"The air is still and I am a hunter..."

The wind rustled quietly through the sleeping trees, bringing with it an air of ease and serenity. The moonlight barely penetrated the lofty branches above, leaving the ground dark and dingy. The wind traversed the soft ground, nimbly vaulting over decayed logs, dodging wildflowers and plants, clung to the barks of trees like children clung on to their guardians. All was well. 

But then the wind stumbled upon something unusual. It was a peculiar troupe of vines and grass, something the wind noticed was out of place. The whole thing was meshy and netted as if the vines had been forced together. It was a strange blanket of grass, wildflowers and thorny stems. The wind investigated further, creeping through the mesh, and found someone hidden in it.

The hunter welcomed the wind as a blessing from those above.

He had been waiting for an eternity, and his opportunity had now arrived. He cautiously cocked his rifle and pushed the muzzle through the mesh, where it spotted the target from afar. The hunter smiled to himself; now was the chance to prove who was the greater species. 

The target was hidden in the shadows, a few feet away from the eager hunter. It was a curious figure, not animal, nor human. Its skin was pale, ears pointed. Magnificent horns curved gracefully down to the back of the target's slender neck, whose back was arched, turned away from the bloodthirsty hunter.

The target was a faun.

The hunter ignored the bead of sweat which itched against his temples, as well as the varicose ulcer that burned his right ankle to hell. He couldn't fail now. One wrong twitch and he would be a goner. It was his duty, as the representative of the human species, to take back the dominance that had been stolen from them by the two-horned devils who thought they owned the place.

Bracing himself, the hunter pulled the trigger, releasing death unto the world. 

The sound echoed for miles, reverberating in the hunter's ears for almost forever as if it was haunting him for the crime he had committed. 

The hunter pushed aside the nagging feeling at his heart, silencing it firmly. Hands trembling despite his years of experience, he pushed himself away from the meshy ground, weakly supported by his legs. But then the enormity of his triumph overcame and he smiled, hands no longer twitching. 

"The air is still," the man remarked quietly, "And I am a hunter..."

***

He steeled his way through the dinge, slowing down as the carcass emerged in view. The faun was lying with its back to the sky, arms bent at the joints at horrible angles. Although the hunter had practically lived his whole life seeing such sore sights, he could not help but wince slightly. He gripped his rifle firmly as if he could somehow protect himself from the onslaught of alien emotions. He couldn't. He could not even bear to think of the task he was to accomplish next.

Stomach queasy with a strange discomfort, the hunter mustered all the strength he could to pull the axe from inside his camouflage. Realising he didn't deserve to say sorry, he closed his eyes and brought the axe down against the neck of the faun, flinching when he heard the hacking sound. 

***

The black bag weighed heavily against his arm, more so on his conscience than anything. Many emotions fought for dominance in the hunter's mind. He regretted killing an innocent life, but a greater part of him justified his action as a retaliation against those who had taken over the reins of progress. It was payback to the fauns for thinking they were better. Yes, it was revenge, something the hunter would be awarded a medal for by the government. For standing up against those beasts.

Soon, the trees lessened in number, giving way to a large field near which a large shack stood. The air grew colder here, and the hunter's footsteps slowed as the wind grew restless around him, pricking him with those familiar small knives. The hunter had grown quite used to them. This time, however, the wind could smell the stench of blood and guilt on him and was not as forgiving. 

Ignoring the wind and its cruel nature, the hunter tightened his grasp on the bag and slugged towards the shack. The contents leaned against the hunter's back, sending shivers down his spine. He gulped and made his way through the ash-grey field.

The steps creaked forlornly as he clambered up them, observing the moss slithering up the hand-rails and engulfing them like a mushy green virus engulfs the body of a patient. More like how the fauns engulfed the human world, thought the hunter grimly. He hated them with all his heart.

He set the bag down beside the door, not daring to take it inside, where the air was warmer. It would spread the smell. God knows he didn't want that.

