The Justice of Animals

A Fae Tale of Mercia

Lean close, and I will tell you a secret story, of violence and cruelty, and the wickedness of men.

A fairy tale it may be, but ‘tis not fit for the ears of children. I am old, and things long-known are not easily forgotten. Now you will not forget either.

There was once a hunter who went by the name of Rinler, though his true name was hidden. He lived alone in the forest, and he loved nothing more than to range out into the wilds, trapping, shooting, killing and skinning. Every few days he would return to his hut with a brace of birds tied around his neck, or a young deer strapped to his shoulder.

One day, he followed a badger track and found himself in a part of the woods that was unfamiliar to him. The trees grew wild and tall, and the path he walked seemed to whisper secrets, as though it knew his way better than he did.

As he walked, he heard a voice calling to him from the undergrowth.

“Man,” the voice said, sweet as clover. “Man, come to me.”

Rinler wished more than anything to follow the voice, but he had good sense, so he remained on the path and made his way back to his hut. That day he caught no animals and made a meal of bread from his storeroom.

But that night, he heard the voice, calling to him in his dreams.

“Man,” it said. “Why won’t you come to me?”

And so, well before dawn, when the moon was still up, he woke and walked. His feet found the path they had trod before, and the moon shone down and pooled in the spaces between the trees like metal.

He came to the hidden path, but though he searched he could not find the owner of the voice. He lay down at last in a clearing like a fawn and covered himself over with dried leaves.

The next morning he awoke with a start to find a woman lying in the crook of his arm. She was naked as the moon but for a crest of white feathers that graced her neck and she smelt sweeter than the first spring rain. He lay very still, not wishing to disturb her. After a time, she opened her eyes and glanced around a though seeing for the first time.

“Man, you are welcome here,” she said.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Who I am is not important, but know that I am bound by the Court of Animals.”

“Come away with me,” he said.

“I cannot,” she said. “Not until the time is right and I am unbound. You may visit me every day, but you must wait until I am free before you may make me yours. Until that day:”

I may not live in your hut, I will not eat your food, I must not bear your children.

Rinler went away dissatisfied, but promised to return the next night. And so he did. Each night he came to her, and each night she bade him come back to her the next, for each time her hour had not yet come.

But the hunter was not a patient man. One night he came to the clearing early. He set a snare, saying some words he knew to make it hold but not kill, and when he returned he found a white swan, caught by the wing, flapping and struggling there in his trap.

“Man, what have you done?” said the swan, and at once it became the woman that he knew.

But the hunter would not answer her. Instead, he tightened the cord around her arm and dragged her, half bird, half woman, flapping and biting along behind him, back to his little hut.

When they reached the hut, she lingered outside, for a bird will not enter a house willingly.

“I may not live in your hut,” she said.

But he pulled hard on the cord, and dragged her in, then shut and barred the door.

“Man,” she cried. “You must release me, for I am not yours to keep.”

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But her words only made him angry. He struck her and knocked her to the ground, then he went out to hunt, leaving her bloodied and sobbing on the dirt floor.

When he returned many hours later, carrying a brace of wild ducks he found her lying in a pool of her own tears. She looked up at him with reddened eyes.

“I may not eat your food,” she whispered, for as everyone knows, it is an abomination for a royal swan to eat its own kind.

But Rinler would not listen. He cooked up the ducks into a stew, then forced the food into her, holding her mouth shut until she had to swallow, speaking all the time into her ear:

“You will be mine. I will make you mine.”

After some time, night fell. She huddled in the corner, sobbing and retching, and watching him make ready for the night.

“I must not bear your children,” she said quietly.

I will not tell what happened next, save as to say that the animals are right to fear us, for we are worse than them by far.

The next morning, when he awoke, the window was open and she was gone. He ran to the door, and saw a speck of white, moving fast across the sky. He grabbed his bow and shot at her, seeking to wing her, but the swan was agile and the arrow passed wide.

Muttering curses, Rinler set out on foot, following the direction she had gone. He was a good hunter and could listen to the wind and the weave of the world, but even he could not track a swan in flight.

