The White Hart

In, out, in, out, in. Breathe slow, breathe steady. Don't strike too soon, don't strike too late. Life had been reduced to its simplest units, cause and effect, action and reaction. Why was he hesitating? His path had never been clearer. 

Shoot, hit. Hit, find. Find...

Canmore didn't know what the finding led to. Resolution? Peace? Don't be ridiculous. There was no peace. He had been content to stare into the middle distance and ignore the finish line. Part of him didn't believe he would make it this far. But the end had come. It had innocently trotted into his line of sight, it's glistening downy chest puffed out in frightening certainty. This was it. Shoot, hit, kill the white hart. Discover the truth. Find...

***

The Celtic Knot Haberdashery and Wool Shop

Edinburgh

Canmore shuffled his feet purposefully. His broad figure stuck out from its cosy and colourful surroundings to the point that, from afar, his drab form could be mistaken for a silhouette against a tropical sunset of colour. Although he was surrounded by every shade and hue of every colour that could be imagined, he could only answer this cornucopia with dull browns that ranged from the worn leather of his tired coat to the greasy chestnut of his neglected hair. The bright wools and cheerful swaths of cloth seemed to shy away from Canmore, as if his very existence in the same world as them was a personal affront. The shop’s owner had much the same reaction to the stranger's presence when he bounded in from the back room. The two observed each other with confusion and unease for a moment before the owner nervously broke the silence.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I was told this is where I could find-”

“Ah, an American, may I ask where you originate from, sir?” the owner interrupted with a relaxed smile as if this explained everything.

“Colorado, I'm looking for a Mr-”

“Colorado, you say,” He mused on this happily. “interesting wildlife if I remember correctly. Lots of mountains and such like, reminds me of-”

“I'm looking for Mr Cernunnos“ Canmore blurted out impatiently.

“Well, you have found him.” Mr Cernunnos replied sharply. “What can I do for you?” 

“I want you to tell me everything you know about the white hart.” 

Mr Cernunnos‘ expression softened. “I thought it a bit unlikely you were here for one of my knitting patterns.” He chuckled. “ I am always happy to talk history, particularly the myths and tall tales of my own country.” He beamed. “What would you like to know?”

“I want to know how to find it.”Canmore said directly. Mr Cerunnos took Canmore in. His whole being screamed his firm and undying fortitude from his stubborn fists to his resolute jaw. All, that is, but his eyes which tentatively whispered in torturous desperation. The owner, however, recoiled from Canmore in hardened disgust, breathing deeply and silently while he considered his answer.

“I have seen enough men driven to madness looking for ghosts that ought to be left alone to know one when I see it.”

***

Why was he hesitating? He was one motion away from his goal. One easy motion and it would be dead. Perhaps that was it. It was too easy. Months of mindless searching concluded by the movement of a single digit on a trigger. His glorious torture come to an end. No! He was overthinking things. Find it, kill it. That was all. Then why hesitate? His logic had finally run dry. He was scratching at the brittle foundations he had hurriedly constructed for himself. They had been worn out by his journey and so had he. 

Canmore was a master of suppression. He had managed to reduce a burning, screaming maelstrom of anger, fear, pain, despair, loathing and isolation into nothing more than an all encompassing tint. One that creates a comfortable dizziness, as if the the entire world had simply shifted slightly to one side. The most impressive part of this charade, however, is its central falsehood to which all of the veil was tethered. That at the moment of impact he had somehow been reborn into a quest-driven hero bent on discovery. He had separated his new reincarnation from his past life so expertly that he couldn't see past his own camouflage. He had peeked, caught tiny glances, that was all he could face. 

Until now. Now it was unavoidable. He hadn't so much discovered it as it had discovered him. The truth stood brazen and unafraid before him. The marble grip that had dragged him, despairing, through the dirt and forgotten bones and blood to this point was no longer hidden. 

Then surely, by shooting it he would be free? Canmore stared intensely at his inactive fingers on the trigger. At least that's what he told himself he was staring at. In reality, he was staring at the gold band around his finger, his one tie to his past. The one tie that gripped him with unwavering and conflicting strength that both forced him onwards and held his finger from the trigger. 