The makeshift camouflage was whipped off and dropped to the floor. The jacket too. And the jeans. And the undergarments.

The hunter stared at himself in the full-length mirror, holding nothing except the foot-long rifle in his hands. He looked magnificent, a masterpiece sculpted by Mother Nature herself. This was beauty in its purest form. This was what separated the animals from humans. 

He stroked the muzzle end of the rifle and then set it down, heading to the bath for a good half hour of pleasure and bliss. Somewhere he could forget the world as it was. Somewhere he didn't have to think of the damn fauns and what they had done.

Had the hunter not been occupied in basking in his own praise, he would certainly have noticed a shadow whip past behind him silently, lost in the white of the sky which blared through the window.

***

"Yeah, this is Carter," spoke the hunter, pulling the white towel up to his navel with one hand, the other clasping the receiver end of a landline. 

"Listen, is Gary there? I don't care if he's busy. Get him on the phone. Tell 'em Carter's got another head if the President needs it."

There was static from the other end, but then a voice spoke through it. It wasn't Gary's voice. It was a woman.

"Carter? It's me, Jane."

Carter's stomach did a double-take, cheeks flushing. He always felt queasy when talking to his ex-wife. He gazed out the window, where nighttime had fallen and the stars were scarcely visible.

"Jane," he said, feigning happiness. "Jesus. How'd you get into the White House?"

"I've been here for a while, advocating on behalf of the fauns."

Carter felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. 

"Woah," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Any luck?"

"No, the President won't have an audience with me. Either he's a coward or-"

"Jane, you're in the White House."

"I don't give a damn, Carter, and you know it. This is wrong."

Carter gulped slightly, eyes shifting to the rifle he had left leaning against the mirror. The rifle seemed to be looking back at him, through the eye of the muzzle. 

What have you done, Carter boy? 

"Jane, I..." He trailed off.

"What? Spit it out quick, I need to talk to Gary."

"Yeah, listen, I..." He paused. "I don't think you should be on their side."

Jane's tone immediately turned dangerous.

"Whose side do you think I'm on, Carter?"

"Look, the fauns are dangerous to humans. If you think we can work with them and it'll all be fine and dandy, then you're wrong. They're beasts, savages. The world can't progress alongside them. Don't you see that?"

There was silence from the other end. Then Jane spoke.

"You've shot one of them, haven't you?" 

The words settled like ice in Carter's mind.

"Jane-" he began, but Jane was gone.

He hurled the landline against the wall and the sound of it shattering into bits rung in his ears. He sat on the armchair, burying his head in his arms. 

The candlelight flickered for a moment, as a gust of wind blew through the front door. 

Carter's gaze shot up. 

The candlelight flickered out.

Darkness enshrouded him and panic grew in his heart. He stood up, noticing that his varicose ulcer had begun itching like crazy again. He could see nothing, and as he moved away from the armchair, his leg hit the rifle leaning against it, and he fell to the floor.

Gasping for breath, Carter's hand fumbled the ground until they found the rifle. He stood up once more, pointing it at the invisible foe.

"Where are you?!"

His voice echoed helplessly against the walls. He knew he was truly alone now. No one could help him.

He was no longer the hunter. He was the hunted.

He heard muffled footsteps from his right and jerked his head in that direction. The silence was unnerving. His heart thudded against his chest, his breathing quickened. He went still, a statue, nothing more, waiting for it.

Waiting for something, anything to happen.

Then, his rifle was snatched from his hands and he barely let out a gasp as he was struck in the head. The breath was driven out of him, as he hit the floor with watery eyes and an aching head. He didn't, couldn't, process what was happening. Then he was struck again, this time on the varicose ulcer on his ankle.

Carter cried out in agony. He wished for it to stop, but he knew he deserved it. His deeds had caught up with him.

He was struck repeatedly this way, on his back, on the collarbone, in the stomach. Blood trickled his skin. He did not know where he was bleeding from, only that he was, and it was sticky and coppery scented.

