Oh Deer

Chapter 1

"steam-carts" are what we deer call the newly built train engines that divide our home of Whitetail Woods. Many decades before my birth, ponies began creating lengthy railroads to connect their large cities, without seeming to regard our home. My mother told me countless stories about the haunting train whistle, the chug of the giant, clanky freight carts riding into the night, the ghostly bright headlight that peered into your soul like a singular, looming eye.

Before that, my mother told me about how the woods were once all connected, that it was fairly easy to visit your relatives in separate villages, and how the thicket of the woods never seemed to end no matter which way you looked.

Then, My mother told me about how most of the trees were cut down for lumber. How the overwhelming abundance of construction ponies took lodge in our huts without our permission, some even calling us names, like "grass-chewers", or "blank-flanks". At age five, I remember when my mother was berated by a few hunky construction stallions for simply refusing to give up her hut. As a result, she was shoved and spat at, and I merely watched from the corner.

I was birthed as Swirling Cinnamon in a large deer tribe in the heart of Whitetail Woods, aptly named after my race. My father was the chief of the tribe, and my mother was the one to raise me for all of those years when he never showed his face. He was "strong and humble", gaining the respect "deserved" in his tribe. However, he proved to have the strongest disinterest in raising me, and he will never gain my respect.

My mother told me how he had changed since they first got together. She told me how, one day, he had found a settlement of different ungulates just outside of Whitetail Woods… ponies. He grew to really like these ponies and their "sophisticated" ways, their advanced architecture, their pungent industrialization. He even encouraged ponies to build the long steam-cart tracks through his land.

My mother, even after the rail-roads were built, crossed them like they were never there. She completely denied their existence. Even if, oftentimes, she would trip over the thick metal tracks from time to time.

The ponies were at least generous enough to give us the train's schedule, so us deer would know when they would pass by. I remembered that one would pass by in the morning, in the afternoon, and in the evening, just before dark. However, one time, the ponies had extra cargo to ship, thus requiring them to ride at the wake of night. Midnight.

I remember being woken up in the middle of the night by the blaring train whistle as the freight carts whizzed by, shaking the ground, blowing dust through my bedroom window. I remember shivering in my bed as my ten-year-old self thought that monsters were going to stomp on my hut. It happened twice, and the second time was followed by a piercing shriek.

I remembered being startled by the sudden scream, shivering and sweating in my bed in the midst of midnight. The next day, I found out that a doe had been run over by the train tracks. I remember seeing a group of deer huddled around the train tracks where it happened, I remember seeing the body of the doe, split into two, cut finely down the middle.

Since then, there were no more train accidents as tall wooden fences were built alongside the tracks, further making it difficult to cross them. I'm sure it would have cost the ponies too much to build a crossway.

The tracks showed us that we were not in power of our home land, and that something much greater was at play. The ponies wanted the land for themselves, and, for the most part, they got it, and we deer could only watch in despair. Eventually, though, something else would further cause us to develop a feeling of fear and danger within our ownhome land.

Timber wolves. I still know very little of their origins, but they are said to have been brought here... on purpose... because they were apparently so few in numbers, that they could all fit in a five-hoof large pen. Eventually, after the ponies took them into captivity, they were released once again into the "Everfree Forest", which was actually Whitetail Woods, instead. Apparently, this happened about two centuries ago.

Our woods, granted, are quite gigantic. They span far through the west, and connect, or, were connected with the Everfree Forest. However, both woods had lost their connection way before my birth due to much needed pony lumber supply.

Upon their release, the wolves first appeared in the far east section of the woods, then slowly grew in numbers, spreading through the woods all the while developing a strong liking for deer hide.

It was a regular afternoon. Our village was filled with the typical wholesome and cheerful energy that radiated all throughout. From one hut to the next, from one deer to the other. Our vendor friend, Long-Tail, the father of my best friend, Reed-Tail, was trading some freshly-knit garments for some fresh bowls of maple-leaf stew. I saw a stag playing with his yearling daughter, passing a ball to her and her passing it back. I saw a young, energetic deer couple running together while laughing and giggling. Suddenly, we heard a strange sound in the distance, a howl. The first few howls were not enough to disturb the peace, but eventually, they got so loud that the whole village was swept by confusion and silence.

Soon, before we knew it, we are bombarded by gigantic, wooden timberwolves. Their skin was rough, scaly, and a dark, burnt color. Their eyes glowed a piercing, menacing green, their mouths and jaws were adorned with rows and rows of twisted, jagged, razor sharp teeth. They arrived in a pack of eight or so, but they were more than enough to nearly wipe out our entire village.

We scrambled to safety. We ran, we screamed, we hid in our huts. Some made it to their huts, some didn’t. Some of us saw our friends and family die in front of our eyes in the jaws of these wolves, only able to watch in terror as they were torn into pieces. At the same time, we waited endlessly for our chief to do something. To fight back, to help. But, he had already left. He left before the wolves even appeared. My father left me and my mother for dead.

I hid in my hut, twenty or so other deer found safety in my hut, but none of the twenty were my mother. I grew frantic, I searched for her endlessly. I tried to leave the hut, but a stag pulled me by my small antlers and shouted, “Do you want to be eaten too???” with shaky fear in his voice. At one point, a frantic doe mother screamed in terror out the window, possibly at her yearling. She even shouted at them to run to our hut, but considering how her screams eventually changed from desperation to absolute devastation and anguish, I can assume that it was too late for the yearling.

