is the story of Urgin and the first stone, and Urgin and the ford, and the day Urgin stole the magic antlers.’
‘Starbuck!’ cried a fawn. ’Urgin is Starbuck.’
The sun, which had been hidden behind a cloud for a moment, suddenly blazed down on the deer. Tain lifted his head, and just beyond the burn he caught sight of a holly bush. Its spiky green leaves were already beading with tiny red berries and Tain nodded to himself.
‘Yes, sort of,’ said Tain, ‘but the best of all the stories about him is the story of Urgin and his helper Clausar. Urgin was just as clever and brave as Starbuck but yet again his antics had angered Hoern and so the deer god sent down a terrible winter to punish his kind. It was after the time of suckling and the snow fell so heavily that there was nothing for the calves to eat.
‘But Hoern also let it be known that it was because of Urgin that the reindeer were being punished and that none of them were to help or talk to him. So Urgin wandered far and wide through the reindeer herds, and everywhere he went the reindeer turned away from him. His heart was close to breaking, for he knew that it was because of him that the herds were suffering. But what pained him most was to see the young calves starving, for Urgin loved calves above all. He was at his wits’ end but, ask as he might, none of the reindeer would help him.
‘Then, one day, he had a bold idea. If he could not ask the reindeer for help he decided he would ask the humans. Urgin knew of a man who lived on his own, away from the herds of other men, who had sometimes helped reindeer calves when he found them caught in the snow. The reindeer called him Clausar, which in their language means ‘‘the one who loves animals’’.
‘So Urgin ran as fast as he could to the valley where Clausar lived. He approached his dwelling nervously and saw him toiling in the snow. Clausar was very old and tired and he was trying to carry wood to his dwelling to make the orange light to warm his bones. He had made a large pile of wood on a sled and now he was trying to pull it. But old Clausar was too weak and tired to manage. Straight away Urgin ran up to him and turned his back to the sled and told Clausar to put a rope around his neck and tie it to the sled. Urgin knew how to talk to men as he knew how to talk to all the animals.
‘Well, Clausar was so startled that he did just as Urgin told him and soon the reindeer was pulling both the wood and Clausar across the snow. When the old man reached his home he was so grateful that he asked Urgin if there was anything he could do for him in return.
‘Now Urgin told him of the terrible winter and of how the poor calves had had nothing to eat. Clausar, who was more like a reindeer than a human, was very moved and he showed Urgin the barn where all year he had been storing up wheat. He knew he himself was very close to death and so he offered to give the wheat to the reindeer. But then Clausar suddenly looked sad, for he realized he was too old to get it to them in time.
‘At this Urgin stamped and snorted furiously, for he was bitterly angry with Hoern. Then he had another idea. He asked Clausar to pick out five straws of wheat and bind them with another straw and to divide up the whole barn like this, to make sure there was enough for each of the calves. Next he told Clausar to put them on the sled and once again to rope him to it. Then Urgin waited till Hoern and the reindeer and all the calves were asleep.
‘When he was sure that no one was watching him, he raced through the snows as fast as he could, dragging Clausar and the parcels of wheat behind him. Wherever he found a calf he stopped and Clausar would leave the wheat by the calf’s head, so that when they woke they found they had something delicious to eat.
‘Urgin and Clausar worked on and on,’ Tain continued enthusiastically, ‘but it was hard for the reindeer, pulling the old man on his own, so that when Hoern and the other reindeer awoke, he had only visited a tenth part of the herd.
‘When Hoern saw what had happened, he suspected immediately that Urgin had something to do with it and he was very angry. He went to all the male reindeer and asked them what they had seen. Now many of them had woken in the night and spied Urgin but most were too grateful to him to betray him. But ten reindeer told the deer god that it had been Urgin. The god raged and sent more snow and called on Urgin, who was hiding in the forest, to come forth and explain himself.
