The Old Man walks through the open autumn field, wearing my gear, from the hunter's green outfit to the Winchester rifle, lighter in his hands than mine. But he is taller, sturdier, antient, great white hair and beard falling down to his waist. We have the same eyes; I can see them at distance despite the chill haze.
I wait quietly between the branches of an oak, gun up.
Snap. A shot rings out from the clearing, and I feel the surge of pain roll up my left bicep. I do not check the wound, as I should have, my anger raised as I come out of my place to confront the Old Man.
He is stern, indifferent. I am told that I have the look of the Elk, or the Stag, and so it was only natural for him to take his aim. I fire my rifle off in his face, and see the smoke, but nothing touches him.
He laughs as I walk away, bitter.
As I finally check the tear in my coat, bloody, I see it was only just a graze, turning scabby and fading to clean skin. Guides wearing the faces of family insist I retreat to the Hunter's Lodge for drink.