Deer Lady Speaks

by John Wallis

They say the forest remembers everything.

The promises whispered too easily and broken even quicker. It remembers the sound of doors slammed in anger, the hush that followed a raised hand, the way children learned to make themselves small, invisible. And when the moon hung low and pale—thin as a razor's edge—the forest remembers the men who thought their sins stopped at the edge of town.

That was when she appears.

She comes as a woman first. Always a woman. Her hair catching the moonlight like river water, swirling, dark and glistening. She carries the perfect combination of voluptuous wholesomeness and innocence. Her smile carries the softness of forgiveness. She always stands longingly at the borders of a road or beneath the swaying cottonwoods, never hurrying, never calling out. Men notice her because they want to. At least this is what they tell themselves. In reality, they are compelled by their lustfulness and their ever-emerging libido. They tell themselves she is a gift—a secret, a reward for a life they feel had cheated them.

She is a good listener. Which should be the first warning, though none of them hear it as such.

She listens intentivley as they speak of ungrateful wives, of children who “need discipline,” of burdens they bear alone. Her eyes never judge, never flinch. When she reaches for a man’s hand, her touch is warm, familiar, like something he had always been missing. The forest seems to open for them as they walk, branches parting, shadows stretching long and protective behind her.

 A Legacy of Shadows chronicles what happens when wanting to be remembered goes too far. "To be forgotten, Elias believed, was the only true death.And he would do anything to avoid it." 

Even the Owls watch as the Wind holds its breath.

Of course, there are always signs, subtle as breath on cold air. Her steps make no sound on fallen leaves. When she laughs, the deer in the distance go still, ears lifted, as if recognizing a call meant only for them. Sometimes, in the brief spill of moonlight between trees, her silhouette seems…wrong. Too graceful. Too light, like a beautiful specter shifting with the breeze. This illumination increased the desire within the men to own her, to possess her – to dominate her.

But desire is a skilled liar.

Deeper into the woods she leads them, where the trees grow older and closer together, where the ground softens within a network of moss and memory. There, when the night feels heavy and intimate, when hands wander and trust turns careless, she finally stops.

Only then did she let them see her feet.

The truth arrives all at once: split hooves pressing into the earth, dark and polished, ancient as the forest itself. In that instant—the heartbeat where pleasure collapsed into terror—the man understood. Not just what she is, but why she had come.

She is not rage taking revenge for their infidelity and abuse. She is the reckoning.

The screams rarely carry far. The forest knows how to keep and protect its secrets. By morning, there is nothing left but disturbed earth, broken branches, and sometimes a single deer track where no deer should have walked.

Back in town, questions fade quickly and the rumors silenced. Men like that were often expected to disappear. Now, wives sleep more peacefully. Children breathe easier. No one says her name aloud, but elders still leave small offerings at the tree line—tobacco, beads,  maybe a quiet prayer of thanks.

Because justice, they know, does not always wear a human face.

And when the moon thins again, and a beautiful stranger waits just beyond the last house, the forest leans in close—ready to remember another truth.