is no question, from its gently heaving flanks to its muscled hindquarters, from its majestic antlers to its water-submerged hooves, that this is a white hart. It swings a dripping, bearded muzzle in her direction and languorously blinks. Steam fogs its nostrils.
Dilly stiffens, her thorny grip hooking another half inch through Karen’s skin. Karen stands rooted to the spot. The birthmarks between her thighs start to tingle.
And that’s when she knows: this hart, this flesh-and-blood impossibility from fantasia, is a sign from the benevolent, world-weary God she so recently scoffed. It is a sign that He knows she is avoiding her Destiny, that it pains Him deeply. A sign that it is high time she begins doing something about it.
With a choked cry, Karen spins around to flee. She promptly slips on a rock, twists her ankle, and crumples to the ground.
As soon as the woman appears, ginger hair puffed from her head like quills from an enraged porcupine, neck engulfed by a fluffy white muff, Moey expects the stag to run. Instead, it merely lowers its head to the pool and sucks in a huge draft of water.
Oblivious to the stag’s presence, the woman continues to rock-hop along the creek bank across from Moey, drawing steadily closer. In an attempt to get her attention without startling the stag, Moey tosses another, then another stick into the water.
Plop! Plop!
She stops and looks up. Stiffens. Even in the gloom, Moey can see the shock on her pale face as she stares at the stag.
The stag slowly lifts its head from the pool and lazily swings its great neck in her direction. Steam puffs from its nostrils. With a raven-like croak, the woman turns around, hurls her neck muff towards the nearest bush, and flings herself upon the rocky ground.
A second of silence passes.
“Dilly!” the woman cries, and one of her pale hands rises from the rock bed and waves frantically at the muff. “Dilly, come back!”
Moey gawks at the woman as she flounders on the creek bank, trying to get to her feet. An anguished cry brings her to her knees again, a cry Moey knows all too well from the boxing ring: a broken bone given a voice. Leaping to his feet, he clambers to the creek’s edge and splashes towards the opposite bank.
Had it been winter or spring or even later in the fall, fording the creek would have been as safe as a blind man crossing a freeway during rush hour. However, it is early autumn, when, thirsted into submission after a dry summer and not yet replenished by the rains of late fall, the creek is at its lowest and most fordable. Moey reaches the woman’s side in minutes.
“My cat,” she moans, clutching her ankle. “My cat.”
A foreign tourist, Moey thinks.
“No, that’s your ankle,” he corrects gently, kneeling beside her. “Let me see if it’s broken. Broken, you know?” He pantomimes breaking a stick in two. “Crack!”
Groaning, she permits him to remove the sandal and sock on her left foot. The swelling there and her squeal of pain at his prodding tell Moey all he needs to know.
“Broken,” he says smugly. “Thought so.”
“Broken? But what about my cat?”
“Your ...?”
She stabs a finger towards the bushes. “My cat. She took off in that direction. She can’t be out here at night. The coyotes will get her.”
He blinks at the bushes, and it slowly dawns on him that she’s talking — in English — about her neck muff, or what he thought was a neck muff. It’s a cat. And the woman is obviously no foreigner.
“Could you find me a stick to lean on, please? I have to find her.”
“I don’t think you should walk on that foot —”
“But I have to find my cat!”
Moey shifts. “Look, I, uh, can carry you to my car and drive you to the hospital —”
“But my cat!”
“After I help find your cat.”
“Oh. That would be ... thank you.”
Unnoticed by them both, the white hart slips between the trees and disappears.
“Dillyillyilly,” Karen croons.
A tentative meow sounds from a bush in front of them, slightly to their left. Karen gestures in that direction. “Could you carry me over there?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the man nods and picks her up. Despite the agony in her foot, Karen is very aware of the strength in his arms and the muscles of his chest, which is pressed against her cheek. His knee joints pop like embers exploding in a fire as he straightens.
Moving with painstaking care, the man steps from rock to rock until he reaches the spongy forest floor. “Okay?” he grunts as he sets her down.
She closes her eyes briefly against the hot, throbbing pain in her ankle. “I’m fine.” Then, lightening her tone, she murmurs to the bush, “Come here, Dilly. Good kitty.”
But the bush remains immobile.
“She’s hiding,” the man says glumly.
“She’s scared. I’ll have to go in and get her. Could you help me kneel?”
He glances at her foot, opens his mouth to protest, then claps it shut again. With a nod he helps her kneel.
The pain in Karen’s ankle makes her head spin, and she bites her lip to keep from crying out and scaring Dilly away. Damp peat seeps through her skirt onto her kneecaps. Slowly, she crawls into the slimy bracken. A twig snags her hair. A slug elongates beneath her left palm. Something clammy plasters itself across her forehead. She jerks, stifles a curse, shakes off the slug under her hand, and brushes away the leaf on her forehead. A thorn stabs her right knee.
Dilly’s white form bobs into view a few feet ahead of her. “Dilly, good kitty, come to Mommy.” Karen reaches out gingerly, and Dilly tenses. Mentally ringing the cat’s neck, Karen continues to coo soothingly. Gradually, she is allowed to stroke a furry cheek, to slide her fingers around the scruff. She grabs hold tightly.
“Got you, you miserable beast,” she grunts, dragging Dilly towards her and shoving the struggling cat up inside her sweater. The cat’s furry head pops out alongside her neck. They stare at each other, cat and human, eye to eye. Dilly’s tail sweeps back and forth across Karen’s stomach. Claws extend into her bosom.
“Don’t even think about it,” Karen whispers.
The cat’s mouth opens in plaintive protest, but Karen pushes the head back down into her sweater. With one hand firmly hugging Dilly against herself, she backs up. Unfortunately, this reverse motion catches the rear hem of her skirt under her knees. Her skirt begins a jerky, steady migration down her buttocks. She stops, tries to lift one knee to free her skirt. The shift of weight causes an excruciating blast of pain up her injured leg.
“Oh, hell!” she cries, and Dilly writhes vigorously.
