Member-only story
Women When the Sun Stands Still
On the morning of the Winter solstice, I walk into the small forest skirting the edge of the vineyards in front of my house. Bare, knuckled grape vines are strung up on metal wires which thread the field into neat furrows. A light frost crunches under my boots. Light creeps across the salmon-pink sky and the crystalline cold wakes up my face.
My loop follows a track down the seam of the forest and field. I duck into the forest past the ‘Reserve de Chasse’ sign, which tells me I walk in the domain of the hunted. The silence amongst the trees lets me know that it’s empty of men and dogs. I’m safe. The forest track slides sharply downslope, and I jog to keep from slipping. I find myself in a drift of leaves at the bottom of a gully, and then I see her.
A doe. Her spent carcass, lying on at the edge of the track. Tyre marks belie the quad bike and human arms that dragged her aside.
I hold my breath, unaccustomed to confronting dead creatures. She’s relatively small, a little roe, about the size of a Labrador. Her vermillion wound bursts low on her belly, telling the story of how brilliantly alive she once was. It captures my attention, draws me closer. Through it, something too vital to ignore permeates the gloom of the forest grove, and the grim fact of death.