He felt something solid and slightly hairy on his arm and didn't realise it was a hoof before it came smashing down on his forearm. In this nightmare, through this fog of terror, Carter wildly realised that this was the same arm which had taken the life of the creature in the forest.

The faun.

"Please," he sobbed, his voice laced with helplessness, "Have mercy."

He felt someone nearing his face, breathing down his neck.

"Not tonight," said a raspy voice. "Spare not the rod, lest you spoil the child, am I correct?"

Carter felt the faun's breath against his skin grow quicker, more restless.

"Rest now. Your evil schemes, like you, are put to rest."

"Please," Carter begged, "I'll do anything. Don't kill me..."

He began crying against the floor and barely heard the faun get up. Lifting his head ever so slightly, he observed as the faun lit up the candle, revealing himself.

His goatee was longer, his hair silky, cascading down to his shoulders. He was bare-skinned above the torso, but brown curls covered his legs and feet from below the waist. Carter's gaze travelled to the faun's head, where he was surprised to see not a pair, but a single horn, arching back to the neck with archaic brown designs etched on it. This was the left horn; the right horn, however, was but a plain stump, with cracks leading down from the top. Someone had attempted to hack the thing off and had failed.

The faun circled Carter, the floorboards creaking under his hooves, one of which was bloody red. Words escaped Carter; he was at a loss.

"I heard your conversation with Jane," the faun remarked, picking up the forgotten rifle. He fiddled with it playfully, relapsing into the armchair.

"Yeah?" replied Carter, who had given up all hope of being saved.

"What'd you think?"

"Jane believes the fauns come in peace," the faun responded, "She believes the humans and the creatures of nature can progress together, live their lives without strife, without argument. She is not altogether wrong. The fauns do come in peace. But nature and humans are not the best of friends. We cannot work together for the betterment of the world."

"Then why'd you reveal yourself to us?" spat Carter. "Why didn't you stay in whatever hell you rose from?"

"Oh please, Carter." The faun smiled. "Humans have been insulting Mother Nature ever since the industrial revolution occurred. Global warming, deforestation, pollution... These aren't just words. They are stones."

The faun left the chair and kneeled beside Carter.

"They are stones," he whispered, "And when you throw stones at Mother Nature, expect her to strike back."

"So you're soldiers." Carter let out a dry laugh. "You've come on behalf of Mother Nature? You really expect me to believe that?"

The faun struck Carter's face with the butt end of the rifle. His vision blurred again, the floor swam in front of him.

"We're not soldiers," corrected the faun. "We've come to heal the world. We ask humans to cooperate with us, so that we both may live in peace."

He then snarled, cupping Carter's chin in his hand.

"Unfortunately, there are those who hate us. Who kill us, wage war on us. They must be stopped."

Carter's head began swimming with excuses.

"I didn't know, I thought it was a deer, I swear-"

"Silence!" the faun said. "You think I'm unaware of who you work for? Whose dirty work you do? You took my horn, yet I chose to forgive. You then take my brethren, and I draw the line on that."

"Please. You said you came in peace. Show forgiveness. Show mercy."

"Nay," the faun replied. "You call us beasts. You made us monsters to be feared."

He paused.

"Then fear us."

He struck hard.

***

The faun wiped the blood on the corpse's towel, making a face of disgust. His gaze travelled to the human's face. He had been in so much pain, so much fear when he died.

But he had deserved it.

The faun walked over to the door, where the wind was howling confusedly. When the patter of hooves grew clearer, the wind vanished, leaving the air serene and empty.

The faun stared around, drinking in the beauty of nature, of the fields, of the sky. He was absorbed by it whole. This was what he had come to save. Determined to complete his and his kind's mission, he disappeared in the shadows, making his way to the east.

Where the President waited.

"The air is still," the faun said, "And I am a hunter."

-Abdul Kabir