But the bird did not streak off into the distance. Instead, it wheeled in the air, always allowing him to catch up as though she wanted him to follow her, as though she were leading him on a dance.

Each time he came within bowshot he would loose an arrow, but each time she would turn in the air and glide away, until he had but a few arrows left.

Hours stretched into days and even weeks. He slept under leaves and rose with the dawn. The path whispered beneath his feet, as though it knew his way better than he did, and all the forest cried out for justice, though he had not the ears to hear it. The trees grew wilder and the sun darkened until it hung, black and cold as a spent ember in the roiling sky, but he did not notice this either, for his intent was darker than the sky and blacker than coal.

Sometimes she was lost to his sight for hours, days, but still the path whispered to him, and the trees cried out for vengeance as he ran onwards towards his doom.

Until, at long last, he came into a clearing where the swan lay waiting for him. Quickly, he seized the bird, pinned it between his legs and held the strong beating wings tight between his knees. Then he felt along the wings for the long bones, and snapped then between his finger and thumb, so that she could not fly again.

“Now you are mine,” he said.

Only then did he see the child that she guarded.

Oh, but she was a beautiful child, with a white crest like her mother, and lights that danced in her eyes, and she looked up at her father with a mixture of innocence and loathing, as though she knew him for what he was, and wished only to be a piece of his undoing.

Rinler saw none of this, for he was a fool. His heart melted at the sight of the girl, his daughter, and he did not sense the danger. The mother's eyes were hooded and cruel, for she knew the justice that waited for him, and she held the girl tight with her broken hands.

And then, into the clearing came the animals.

There were partridges, ducks and swans, rabbits, otters, deer, elk, and even a great black bear. Every animal Rinler had ever killed but not eaten. Every creature he had ever wounded for sport and left to die alone, for she had led him into the Court of Animals, and now he would answer to the wild.

There were other animals too. Animals that stayed at the edges, where the dark shadows pooled. Shapeless things with hanging black flesh, banded with bone and metal. Narrow creatures that disappeared when they turned sideways.

The animals all jumped and skittered nervously, but they did not flee away. A great stag with spreading white antlers presided over the court, and to Rinler, it was as though it spoke to him, bright and cold as fresh melted snow, though really it was the wild itself that spoke.

“Man,” it said. “you have come into the court of the animals. Do you know your crimes?”

Rinler shook his head, for still, he did not understand his nature. He tried to walk away, but the animals pressed against him and pushed him back.

He knelt by the broken swan. “Tell me how to get away,” he said. “Tell me now, so we may be together.”

But she would not speak, no matter how many times he struck her, and even when he cried she was not moved. And still the stag stood, looking down at him.

Then Rinler took his knife and began striking at the animals, trying to undo the spell. He killed rabbits and deer, ducks and geese. They died in their hundreds until Rinler stood at the center of a wall of bodies. Blood soaked his clothes and clotted in his hair. Blood filled his eyes and he could not see, and he struck blindly, over and over but even now he felt the eyes of the forest upon him, the spell unbroken, and always there were more animals pressing in.

“Justice,” they chattered, and they fell towards him until he felt he were wading through a sea of mice and rabbits that rubbed against his legs and crunched beneath his boots.

Then suddenly all was still, and when the blood cleared from his eyes, he saw, lying across the heap, his wife and daughter, dead from a hundred knife wounds, their white feathers stained red, and the small animals withdrew as though shocked by what they had seen.

Rinler’s strength left him. He suddenly understood what he was, and what his life had brought about, and he wanted no part in the tapestry anymore. He lay down, still and meek, accepting the judgement of the wild, as a fawn will lie still and accept the lion.

He did not move, even when a very small rabbit hopped up to him and took a careful bite.

Still, he did not move, as one by one, the small animals chewed away pieces of him. Even as the deer levered up his kneecaps with her long teeth, and the field mice dug tunnels through the marrow in his bones. He did not move, for he was guilty, and he knew his punishment was just.

The rooks took his eyes and left him in darkness, but he did not stir. Even as the crows tugged loose his guts and looped then up in the trees, he lay still. As the grass grew over him and the worms ate their fill, he waited for a death that would not come.

And still he waits, for this is the justice of animals.