Hunt the Red Roe

by Alan Payne

[Pseudonym of John Jakes]

Would you kill God for a few pieces of silver?

Regan was a professional hunter. He shot what he was paid to shoot, and the rich, beautiful young woman wanted the head of the sacred red roebuck to hang on her wall. But when the hunter squinted down his rifle barrel he looked into the eye of God!

Some things, Regan thought, a man can do without feeling shame. Others, he cannot. And at this moment, sitting there in the dim cafe with the gray fog of Venus creeping through the streets outside, he felt that he had trapped himself into a deed which would prey on his mind for a long time.

They sat at a table far back in the corner, Regan and the woman named Mrs. Holloway. They were both Terrans. He was a hunter here on Venus, a tall spare man with hairy arms and thick, strong fingers and somber, gray eyes. She, on the other hand, was slender and soft, with sharp upthrusting breasts and red, moist lips. Her greenish eyes had something of ruthlessness in them, and she clicked her fingernails nervously on the wine-glass. Her rich, green cloak contrasted sharply with Regan’s sweat-stained shirt and trousers.

The barman dozed on a high stool. Regan watched the man’s head sink lower and lower. It took his mind off the problem at hand. Finally, he realized that he could dodge the issue no longer, and he turned back to Mrs. Holloway.

“Does your husband know about this?” he asked grimly.

She laughed, a glassy, tinkling laugh, empty of emotion. “No. My husband is in Venusburg. I do what I please and I don’t answer to him. I’ve got my own income, Regan, and I’m willing to spend part of it for your services. You were recommended as the best guide in the village.” Her eyes bored into him. “Are you?”

He drained the last of his whisky. “I was, up until last season. Customers are dropping off. All the professional hunters have shipped to Mars. There are some new kinds of animals there.”

She nodded with a faint hint of triumph. “You’re broke, Regan. Is that right?”

“Yeah, I’m broke. Otherwise I’d tell you to go to hell.”

Her hand crept out and touched his wrist, warm, faintly perfumed. She seemed to sway forward across the little wicker table. “Regan, I’ve hunted every animal on Earth. I’ve had enough money all my life to do what I wanted, and there was nothing that pleased me more than chasing a beast and downing it. It’s like playing God, Regan. A superior brain against an animal brain....”

“And now you want to hunt the red roebuck,” he said.

“What’s so wrong in that?”

“Nothing,” he said bitterly, “except that there aren’t more than a dozen of them on the Preserve, and they happen to be the sacred animal of the Venusians. A religious animal. You know damned well....”

She hesitated. Her eyes rested on the wine-glass, then raised abruptly to his once more. “Are you afraid? I’ll pay you, Regan, so why be afraid?” Her tone grew mocking. “Unless of course you’re a deeply religious man....”

“Don’t talk like that,” he growled.

“Then answer me! Yes or no!”

He hesitated. He thought about his empty stomach, his dirty shack, his feeling that he was the last hunter in the village and that he was going to have to get money to ship out, or else starve. What the hell if it was sacred animal ... he....

“All right,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “That’s wonderful. Do you think we’ll have any trouble? Guards? Anything like that....” Her eyes gleamed brightly, greedily, and Regan did not like the look in them.

He pushed back his chair and got up. “No trouble at all. They don’t guard the Preserve.”

“Why?” She was startled.

“The Venusians are a trusting people,” he said sarcastically. “They believe a Terran wouldn’t shoot a red roe for the same reason a Venusian wouldn’t go inside a Terran church and steal a gold cross. Trusting....” He laughed shortly.

“It’s sport, Regan,” she said as she followed him out of the cafe and along the gray, cobbled street through the fog. “The sport of hunting ... and stalking ... and killing....” Her voice dropped to a low, savage whisper and he saw her fingers clenched tightly until the skin of her palms was as red as the blood color of her nails.

They reached the small inn. He turned quickly to her. “Be ready at six tomorrow morning. We can reach the place by noon. You know what wear. Anti-disease suit, all the rest.”

She nodded. Her tiny pink tongue rested lightly on her lips for a moment. “Thank you, Regan. There may be more than hunting to be had.”

Something recoiled within him. He turned sharply on his heel. “Six tomorrow,” he said without turning around. He felt that her eyes were digging into his back, watching him as he walked along the street. What the hell, Regan, he kept saying, you’ve got to ship out. Are you religious? What the hell difference does it make? ... What? ...

