The Elk Pear

A fire blazes in a dark clearing of a forest. Cloaked figures stand at the 7 points surrounding it , each point around the fire to honour each spike on the antler of the great elk.

The elders of the forest stand and watch each other in silence until the snow begins to fall.

And then the chanting of the hooded elks begins. Tentatively, shivering despite the warmth of the fire, the newest pledges line the edges of the clearing. Each one selected and invited by fate of the moonlight and caught by the bewitching scent of the Elk Pear Blossom. Wisps of singed vanilla, pear and smoke drift through the air luring them to the clearing, to the beast.

Silence falls, though the crackling of the fire carries through the warm summer air. No breeze stirs the night air. From deep in the forest comes a sound of shifting leaves, cracking twigs, and finally, a deep snort. Lifting its head high, a massive elk strides into the clearing. Blowing gusts from its powerful nose, it shivers the flames of the fire and fills the clearing with a musky, earthy scent. The elk’s antlers rise fully two fathoms above the ground, bone at the base and darkening to bark and twigs at the top. Hanging from the tips, and glowing faintly with a ghostly, eldritch light, hang seven ripe pears.

The elk stands in the center of the clearing, and the elders drop to their knees. One rises from his prostrations and walks to the outside of the clearing, resting a hand on the shoulder of an initiate, who straightens and puts on a brave face. In town, the miller, with his long dark beard, is known as a strong man, one of courage. Here, in the forest, he looks small and his bravery is shadowed by the fey light of the fire. Together, they approach the elk.

The elder nudges the Millers bicep to try and snap him out of the trance he has slipped into. His eyes wide scanning each pear, trying to decode the glowing pulses of light emanating from within them. The initiate reaches out and points to a small drooping pome. The fruit separates from the antler twig with a clean snap and drops into the miller’s large, rough hands. He cradles the pear tenderly, fearfully. He licks his lips nervously and murmurs to himself, reciting the words of the nursery rhyme he and all the other children sang in the schoolyard growing up. Never thinking that the legend of the Elk pear was more than a fairy tail, until now.

“Pulp and stem, leaf and core

Nothing wasted touches the floor

In service of the Forest elk

I give my life and drink yours up.”

The great elk’s voice booms “I accept this gift of undying life, in service of the forest” .

In acceptance of the oath taken, its liquid eyes reflect the fire and the glow of the fruit in the miller’s calloused hand. He lifts the pear to his lips and takes a bite. Clear juice runs down from his lips, trickling through his beard. He scrambles to make sure nothing is wasted. That no drop touches the ground. He finishes it, staring at the elk, beginning to feel lightheaded as if he was a smaller man finishing a deep cup of wine. The elder guides the miller back to the edge of the clearing, and one by one, the other initiates are guided to the center. Each says the words and takes a fruit. Finally, the last bite is taken and the circle is complete again. The elk bows its head to the fire, dipping the branches into the embers and rising again with a rack of flame encircling its head. Nervously the men and women in the circle take a step back, involuntarily, dazzled by the light of the flames. A sweet smoky scent turns harsh as the pear wood burns and scorches the antlers of the elk, now swinging its enormous head slowly from side to side. The firelight sparkles and fragments in the elk’s eyes. It steps forward, and a deep booming hum comes from its chest. The elk opens its mouth and speaks, its voice husky and rough; laced with overtones, it sounds like the speech of a crowd.

“You have accepted my gift, and eaten my flesh, and drank of my sap. You are bound now to me.”

The force of the elk's speech freezes the blood of the initiates, who find themselves bound indeed and unable to move, rooted as surely as trees themselves around the fire. Their legs begin to harden and contort, driving into the dirt and anchoring them into place around the firepit. Legs cemented , creeping up the torso the mutation begins making knots around organs, skin flaking off into slices of bark. The limbs of each mortal extended attempting to escape petrification in vain. The transaction is complete.

“As water feeds the earth, your service to the undying forest is committed.”

Shuddering, the elk shakes its head and the fires are gently extinguished as a cold fog sweeps in covering everything. Everything, including the seven new trees surrounding the smoldering pit.