The Hunting of the Hart

by Saskia Meir, Canberra Girls Grammar School

The suspenders dug into my shoulders as I sprinted down the dusky London alley. I groaned; the recent “war to end all wars” had apparently also ended all economic activity in Britain and the only men’s outfit I could find was far too big for me. I stopped, out of breath, as I realised that I was not running from anyone in particular but more from the moments that I had just experienced. Her eyes had been blank at the start, as if the death of her brother still haunted her, three years after the war had ended. That hollowness was echoed throughout the rest of Countess Ouida’s body: the midnight black morning dress had hugged her narrow waist and accentuated the fact that there might not be anything but despair inside her.

As our conversation had gone on I had tried to lighten the mood, tried to show her that it was possible to live without the brother who she had become so dependent on, but to no avail. She had not spoken to or seen anyone in three years and this visit had been that one exception; for it had been rumoured that the hart that I sought for my master, Orville, was held in this household. I had failed, failed so miserably that now Ouida knew the plan to steal the hart from her, and would keep it guarded at all costs.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I spun around, a whisper of danger sparking in my eyes. I could tell he was a servant from his clothes and the envelope that he held out. His eyes were wide as he extended his trembling hand. Once I had taken the note, he turned, fast as a hare, and sprinted down the ramshackle ally as if the wind itself was pursuing him. The envelope held something heavier than a note and on the back there was Ouida’s shield, stamped into red wax. I tore it open and a small black ring fell into my hand. It seemed to suck in the light around it and its mysterious dark aura heavily suggested that it might be more than a mere piece of jewelry made to display wealth. I examined the ring: there was a large black hollow-like gemstone held between two glittering hands made of diamonds, shackled to the main golden body of the ring.

This ring was one from the legends, the one that lovers gave to each other to prove themselves worthy, to show that they would suffer until death for the return of this affection. This ring held the hart to heal those whose souls had died. It must have rejuvenated Ouida if she was passing the ring on. Then it dawned on me, this could heal Orville. This could save him from his misery and lack of love. Now the only question was whether the hart would heal me or Orville. It could only heal the person who the original owner had in mind when they passed it on. She had shown signs of liking me, and of therefore liking Orville. If I got this to him in time, I could bring him back to life. I could bring me back to life, but his life was worth more than mine.

I flew down the street; the triple-storey houses closed in and seemed to crowd me. I arrived at the smaller but more lavish flat over the River Thames. Orville was at the window, somehow sensing my arrival. He ran down to the door to greet me. His lifeless eyes met mine as he approached me but quickly shifted to my hand as I took the ring out of my pocket. His face was still expressionless but somewhere deep within him there was a spark of excitement, of hope. I signaled for him to turn around; he did so and I unfasted the latch beneath his shirt.

It opened to show a spine of interlocking cogs and wheels: the intricate world of his mechanical and anaesthetised back and the small hole where the hart which lay in my hands could fit. The gift of life, of feeling once again. The ring which showed the truth of love, how it shackles you to a person and you never notice the pain because you are too caught up in their life and not your own. This was not just a gift of a soul but a gift of knowledge as well. The details laid into the ring spoke to the observer that maybe love was not always a joyous gift. And that maybe a life of feeling nothing was better than one filled with jealous ownership of love.

I inserted the ring and twisted. Nothing happened. No spark of light nor rush of awareness. Orville turned to me. Disappointment flickered in his eyes for a mere second as he said in a flat tone, “It was made for you, not me.”

He had turned me around before the words sunk into my understanding. Ouida loved me. Ouida wanted to give the gift of feeling to me, not Orville. I was too caught up in my thoughts to realise as Orville pushed the hart into the cogs in my back.