Soon, the wolves were seemingly satisfied, and promptly left the village. We all remained hidden and silent in the hut for several minutes afterwards. Eventually, we all came out again, one by one, once we all thought it was safe again.

For several minutes, the village was dead silent, as deer were still exiting their huts in petrified fear. Then, the village was filled with anguish cries and songs of sorrow upon the devastating bloodshed before them that was once their family. I saw fathers hold their dead daughters. I saw spouses holding each other, I saw friends crying together. I saw stags rushing to help, I saw doe's running home. I saw a doe, legless, being carried to her hut while screaming in shrill agony.

I saw my mother. Strangely, she was the most in-tact of all of the deer. Not a chunk was bitten off of her. “Mother..?” I wept. A part of me thought that she was only playing dead, as she appeared to be unscathed. I kneeled down to her, she was still alive, though barely

“Cinnamon…” she smiled, her voice rippling, her eyes distant and faded. I saw her neck, or rather, the large gash across it. I saw her face getting paler, her smile fading. I tried carrying her back to the hut with the help of another stag, but she was gone before we knew it.

My father? Nowhere to be seen. I never saw him again after that day. To be fair, I never really saw him at all throughout my yearling-hood.

That day, he had taught me something so valuable that I will forever carry it through my years, and that is to never trust him again.

He failed to protect our tribe, he failed to protect me and my mother, all he did was leave us behind. My mother died because of his arrogance and lack of empathy. If he had never left, my mother would probably still be alive. Instead he proved to be a fake leader, a fake chief. A fake father. He never stood for what being a chief meant, and he never bothered to bat an eye.

However, I still don't believe that it was all entirely his fault. I believe the industrious ponies had a large influence on him, somehow making him believe that large buildings and steam-carts are "the way of the future". That, whatever the ponies did, we deer should do, too.

That day of the timber wolf attack, about thirty deer had died. nine of which were stags defended their yearlings and their spouses. The rest were yearlings and spouses… unprotected… such as my mother.

After that, the remaining deer no longer found a reason to stay. The grieving wives and mothers of the deceased stags felt like they had no choice but to leave the village. The grieving fawns no longer felt the need to hold on to something that was already lost. In under three years, sixty deer had left the village, most of the huts were taken down and their materials brought with the deer. The remaining standing huts were left to rot out. By my twenty-fourth birthday, another twenty had left. Soon, Our village was reduced to mere remnants of what we once were as a community.

Soon, I found out that our tribe was one of the last to be vanquished by timber wolves, and one of the last to be disbanded. The nearby villages had already faced their ultimate destruction long ago. However, I still want to believe that all of those tribes still had a better leader than my father ever was.

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Having collected thirty-three years in my life, I actually found myself learning more about life as I got older. Many deer like to boast about reaching thirty, they love to flex their knowledge onto any deer they could find. But I’m different. I found myself growing more humble the older I got.

I woke up today like every day for the past two decades… alone. I laid in my straw bed in silence, thinking extensively. A lone song bird sang peaceful tunes outside. I heard the ruffling leaves in the wind, then I heard a train whistle in the distance.

Decades later and the steam-carts still ride down those rails, three times a day, every day. Sometimes, they would not operate on holidays, pony holidays. But only sometimes.

The rails are no different from several decades ago, apart from a few new specs of rust along the edges of the rails. The posted sign of the schedule is now rotted out, leaning on one side.

I have found a passion and interest in weaving around my twenties, and I would begin making quilts, robes, and baskets for my deer friends and neighbors. Unfortunately, there aren’t many deer left to give them to, but, I still create, and that puts my mind at peace.

Although our village is pretty much vacant at this point, there are still a few loyal deer that still call this village home. My best friend, Reed-Tail, being one of them. He still lives in his hut with his grandmother, and never bothered to leave. Most of his immediate family had left after the wolf attacks, but Reed and his grandmother stayed behind.

Next to him, another deer couple lives in a separate hut. They have a young stag, and they are expecting another anytime soon. I even began making a basket for the little fawn when they will be born.

Finally, there is a lone, peculiar doe, Sap-Joy, who lives right across from me in a tiny, disheveled hut. Back in the day, she would be often picked on for having the ugliest and smallest hut in the village.

Sap-Joy is Reed's cousin, and they often hang out... a lot. Reed and Sap-Joy are part of the largest family in our village. Sap-Joy alone had four other siblings, all of which were stags.

Three of her brothers died during yearling-hood, and her fourth, closest brother soon died as well to a severe disease. Despite her several tragedies, Sap-Joy had gained a strong resilience, but also a dense head.

I visit Reed-Tail everyday. Sometimes twice a day. Reed and I connected as soon as we met, on an almost spiritual level. He was always a little rowdy as a yearling, and he still is to some extent, but he and I connect in such a way that is quite hard to compete with.

After my very minimal breakfast consisting of a few leaves and twigs, I would head to his house. as I walked down the winding dirt path that connected each and every hut to each other, I felt more and more disassociated with the fact that this village was once bustling with energy and joyful life.