Point of pride.
Self-inflicted obstacles.
Mythical animal.
Nobody believes me. But I’m going to prove them wrong.
That was the only thought that filled Arthur Finch’s mind as he marched into the woods in search of The Ghost Doe.
The name wasn’t official, in the common sense or the scientific sense. No one else used the name, therefore it wasn’t common; he himself had dubbed the creature, and he was no scientist. But the naming had to be done, because never before in his life had he seen a deer as large and magnificent as her. She’d almost seemed like an apparition. The closest resemblance she had to a documented animal was a White-tailed Deer, but she was much larger, her coat a pearlescent white that shimmered in the dimmest light, as though she carried the moon’s glow even in daylight. Her antlers, unusual for a doe, twisted in intricate spirals like the roots of an ancient tree.
His first encounter with the stunning creature had been fleeting. The vision left him frozen, breathless, his heart hammering in his chest. His graying beard twitched with the slight trembling of his jaw. If anyone had been there with him that day, they would’ve reacted the same way…
Arthur snorted, catching himself. It was difficult to say which was more mythical: The Ghost Doe or him having company while hunting. Either way, that one time when he’d seen that mysterious creature, she’d quickly and gracefully run out of sight. Back then, Arthur had been unprepared—no binoculars, no plan, nothing but his old hunting jacket patched at the elbows and a worn pair of boots that crunched too loudly on the forest floor.
Today was different. Today, he was prepared.
He inhaled deeply. Damp earth. The faint sweetness of decay.
It was autumn. The world around him burned with hues of gold, orange, and crimson. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the thinning canopy, illuminating the air. A sense of serenity enveloped him. In the forest’s embrace, he was the forest and the forest was he.
But soon, he lost track of that sensation of oneness; there was no way to consciously perceive oneness because it became his natural, default, blissful state. His rifle, slung across his shoulder, shook rhythmically as he walked. If he’d been a more cheerful soul, he might have started to whistle.
Deeper and deeper, he trekked into the woods. His new boots sank soundlessly into the thick carpet of fallen leaves. He also wore a new jacket, sturdier than his old one. In his backpack, he’d brought supplies: a high-powered scope, energy bars, and extra rounds.
All these had been big investments—investments that could earn him plenty of ridicule from some members of his family.
Family. He shook his head softly. Gone was the feeling of default satisfaction. Gone, also, his connection to serenity. Suddenly, the forest existed separately from him once more, never mind its embrace. The breeze, the trees, and every other element of nature seemed a thousand miles away. Instead, a scene that couldn’t be farther from the here and now filled his mind: last week, dinner time, in his own house.
“Arthur and his little stories,” said Phil—Lana’s older brother.
“He likes to imagine things, for sure,” said David—also Lana’s older brother, a few years older than Phil.
They’d laughed as heartily as on a Christmas morning, their attitude tinged with pseudo-pity. Why? Because Arthur had made the grave mistake of mentioning The Ghost Doe.
A couple of decades ago, when Arthur’s only sin had been to be the first person to leave the village since all their families had settled down in this area during the Napoleonic Wars, the brothers had smirked at his “higher delusions for a higher degree,” but hadn’t cared enough to actively insult him. Possibly, they’d thought they’d never see Arthur Finch or hear from him again.
But then Arthur Finch had returned, indeed with that higher degree that earned him both exasperated eye-rolls (now we’ve got ourselves an educated snob amidst us) and admiring nods (now we’ve got ourselves someone from the inside who can liaise with the outside snobs without them thinking we’re a bunch of bumpkins). And Lana, their little sister, had fallen in love with him of all people. Yet even then, the brothers hadn’t dared be so overt with their mockery, especially when Finch Environmental Consulting, as the first business in the area to ever champion sustainable practices, experienced some initial successes.
But then came the downward slope. As the business floundered, some locals seemed to sense the vulnerability of Arthur’s ego. They didn’t eat dinner at Arthur’s, so they had no opportunity to laugh at him in his face or give him unsolicited advice, but he could tell, from the way they avoided his eyes. And even if Arthur hadn’t had the ability to read their unspoken opinions, those who did eat dinner at his table would’ve made sure he knew about them. Phil and David had no qualms about voicing such opinions as a vehicle to express their own. Their passive-aggressive derision had been growing in frequency and loudness the further Finch Environmental Consulting had been falling apart.
And now, with the addition of The Ghost Doe? The brothers were positively delighted. Like parents indulging in a toddler’s tall tales, they chuckled and nodded to humor the poor little dreamer.
But isn’t it true that you’re delusional? said an ugly, sly voice in Arthur’s head. You are a man who promised to provide for his family and failed. Now your wife has to work for someone else, which is so completely not what you wanted for either her or your three-year-old girl. Meanwhile, you say you’re trying to resuscitate your business, when in reality, you’re out here in the woods, chasing after a “ghost” doe that you named so yourself because she is so unreal. You’re a man who, in a few months, might not even be able to pay for new shoes for your daughter. Julie keeps outgrowing hers faster than you can keep up. You know that.
