The River and the Antler

I walked down the steep bank next to the old arched bridge, crossed the stile and stopped, my senses saturated by the openness beyond.

The fresh cold winter air wrapped around me borne by a gentle breeze. Knobbly fields in all shades of green expanded out to my right, telegraph lines cutting paths across them on industrious errands.

The river to my left babbled, happy to be out of the city limits too, increasing its flow from a lazy walking pace to a carefree skip.

The brilliant blue, cloudless sky presided over all in a humbling infinite stretch.

I took a deep cold breath and sprung down the muddy path, following the curves of the river closely, like a lover. Birds sang melodies across each other into the clear sky, forming a song with the hiss of cars and the rumble of a train engine from the far bank.

I was out of the city, but civilization was still evident. I longed for it to be less-so. I pressed on.

The path was framed with grasses, small hardy bushes and small trees. The occasional larger tree, alders and oaks and others I couldn't name, grew on the banks stretching their arms over the river. Some even leaned into the water, with branch arms and twig fingers fishing with infinite patience.

After a while, I began to pass piles of sticks, on and around the banks of the river, with some even on the path itself. Some were large and some fairly small, but all were neat (or as neat as a heap could reasonably be). Some had bits of plastic detritus nestled within them - a dash of white or green peeking from within the thatch, or perched brazenly on top.

My first instinct was that these must have been formed by floodwater somehow, but that didn't quite seem feasible. They seemed too neat, and some of the plastic objects seemed placed almost with purpose. Perhaps they had been built, for some unknown function.

I imagined I could see an insular community of shy humanoid creatures, living along the river bank in tree trunks and earthen holes. I imagined them spread out across the banks and surrounding fields, working dutifully collecting loose branches and bringing them back to their piles, dropping everything and hiding when humans pass. I imagined them finding plastics washed up by the river and gleefully returning them to their piles, a focal point to make theirs stand out from their neighbours.

I quickly turned my head to survey the far bank, hoping to catch a glimpse of these creatures before they could hide. I saw nothing. Clearly these "River Goblins", as I had come to think of them, were skilled at hiding. I continued on, but it took a few minutes before I could shake the slightly uneasy feeling that I was being watched.

I came to a charmingly rustic stile that stood before a small copse of naked winter trees on the river's edge. I crossed the stile and was enveloped in the sacred hush of the trees. The noise of traffic was now almost inaudible, leaving just me, the river and birdsong.

As I walked amongst the trees, I could feel the calming quiet drawing the stress from my body. The hush gave the grove a reverential feel, as though it might be a chapel to some unknown deity of nature.

I observed sadly that there were still a few signs of the city even in this holy place - the ubiquitous sheen of plastic was visible in bottles and packaging peeking from thickets of blackthorn. The luminous blue of a single-use carrier bag caught my eye, flapping around an Alder branch in the wind.

I wondered if the piles of branches made by the River Goblins were perhaps offerings or shrines, linked somehow to this place?

I wandered on the path for some time. I can't say exactly how long because I was entranced by the calm and felt utterly relaxed. My whole mind was watching the wind rattling the branches, listening to the blackbirds and great tits and wrens. Catching the earthen smells of trees and healthy natural musk of the river.

I came to a way marker that diverted the path away from the banks of the river and out of the copse, into the field beyond. I looked for one last time to the river and copse, taking it all in and etching it into my mind. Wistfully, I turned away and set out along the path, out onto the rough blend of bumps and greens of the wild field beyond.

Out of the sacred shelter of the copse, the wind returned with a vengeance, blowing needles through me, quickly turning my hands to stone. I stuffed them into my pockets and hunched against the cold, already missing the shelter of the trees.

The path tracked away towards a line of trees on the other side of the field, becoming nearly invisible as it stretched further into the field, obscured by the grasses. The trail was less well-trodden here and the going was tougher, but manageable. I followed it to a stile, hidden by a tangle of bramble and hawthorn.

