MUNJOY HILL OBSERVER
December-January 2013
9
THE LORD OF THE WOOD By Lynne Cullen ONE WINTER, two friends went hunting in the north woods of Maine, way down east. Tom said, “Did you see that doe I shot?” “You only wounded it,” said John “So?” said Tom. “I want a buck.” “It’s starting to snow.” said John. They climbed to the top of a hill, and saw another hill, and standing at the top was a stag. The stag shook its huge antlers and disappeared over the darkly clouded horizon. Tom stumbled after it. The light was fading. John followed, but when he reached the valley, Tom’s footprints were already disappearing under the fresh snow. “Tom! To-om!” “He’ll be on the next hill,” John thought. But there was nothing at the top except the snow and wind, and on the next hill, the stag. John followed. But the stag was always one hill away. The winter light was gone. Snow was falling in hard, sharp flakes. John had to find a sheltered place
to camp. He stumbled down the hill until he saw a light. John struck out towards it, hoping that Tom had started a fire. But the light came from a cottage. John knocked on the door. It was opened by an old woman. Her face was seamed with wrinkles, and her hair was white, but her eyes were black. “Come in,” she said, “Sit by the fire and get out of those wet clothes.” John did as she asked, and watched her hang his clothes over the fire. She ladled some stew into a bowl and placed it in John’s hands. She said, “How came you here?” John told her about Tom, the injured doe, and the great stag. “You have seen the Lord of this wood, who watches over the forest. All he asks of you is respect.” “And if he doesn’t get it?” asked John, yawning. “Why, then,” said the old woman, “You won’t be welcome in His wood!” John heard a terrible bellow, but he could not move. “Come in, My Lord,” the woman cried, “And greet our guest!” The door blew open with a BANG!
And the last thing John saw was a gigantic black shadow with the antlers of a stag. He awoke with the winter sun warming his face. The smell of cooking opened his eyes, and they ate together in silence. The old woman brought him his dry clothes, and a pair of snowshoes. “Take them. The snow is deep.” “I don’t know where I am.” “Follow His mark on the trees.” John set off into the sparkling day, following the hoof-marks that were burned into every other tree, until he came to the edge of the forest. He sat on a gnarled root to remove his snowshoes. But when he put his hand out to steady himself, he felt a familiar shape beneath the snow. John jumped up with a yell, then frantically scraped at the snow, until he uncovered the face of his friend. Tom was naked, and frozen, and on his face was the look of a startled deer. When John turned his friend over, he saw, burned onto his back, the mark of a gigantic hoof.
“The door blew open with a BANG! And the last thing John saw was a gigantic black shadow with the antlers of a stag.”
Writer and storyteller Lynne Cullen lives on Munjoy Hill. Lynne began telling traditional stories while living in Yorkshire, England, and has brought them over the sea to Portland, Maine. Lynne was taught to play the Anglo concertina by the great Irish player Noel Hill from County Clare. She is the host of Seanachie Nights in Portland: a monthly show dedicated to stories and music from Britain and the Celtic tradition. Lynne says, “Folktales have as much relevance today as they did a hundred, or a thousand, or ten thousand years ago. And because they are passed on orally, they are always evolving.” To learn more about Lynne, visit her website at www.lynnecullen.com.