But I really did see that doe, Arthur thought. I call her a “ghost” not because she isn’t real, but because in her unrealness, she is more beautifully real than any “realistic” comments that people like Phil and David make.
As Arthur continued this internal debate, he felt small, here in this forest, as small as he’d felt when Lana had wordlessly gotten up from the table to go to the kitchen while her brothers continued to laugh at him.
Lana didn’t complain. Ever. But Phil and David, those hyenas, could smell the change. The woman Arthur loved—still loves—refused to stand up for him. She didn’t trust him anymore.
Did he trust himself, still?
Perhaps he didn’t. That was why he hadn’t wanted anyone to know that he’d purchased the new jacket and boots—for fear that he might never encounter The Ghost Doe again. He absolutely had not imagined her, but that didn’t mean that he would run into her again for certain. The forest was huge and the creature was free. If anyone found out that Arthur had made these new purchases despite the tight budget his family was on, they’d judge him. In fact, Arthur judged himself already.
Yet he was here. He had to be. There was greatness out here in the woods—much bigger than him and his petty concerns. The crisp air tingled with the promise of wholeness, a reminder that endings could also be beginnings. Nature was at once brutal and loving; frighteningly random yet precisely planned.
Therefore, nature understood Arthur better than any human could. Humans just didn’t get how he could be wrong and right all at the same time.
Had Finch Environmental Consulting failed? For now, yes.
As a local himself, did he still think it was necessary to give the locals the power and knowledge to negotiate effectively with the landowners? Absolutely.
Why couldn’t anyone else see that?
Risk was growth.
Danger was courage.
Uncertainty was potential.
Opposing things were two sides of the same coin. Arthur hunted alone because of the tendency of people to ignore this eternal truth. He hadn’t been able to find a partner he could trust, or a partner who trusted him, to be fair. Mostly, that was fine by him. Hunting—and life—was about more than taking down prey. It was about the solitude, the heightened awareness that came with being alone, and the clarity of making decisions without relying on anyone else. It was a personal challenge; a test of self-reliance and skill.
Out here, Arthur was free.
Out here, Arthur was enough.
He tugged the brim of his trusty hat lower. This one had been with him on many hunts, and he didn’t want any stray branches to sweep it off his head…
He stopped. Looked around. Recognized the place where his instinct had told him to stop: the place where he’d last seen The Ghost Doe.
He smiled to himself. Instinct, driven by purpose, necessity, and, admittedly, a little bit of fear, was a great friend of his.
The leaves rustled. Squirrels chattered in the distance. Occasionally, a twig snapped. Arthur scanned the undergrowth with his dark eyes as he listened in. Every hair on his body was ready to perceive the slightest change in the air.
Then he heard it.
Heard her.
From behind the smaller trees, she emerged into his field of vision.
His breath caught. The Ghost Doe was even more magnificent than he remembered. Her white coat glowed like liquid moonlight against the sunlit tapestry of autumn leaves. Her antlers, impossibly intricate, appeared like the tendrils of a celestial vine. And as on that day of their first encounter, she moved with such grace that the forest seemed to hold its breath around her.
Arthur wasn’t a liar. He hadn’t hallucinated.
She was his proof.
His fingers closed around his rifle as he raised it. The stock felt snug against his shoulder. He sighted her through the scope. His breath slowed. He was about to pull the trigger—
She bolted.
Immediately, he moved after her. His boots whispered against the leaves. His steps were calculated, precise.
The forest blurred around them as they wove through trees and leaped over streams. She was agile; he was determined. He felt alive. Did she feel what he felt?
May this never end. The reward was nice, but this process, in which he lost himself—may this never end.
Leaves scattered in their wake. The transparent light of morning transformed into the golden hues of late afternoon.
Shadows stretched long across the forest floor. The chill of evening settled in. The symphony of the forest shifted—the birdsongs giving way to the distant calls of owls.
By the time Arthur paused to catch this, the first stars pricked the deepening indigo sky. But the end of the hunt seemed out of sight. Maybe, for once, the heavens were answering his prayer. He perceived these thoughts only in the background of his mind; in the foreground, he still had the hunt in mind. To lose himself in purpose was exhilarating. He hadn’t felt this for so long—not since the early days of his return from college; those days when even he admitted to himself that he was an idealistic dreamer.
He resumed rushing after The Ghost Doe. His body protested with every movement: his legs aching and his back feeling stiff beneath the weight of his gear. The once-vivid autumn colors around him had faded into a subdued, moonlit grayscale. But he had to continue. He wanted to continue.
Then instinct spoke:
There is something less purposeful but no less meaningful in your life. Something meaningful because it has no purpose:
Lana. Lana must be worried. Phil and David might laugh at Arthur, and by extension, laugh at her for choosing him, but Lana still loved him—
Suddenly, there was The Ghost Doe again. She’d appeared in front of him out of nowhere.
Arthur froze.
Utter quiet. Total stillness.
Only The Ghost Doe seemed to move in the nocturnal hush of the forest. She stepped into the open clearing, apparently unaware of Arthur. Her luminous form looked almost too radiant for his eyes to hold. Every detail of her presence demanded reverence—the glint of her antlers, the grace of her stride, and the way the shadows around her bowed in deference.