***

The Joan Blackwood Library 

Lyndhurst

Miss Rowe had been observing Canmore from her desk behind the thrillers section for the past hour. A crumpled statue sitting at a table in the centre of the room. Despite the ten or twenty books and articles laid out before him, he seemed to be appalled by every word. It was as if the texts were personally insulting him by bringing up unwarranted memories. When she had tried to nonchalantly look over his shoulder, although there was no need to be covert, she had found him transfixed by a picture of Richard II’s emblem. The white hart sat up proudly, a golden crown and golden chain acting as a leash around it's neck. 

Canmore stared at the trapped animal and the hart seemed to stare back at his prisoner, snickering. He was a man waiting for the next crushing blow. The King of the land of in between, he was a master of avoiding living. In a singular instant he had aged as if living through the eternal trudge of a silent journey. Reborn in a moment of helpless despair, he had started a tightrope walk towards a hazy future, stopping only to refuel in the bliss of his memories. Snapping out of his bliss only to find himself even further from the safety of the ground, a messy, wailing mix of anger and resolve pushing him dangerously staggering forward.

Canmore’s research had lead him to the UK. From here he had stumbled around from library to library, museum to museum, expert to expert, investigating any scrap of information that might lead him to the white hart. He had left in his wake a sea of confused and disgruntled people. He spoke only of three things, food, shelter and the white hart. 

***

In his hesitation, he had been forced to loosen his grip. The facade that had nourished him and moulded him had fallen away. He lay, a free-standing figure without its supports. He was suddenly and irreversibly sentient. 

There was a silence and a blankness that he couldn't understand.

Expecting anger, despair, fear, isolation he received only confusion and a dim sadness. Logically, if his suppression had ended then he should return to the state he was in at his trigger point. 

Canmore recalled the day in a desperate attempt to justify his logic.

The memories returned to him tentatively. The feeling of safety as he trudged around the forest he knew every inch of. The accomplishment of falling into his scruffy armchair after his long day. Gazing through the window at the view he had memorised like a pattern in the wallpaper. The initial memories were so mundane and easy he wasn't sure they weren't false. They could have come from any day from his life in that house. 

Canmore stared intensely at the creature in his sights. 

He felt her warmth against his cheek as she gave him a welcome home kiss.

Her fingers had been curled as if she was desperately gripping onto an invisible object.

The white hart bowed its head to sniff the wet floor.

He smiled as her hair fanned out while she span around and around.

Her white linen dress had fallen at sharp angles around her. It was dirty and creased as usual but she was too still.

Canmore breathed deeply and tried to focus on specific aspects of the creature. It's marble fur. It's glassy eyes. It's shifting hooves. 

He always watched her fingers. Long and elegantly curved, she would act out her words with them like a secret second language.

Her body was completely inactive, only her eyes and mouth had moved. Her eyes pleaded with him and her lips quivered. She muttered incomprehensibly while he begged her to stop, to save her strength. With a sudden jolt of pain she her gained enough adrenaline to grab his collar, pulling herself up slightly from where he cradled her head. 

“You must kill it, the white hart, you must kill it…” She rasped, frightened by some unknown danger.

“Save your strength, help is coming-” he begged.

“No,” she interrupted. “You must promise.”

“Anything, I promise.”

The white hart turned its head slowly towards Canmore as if it had known he was there all along. He wondered if it knew its own significance. It didn't look the she had drawn it, he admitted. He could remember the animated way she had told him of her day’s findings. The content was hidden under another level of suppression. 

Canmore tightened his grip on the trigger. Breathe in, breathe out and just do it. Finish it. End the creature. He had promised. If he didn't than his last words to her were lies. Do it.

Fully and unexpectedly, the veil lifted. All of his memories escaped his suppression and were clear and visible. Her obsession to his obsession to now. She was ill and mad and fixated on the white hart. She had researched as he had, as uninterested in anything other than her goal as he was. 

She had drawn grotesque drawings of her future victory over the beast and plastered them around the house like motivational posters. He was happy she was alive so he had ignored her obsession. He had minimised her madness to a hobby. But her hobby had seeped into the groundwater of his mind, laying dormant until the dam had burst. Her death had broken the seal on these memories, forcing him to reenact her obsession like a perverse show. 

If her death had started this then, surely, the death of the white hart would finish it. In a perfect world the symmetry would complete the cycle. But he was imperfect, he had been warped by his journey. 

At this thought, he abandoned his logic, his instincts and his weapon and staggered to his feet. The white hart observed the stranger silently. Canmore took a tentative step forward, his hand outstretched in supplication. The white hart bolted without looking back.