By Stefan Vučak
“Something my old grandfather told me once,” my grandpa began as he puffed on a cherrywood pipe and rocked in his favourite rickety chair.
“A beautiful maiden,” he started, “often frequented a nearby forest filled with all sorts of wildlife. Long, corn-coloured hair fell to her slim waist. Large blue eyes sparkled with laughter and the joy of being alive. Youths from nearby villages came to court her, but the tall, willowy maid repulsed them all, much to the lament of the youths. Of course, this raised all sorts of gossip, and mothers wanting their son to marry the maid speculated what may be wrong with her. Some even considered her a witch. When the women demanded to know why the maid never wed, her mother paid them no never mind, which only fuelled further speculation. The maid ignored the gossip, the barbed innuendos, and lived a carefree life, preferring the company of her forest friends.
“No one knew where the maid went when she disappeared into the forest or what she did there, and those who followed her often got lost. She sometimes came home with scratches on her long, supple legs and slim arms, and her parents scolded her. How can she hope to attract a boy looking like that, they said. The scratches came from branches and shrubs, she explained cheerfully, eyes dancing with inner fire.
“My grandpa said he loved to hunt. He regularly brought home a hare, wild boar, or a deer, always welcomed at the farmhouse by his wife.”
“One sunny autumn afternoon, his worn Jager percussion rifle slung across the shoulder, a large leather rucksack to hold any game he may catch, he pecked his plump wife on the cheek and declared he would be back in time for dinner. She did not mind grandpa’s wanderings, knowing he never left chores undone.
“He took a familiar worn trail into the forest, and after some time, the warm sun flickering between old birch, oak, and poplar, he took a meandering track that led to a meadow with a small lake tucked against a hillside. He liked the place, one of his favourites, as animals often came to graze on the lush grass and drink, and generally managed to shoot something. Even when he did not, he enjoyed sitting at the forest edge, taking an occasional swig of wine from a flask, and listening contentedly to the soft buzz of insects as swallows swooped low over the sleepy meadow.
“Suddenly, a graceful doe emerged from the trees some forty metres on his right. She paused, lifted her slender neck, sniffed the air, and slowly made her way toward the lake. Every now and then, she stopped and turned her head, on lookout for possible danger. Satisfied, she walked through the tall grass with small, mincing steps.
“Grandpa never saw such a beautiful deer, and watched the doe in rapt fascination as she approached the lake. At possibly fifty kilos, she would provide welcomed fresh venison for the table. He picked up the rifle and aimed at the doe’s chest. A quick kill, the animal would not suffer. As he took up the trigger slack, the doe turned and looked directly at him. Even from some 150 metres, he saw her large blue eyes, something most unusual. He took a deep breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger.
“The sharp crack caused startled birds into flight, and two hares bounded into thickets across the meadow. Without a sound, the doe dropped to the ground. Grandpa raced through the grass to inspect his kill.
“Chest heaving, he slowed and gaped in shock at what he saw. He dropped the rifle and stared in startled wonder as the graceful doe turned into a naked young woman, golden hair spilled across full breasts. Bright blood oozed from a wound in the centre of her chest. He thought she looked at him then, not with accusation, but resigned acceptance. Then the light faded from her eyes. As he stared at the village maid, her form shimmered, became transparent, and faded. Gradually, the flattened grass rose where she had lain.
“Grandfather said he felt his eyes sting and hot tears warmed his cheeks. He knelt beside the spot where the woman laid and sobbed, his heart tearing with pain. He begged forgiveness, knowing the forest had claimed the strange maid. Whether she heard him or not, he thought he saw her enchanting young face, eyes alive with laughter, rosy lips open in a broad smile. Perhaps she did forgive him, because he felt the load of guilt roll off his chest and he stood up with a lighter heart. He took a deep breath and let it out with a soft hiss as he wiped his face with a calloused hand.
“He cradled the worn rifle and wearily made his way toward the forest and home, the years heavy on his shoulders. For a long time afterward, the villagers often talked about the strange young maid and wondered what happened to her. A search through the forest revealed an ankle-long green dress the maid once wore, neatly draped across a low branch. Some said she ran away with a youth from another village, but nobody knew for certain.
“Later, grandfather declared roughly that he never went hunting again, and the old rifle remained mounted above the fireplace. On long winter afternoons, he sat before the flickering flames and stared at the gun. His wife often asked why he never hunted, sensing something unusual happened on that fateful autumn day, but he refused to say.”
Finished, my grandpa quietly puffed on his pipe.
About the Author
Stefan Vučak is a Melbourne-based author who transitioned from a high-level IT career in project management and strategic consulting to full-time writing. His professional background includes implementing cellphone systems in the Middle East.
He is the creator of the eight-book Shadow Gods Saga and several award-winning thrillers, including Strike for Honor, All the Evils, and Cry of Eagles. Vučak is also a reviewer and editor who supports established and emerging writers. His latest work, Broken Rose, explores turbulent family relationships, love, and betrayal. Across his diverse portfolio, Vučak blends technical expertise with human drama and geopolitical tension.
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