Nevertheless, Arthur raised his rifle. He adjusted his aim. She was practically giving him a window. She was offering herself to him. His finger rested on the trigger.
It was then that she turned to face him. Her luminous eyes locked with his.
Arthur let out a gasp. He’d misread her intent. She wasn’t offering herself to him. She was questioning him—not in a malicious way, but with genuine curiosity:
Why are you doing this?
She was no prey. Her eyes—they weren’t those of an animal. There was intelligence in them. It wasn’t merely human-like intelligence, something that could be understood. Rather, something ancient. Something far beyond him, them, and all beings trapped in bodies and thereby separated from each other.
She was the spirit of the forest itself.
Something he couldn’t shoot.
The Ghost Doe stepped toward Arthur. He backed away, lowering his rifle. The intensity of her gaze made his breath hitch.
He fell to his knees. The damp leaves, burdened with evening dew, pressed their chill deep into his skin, seeping through his clothes. But he didn’t care.
Instinct. This time, it was telling him that temporary physical discomfort was of no import whatsoever. Something divine was happening here.
Slowly, reverently, he set his rifle on the ground. Then, with trembling hands, he removed his hat. He bowed his head in quiet respect.
The Ghost Doe tilted her head, studying him. She moved closer. He could feel the faint warmth of her breath, carrying the fragrance of wildflowers, moss, and the crisp purity of untouched forest air.
She leaned her head down. Her antlers touched him. He didn’t look up.
This hunt here—the way it started had been different from all the other hunts he’d been on. He hadn’t started this hunt for his family, or even for himself. He’d started this hunt for Phil, David, and everyone else who called him a useless man, a non-man. He did not want to kill The Ghost Doe. He could not. He had no right. He had no honor. He had nothing to prove—
The Ghost Doe arched her head in a deliberate motion, drawing a big, elegant curve in the air. One of the antlers loosened, twisted free, and fell to the ground.
Arthur looked up, startled. The Ghost Doe held his gaze for a moment. It felt as if she’d lifted a veil on his soul. Everything that Arthur had feared and hoped for became achingly clear in his heart:
The trials. The mistakes.
The hopes. The victories.
The moment when Lana said Yes to his proposal.
The time when his first clients expressed gratitude that he’d helped protect their land.
All his risks and failures. All his courage and love. All the things that had built the man he was…
Just when Arthur thought he couldn’t bear the heaviness of existence anymore, The Doe turned and disappeared into the trees.
Arthur gazed down, freed from the trance. The antler faintly glowed in the darkness. He reached down. Touched it. It felt warm, pulsing like a living thing. He lifted it up with both hands.
Slowly, he got up to his feet. He felt disconnected from his very being, yet at the same time, so naked and raw that he could tell: the disconnection stemmed from establishing a connection to who he truly was, what he truly was. The miscellaneous, frivolous, and irrelevant stuff he’d hitherto paid attention to faded into nothing. That dissolving ached, and made him feel afloat like a lonely balloon torn this way and that way in a storm. But also, it firmly anchored him to something that he’d neglected so far.
Without knowing how or why, he walked. And walked. And walked…
…
..
.
..
…
“Arthur?”
Arthur tried to focus his eyes. He looked around.
Stars scattered across a velvet-black sky above the house he shared with his wife and daughter—a house nestled on the forest’s edge, isolated from the rest of the world. Frost glimmered faintly on the ground. The silence was vast and endless. The sharp, icy air of the autumn night burned his lungs but cleared his thoughts.
It was Lana who’d called his name. She stood at the door, hugging their three-year-old daughter Julie in her arms. The little girl’s eyes were wide with wonder.
“From The Ghost Doe,” she whispered with natural acceptance, pointing at the antler that still glowed and pulsed in Arthur’s hands.
“Indeed, sweetheart,” Lana said, a bit more visibly surprised than her daughter, yet with a clear sense of matter-of-course-ness. “Indeed, it is hers. Daddy was right, wasn’t he?”
Tears came to Arthur’s eyes. Here they were. Julie, remembering the story her daddy had told her jeering uncles; Lana, being witness to the same story that had, clearly, never stopped her from painting her husband as a man worthy of admiration to their daughter.
“Are you going to show that to them?” Lana asked Arthur.
He gazed down at the antler. Its curves and texture were mesmerizing—ethereal. Unreal. Surreal. Better than all the realistic insults that he’d ever been subjected to in his entire life. A proof of his sanity, his vision, and his innocence. The proof.
But the antler didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter, because they didn’t matter. That was why Lana hadn’t “stood up” for Arthur in front of her brothers. They were beside the point, Phil, David, or anybody else. She’d only wished her husband could see that.
“No,” Arthur said. “No, we don’t need to show this to anyone.”
Lana nodded. Gently, Arthur Finch placed the antler at the edge of the forest. The Doe had given Arthur an opportunity to choose; he’d chosen. He walked up to his wife and daughter without looking back. Julie reached out for him with both arms. From Lana to Arthur, the girl was gently handed over. Carrying Julie in one arm, he hugged Lana with the other.
He had everything in the world.
He was home.