Whiskers twitch. Eyes and ears scan for the slightest trace of danger, though it is said the senses are of little use against this dark beast.
Three have fallen in quick succession. Struck down without warning.
All that is heard is a CRACK. Followed shortly by a drop, then a dull thud.
Thankfully this monster that roams the woods is a creature I have control over. It was I who introduced it. I call him,
'The Black Death'.
 |
| The first to fall to 'The Black Death' HW97kt .177 synthetic. |
I need not seek them. They come to me, and The Black Death wakes from his slumber to perform his vocation with a talent shared by few.
They want my nuts.
They want my berries;
 |
| The early, if premature fruits of nature. |
This clash of wants (mixed with my flawed notion of possession, as though such a thing were even possible) is the bringer of their destruction. The human digestive system, so evolved that it will process nut, berry or flesh, singularly, or for a very tasty dish, collectively.
There is no need for emotion. No justification required. No serious excuses concocted. Food and Death are woven together to fuel the tapestry of Life. It matters not what fodder you deem fit to dine on. Cut a leaf, and life will expire.
 | ||
| An RWS Supermag 9.4gr .177, 5x magnification, barely 4 yards up, 2.5 mildots holdover. |
I have my own personal rituals that assuage any guilt the mind may wreak when my servant takes life at my biding. Ironically, it was as I thanked the lifeless form of this creature in my hands, stroking her fur and softly urging her to find her gods and leave this world, that another presented itself.
Both were oblivious to my presence. The second stayed hidden and elusive until, after much patient observation, a clear shot finally presented itself. The head was obscured, so up through the armpit and into the heart the Supermag was delivered, as directed, by the HW97kt.
The flat headed pellet makes for rather bloody kills, but none have survived such a traumatic blow and that is comforting.
Whilst I may be the master of 'The Black Death', with power to determine the time of the demise of these beings, I do not rule the skies. After the meat is consumed, the Gods of the heavens have made honouring these animals through the preservation of their skins, very challenging. Rain is a blessing, however, when the ambient temperature is too warm to warrant a fire inside, and outside it is wet with precious little covered space, pelts quickly rot. When the signs this has happened occur, it is with a tinge of sadness they are offered to the Earth.
For now I keep a weather eye, the other, in the Trees.