‘At last, fearing the storm would destroy all his good work, Urgin came out of the forest and bowed his antlers to Hoern. As the god watched him the storm died and his anger melted.
‘ ‘‘Urgin you have disobeyed me, but you did it for the calves and so I shall allow you and Clausar to finish your work,’’ he said.
‘Urgin was delighted, until he realized that he still had so much to do.
‘ ‘‘Very well,’’ said Hoern, ‘‘then as a punishment I shall rope the ten reindeer that betrayed you to Clausar’s sled and they shall pull it as swift as the wind. But you, Urgin, shall lead them, as free as the first reindeer.’’
‘This was done and soon all the calves woke in the snow to find the wheat by their side.
‘But when the great work was complete Hoern came to Urgin again.
‘ ‘‘Urgin, do not think you can get off so lightly,’’ he said, ‘‘for now, every year, you and the reindeer shall draw Clausar’s sled and bring gifts to the calves. For though Clausar is old and near death, the spirit of Hoern shall grow in him and the fur on his chin will glisten like snow and he will help you.’’
‘And so it is,’ Tain finished grandly, ‘that every year, in winter time, the reindeer bring wheat to their sleeping calves. And the calves can hardly contain their excitement, waiting for Urgin and his helper Clausar.’
The fawns looked in wonder at Tain and the storyteller smiled to himself. Above them a single star began to glint in the heavens. Larn had come once more and a light as old or as young as time itself was shining down on the herd. As the darkness came down on the Great Land a moon rose in the sky, blue and brilliant, and in its mysterious light Tain and the fawns went on talking into the evening. The only sounds drifting across the heather were the burn gurgling through the night and their laughter threading through the darkness.
So the years passed and the Herla flourished. In the High Land and the Low they roamed through the gorse and drank from the lochs and the burns. They padded through the forests and drifted across the great moors, but wherever they went, whether among the trees or to the high barren places of the Great Land, they knew that in their antlers the forest was always with them. At Anlach they fought for their mates and to lead their herds but never again did they kill one another, unless nature herself
stepped in to sap their strength through their wounds. With time and in the birth of their fawns the terrible marks that Sgorr had inflicted on the Sgorrla’s heads vanished from the herds.
The Lera also flourished. They ran free and hunted each other too, and though the strange whispering that had brought them together to fulfil a prophecy faded from the Great Land, in time to come the badger and the mole, the otter and the raven would tell each other stories and say that once all the animals had been able to understand one another, though only the creatures of the sea know the truth of it.
Man flourished also in the Great Land. Man who would fight and kill and kill again. But nevermore did the men from the north come in their tree ships to the Western Isles. For after the battle that was fought on the shores of the sea, the Great Land was talked of as Scotland and the Norsemen’s king, whose name was Haakon, sailed away to his home and grew old in his great dwelling, dreaming of the lands he had once ruled and listening to the ancient Norse sagas.
The herd had moved well to the north of the High Land and now a single stag was walking slowly along the slopes of the mountain above them, away from the deer. He was very old, nearly fifteen, and he looked tired. Although there were sixteen points on them, his antlers had long gone back. When he got to a patch of level ground he stopped and sank wearily to the earth. His muzzle was grey and his eyes were misty. Rannoch lifted his antlers towards the horizon. Across the blue, the billowing white clouds rose like mountains before him.
‘Herne is up there,’ whispered the stag to himself, ‘and Starbuck.’
Then Rannoch shook his muzzle.
‘Or is that just a story?’ he said to himself sadly, his eyes clouding over and his nostrils swamped by the complex scents around him that he could no longer interpret. ‘And am I just an animal?’
With the years everything had become so distant to the deer. The mark on his head had completely faded now. Since he had been overthrown as Lord of the Herd and Willow had gone, he felt more and more alone. But Brechin, who was already an old stag himself, was a favourite among the Captains of the Outriders. Peppa, his second calf, had her own fawns and Rannoch’s bloodline coursed strongly though the herd. Thistle would surely lead them one day.