The stile had an unusual contraption attached, a sort of small gate operated by pulling a string - clearly designed for letting small animals pass through. It warmed my heart to see that a farmer had gone to this trouble for our canine friends. It was only after passing over that I realised with a pang of stupidity that it was probably made for sheep.

The next field was more of a small bog than a field. The ground rose and fell like an unmade bedsheet, interspersed with marsh grasses, muddy churns and pools. The path disappeared in the bog, but another stile was just visible on the other side. I set out unsteadily towards that, mud sucking at my shoes with every other step.

I passed close to one of the pools. The perfect, still reflected sky peered back at me, shifting around as I shifted around it. When I was close enough to be almost on top of it, the sky suddenly disappeared, replaced by the deep brown of the muddy bottom and vibrant flashes of green life. Some tiny, brand new plants growing at the edges of the pool, alien-looking in the way that pond plants are. I stooped closer to get a better look.

They swayed slightly as if caressed by a current, though the pool seemed perfectly still otherwise. I watched for a while but no source for the mysterious swaying presented itself. I decided that it could remain a minor mystery and set off towards the stile again.

As I got closer, the dilapidated nature of the stile revealed itself. It was in bad disrepair and there was in fact no fence around it. A slight ditch delineated the edge of the field, filled with mud and shallow undisturbed water. Unwilling to test the strength of the stile, I sidled between it and the ditch into another field beyond.

This field was flatter again, and relatively dry. No more marsh grasses. The path was faint, but visible, and just crossed the corner of the field. I started along it, glad for the comparatively easy ground.

I had gone a few steps when my eyes were drawn to a great felled bough, lying towards the center of the field. It was around thirty feet long, with many branches splitting from it again and again as they twisted up a good twenty feet into the sky.

The bough must have lain there for some time, it was bleached dry, but looked very strong. I took in its sheer size with awe for a while, until a question itched its way out from the back of my mind.

Where had this bough come from?

Glancing around the field, there were a few large oak trees on the edges of the field but none so large that this giant could have grown from them.

I pondered possibilities for a while when a vision of a creature entered my mind from somewhere, and it felt right.

I saw a giant stag, large enough to step gracefully over the hedgerows and leap the trees. It had strong, smooth bark-like skin and ancient, almond eyes, radiating a deep and animal wisdom. Its antlers were huge boughs with twisting branches reaching out, so large that simply holding its head up should have been impossible.

The antlers were exactly like the great bough now lying heavily in the grasses of this field. I imagined this one must have been shod by this Magnificent Stag at some point in the past, exactly as normal stags do with the changing of the seasons.

I surveyed the landscape and imagined it stalking, silently, majestically across it. Invisible to humans by some intuition or magic, and entirely unafraid - because what predators could something so large and ethereal have? What creature would want to harm something so majestic and intense even if it could?

With a bolt of intuition, I realised that the piles of sticks and plastics constructed by the River Goblins were shrines to this Stag Deity. The copse belonged to it, too. Everything slid into place in my mind with a satisfying, almost audible click.

I stood, silently basking in the reverence of the giant antler for a while longer, taking in the curves and reaching branches with a new respect.

Eventually, the cold interrupted my reverie, and with a final nostalgic glance, I turned my head and carried on into the next field.

The next few fields passed by in a blur. It wasn't that my attention wandered into my thoughts - quite the opposite, it was more like I stopped thinking entirely and simply was, out there with the grasses and the trees and the birds and the sky. I was aware of everything around me, and peaceful. There were no obligations and there was nothing to do other than be in the world.

My walk in the copse earlier had been similar but less intense, a mere prelude to the feeling of oneness after my encounter with the antler of the Stag.

I came into contact with civilization again on the edge of a small village, and the feeling began to fade, replaced gradually by the usual hopes and worries of civilized life.

As I walked through the village I saw people unloading shopping from their cars, pottering about their houses and gardens on self-contained errands, apparently unaware of the awesome natural wonders minutes from their doorsteps.

Even though the feeling faded, its shadow stayed with me and is with me still, weeks later. A warm sense of peace and contentment that can be summoned when I think of the River and the Antler.