The White Hind At Bay by Eve Sweetser Part I. The Prince Hunting he could escape Silken-clad innuendoes ostrich-plummed obeisances and perfumed giggles -- all were left behind Trammeled between fat-pug chamberlians (with doe-eyed ambitious daughters) and rigid-spined prospective princessess often he thought their yapping less melodious than hounds. Slipping his leash at dawn his one clear horn note sounding triumphant over all the pack cantering greyhound-keen across the green He saw a wonder. A flash of thunderless summer lightning between dark holly-trees? Dew-glistening silver she drew the swift pursuit on like men dreaming -- they'd sell their spangled courtiers souls for her white hide But golden hooves mocked them mirage-like ever out of reach. At last they are alone The older, plumper hunters sighing at visions have returned to lunch their snore-nosed dogs have sought out easier meat. In falling dusk, blacberry bushes catch and stain his cloak; his jaded steed bog-muddied, stumbles on. Once seen, he cannot give her up Ahead, the cliff drops off -- triumph replaces weariness. With blade in hand and heartbeat in his throat he leaps to the earth to stand half-angry; stricken where is his dreamed-of flight? She's a spent animal with dustmarked silver haunches nostrils distended His eyes and daggerpoint drop towards the ground and then reluctantly his raised glance meets her own to see himself -- beset worried by hounds only to meet a knife at last. Shaken almost equally out of himself (has dream come true, or truthful world turned dream?) his hands reach out -- she cannot stay afraid They read their joint enlargement written in each other's faces: the hunt is over Part II. The Hind. The hunter presses close but still on trembling legs she flees. All of the other hunters (dogged as their hounds) she has outrun only this one seems inescapable as memory. She leads him through briars, bogs scent-killing brooks -- inexorably the following fate comes on Always, till now, some twist has let her out. In exhaulted desperation she sees the cliff before her. From teeth and knives her white hide is no protection "Leave off these fawnish fantasies," her kind deer parents often said "What's a white skin? Does every third-born son wed a princess?" Can wild hope save her? Can she be again the princess she was in childhood (or was it dreamed of?) exquisite and beloved, ideal and human both? It is so far -- so long ago she left off thinking of glass slippers accepted her four hooves Pushed to exhausted but defiant breaking-point she stands high-headed; sweat-tarnished sides are quivering but fear-dilated pupils meet the prince's eyes. Suddenly, memory and hope unite a surge of terror floods her veins -- and look! A princess stands there. Seeing the transcendent joy overcome shock on the prince's face she is transformed. [244x.jpg] About the Author: Eve Sweetser is an academic, linguist, and poet in Berkeley, California. This poem is based on Madame d'Aulnoy's French fairy tale, The White Deer. Copyright © 1999 by Eve Sweetser. The poem may be not be reproduced in any form without the author's express written permission. ENDICOTT HOME MYTHIC JOURNAL ENDICOTT SCUTTLEBUTT BULLETIN BOARD POETRY INDEX Contact The Endicott Studio | Copyright Info