“No, hold,” said the sergeant-in-arms to the crossbowman. “First let them watch their god die.”

 

He sat on the great stone in the clearing.

Arriving, we went first to greet him: to kiss his hand, and receive his blessing.

When all had gathered, he rose and raised his arms: so naked, so tall. Between his antlers, constellations wheeled.

The bolt took him just below the breastbone.

He fell like a star out of heaven.

 

We wailed.

Our sabbat interrupted, we scattered into the forest.

 

Thus we did not see the antlers' rearing-up, nor the rising again on the altar; the soldiers' amazement, nor their hot pursuit.

In this way, he drew them off, and so we were saved. Into the woods he led them, nor did one of us fail to reach home safely.

But the soldiers stumbled blindly through the trees all night, bewildered and hopelessly lost.

 

After all, he is Lord of the Trees, as they say.

No one knows the forest like him.

 

Based on the Robin of Sherwood episode,

Lord of the Trees,

by Richard Carpenter

1984