Lessons of the Forest: A Mother's Tale

I hide in the darkness. I am hungry and need to go out to the field to eat something. But just a moment ago, another one of those monsters with blinding, shining eyes came by, making strange noises. They are unfriendly and frightening.

I am pregnant with the chief’s offspring, like so many of my sisters. The chief and some of the others fought, and the chief won. We—the mothers—must accept that it is his right. Nature.

Last year, it was him as well, so it feels safe and familiar.

I gave birth to two beautiful children, whom he has likely never seen. He doesn’t care. We, the mothers, become the nursing and nurturing ones.

The first thing the little ones must learn is to hide. To be invisible. Not to move until I, their mother, return. Often, my dear little ones must lie in hiding for many hours before I dare leave the forest to graze.

Next, they must learn about the many dangers, especially that the two-legged creatures with strange, differently colored pelts are the most dangerous. Flee, especially if they have a dog with them. Run for your life. That’s what I tell them in my silent, wordless language. But they learn and understand.

We had a lovely summer, and they grew so fast. Now they can almost do without their mother, especially the boy, who often wanders off on his own. My daughter stays close to me, and for that, I am grateful.

Each day, we wake to a fear that another from our herd will be gone. It often happens that the dreadful creatures with the shining eyes come so quickly that their light blinds us, and we run blindly. Then the monster strikes with a dull sound, swallowing a brother’s or sister’s life in an instant.

Believe me, we know it. And I am saddened every time it happens. Sometimes they eat us immediately, other times they kill only to kill, leaving the lifeless body behind.

I was nearly eaten last spring when my belly was heavy with the children about to be born. But fortunately, I escaped just outside the range of the lights. My legs carried me as fast as possible, full of adrenaline. It took a long time for me to calm down again.

Other times, groups of two-legged creatures with dogs come and scare us away. They carry mysterious long branches in their front paws. When they point at a brother, and a thunderous sound like lightning strikes just meters away, the brother collapses, his beautiful antlered crown falling uselessly in the unfair fight. They stick a pine branch in his mouth and thank the forest for the gift.

They should be thanking me, one of the mothers, for birthing a boy who could grow such a crown and become one of the rulers among us. But they don’t think of that. We don’t mean much to them.

In autumn, when the leaves fall and hiding becomes harder, it might also be a sister who falls to the sound of lightning. I fear my time may soon come, as I have birthed several times and am no longer as swift as the young, fresh mothers. But now it is winter, and all is quiet.

Almost every day, I see a two-legged creature with a dog on a long, flexible branch. In this way, they are connected to each other. The dog cannot escape the creature. The creature looks so happy and content and doesn’t carry the other strange stick. We are not as afraid of him, and many times he has come very close.

He lives in a large stone square, where light shines from holes in the walls every evening. It looks cozy, and I have often hidden in his grass, right up by the stones, or among the trees in the small grove he has made. It is very peaceful here, and one can hide safely from other animals.

He also often throws apples out for us in winter, especially when food is hard to find, covered by snow that hides the delicious grass.

Another creature also comes daily, making a terrible noise with roaring blue monsters pulling strange sledges. On them, he loads the peculiar grass mass he gathered earlier in the year into large stacks.

At first, I was afraid to go near his noise and commotion, but after he had abandoned his attack on the stacks and eaten another piece of it, he left again. The wind carried a peculiar scent to my nose, and I sniffed that it must be edible, like summer returned with the scent of clover, flowers, and freshly cut grass. I went and tasted it, and it was heavenly. I ate and filled my belly with the leftovers on the ground. Many of my sisters have also acquired a taste for it, and we gather at dusk to enjoy a feast. It is wonderful to find food so easily, providing us with healthy, strong children when we give birth in the mild, warm nights of spring.

Once, a sister fell ill after eating from the leftovers. Her stomach hurt terribly, and before she died, she said there had been something sharp and hard in a mouthful. She didn’t know more but felt it cutting her up inside. She warned us to be careful before exhaling her last breath before our eyes.

In summer, I have seen the two-legged creatures throw cans out of their attack animals with the shining eyes, and I fear it was such a can that somehow ended up in the food we eat by the stack. The two-legged creatures must have very hardened stomachs if they can eat such things. We certainly cannot.

Now it is winter, and food is scarce. Snow lies in a thick, quiet layer, and my hooves make fine, thin holes in it. My coat keeps me warm, even when the wind howls with swirling snowflakes.

My sisters and I retreat into the forest and stay together. We will survive the cold and wind. Soon it will be over, and the sun and warmth will return. I look forward to it.

Though I am a roe deer, I feel joy, fear, and sorrow like any other creature, two-legged or four. I fulfill a role in nature’s cycle, as generations before me have done. I hope my children and their children will also experience the joy of our uncomplicated life in harmony with nature.