But somehow, deep down in his mind, something was sick at the idea.

He reached the wall at the edge of the village. The Old Beggar was there, a gray-skinned Venusian holy man, blind, whom the villagers believed had prophetic powers. The Old Beggar lifted his ugly, gray eyepits and raised his bowl imploringly as Regan approached.

“Coppers,” he wailed, shaking his matted hair, “coppers. Lord Regan....”

Regan shivered and stopped. The Old Beggar had an uncanny way of recognizing people in the village by their steps. It made him nervous. Reluctantly, Regan dug down into his jacket pocket and came up with three of the triangular shaped coins. He tossed them into the bowl and started to walk on.

The Old Beggar did not utter his customary word of thanks. His sightless eyes stared down at the bowl, his mouth hung slackly open, and abruptly he turned the bowl upside down and dumped the money out onto the muddy earth. He let out a high, piercing howl and one finger pointed shakily at Regan.

“Unclean!” he howled. “Defiler! Killer of the red roe!”

Regan’s stomach jerked up into knots. His fists clenched and he stared down at the old man, trembling. “Unclean!” the Old Beggar shouted again. Regan wanted to hit him, silence him, but something held him back. With unexplainable terror singing through every nerve in his body, Regan turned and ran out through the wall, and he did not stop until he had reached his shack at the edge of the jungle. He raced up the steps, slammed through the door, closed it and stood with his back against it, panting.

Karal turned around from the tiny stove where he had been cooking the noon meal. His gray eyes went open in surprise. “Lord Regan!” he said quickly, rushing forward. “What has happened?”

“Nothing, nothing....” Regan waved his hand and then rubbed his eyes. Karal stood before him, a slender, gray-skinned Venusian boy about fifteen years old. He was Regan’s helper on the hunts. Years before, Regan had found him floundering in the swamps upcountry, and had pulled him out. Karal, lost from his family who had been slain on a hunting expedition, seemed almost dead. From the time of the rescue, Karal had bound himself to Regan with stubborn and grateful loyalty.

Regan stumbled forward and sat down at the rough, jungle-wood table. “Get me some coffee, will you?”

Karal hurried to the stove and returned with a cup of the steaming brown liquid. Regan gulped it hastily. He kept his eyes on the tabletop. Somehow, he couldn’t look at Karal. Finally he said, “Get the stuff ready for tomorrow morning. Load up the truck.”

Karal’s eyes gleamed excitedly. “A trip? A hunting trip?”

“Yeah,” Regan said quietly. “A hunting trip.”

“Where are we going?”

Regan stared hard at the boy. “The Preserve.”

“The....” An expression of shocked horror swept across the boy’s face.

“That’s right,” Regan said quietly. “We’re going to get a red roe.”

The boy lowered his head. He shook it unbelievingly. “Lord Regan ... I ... the red roe ... that is forbidden ... my people and their religion....”

“Listen,” Regan said sharply, “there isn’t any law says you can’t shoot one of them. I need money and I’ve got a client who wants a red roe. I know how your people feel about it, but I’m a Terran and if you want to get out, go ahead.”

There was sick disappointment in the boy’s eyes. He was silent for a moment. Finally, he spoke. “No, Lord Regan. I have bound myself to you. I will go....” He rose and walked slowly to the door. “I will make the truck ready,” he said as he vanished through the door.

Regan sat staring into his cup of coffee. That had been hard, hurting the boy. His mind teetered back and forth. He was walking into the Preserve and killing the animal without feeling ... destroying a part of the native religion. But what about getting out of the village? That took money. He didn’t want to starve. He....

Confused anger welled up within him. He lifted the filled cup and flung it hatefully against the wall. The cup rattled on the floor and the brown liquid spread out along the boards. Regan stared at it, his right hand opening and closing convulsively. Sweat droplets stood out on his forehead. “Goddam it,” he whispered savagely.

Before dawn the next morning Regan, Karal and Mrs. Holloway rolled out of the village in the truck. All three were dressed in the gray, rubberish anti-disease suits. The rear of the truck was loaded with Regan’s weapons, ammunition, cooking equipment and Mrs. Holloway’s three Webb-Dangerfield Tri-power magnesium rifles. When Regan saw her equipment at the little inn, he allowed himself a faint feeling of admiration. The weapons were expensive. But they were also the very best in big-game hunting rifles. It was Regan’s dream that some day he could afford a Webb-Dangerfield.

The truck rumbled through the bumpy streets. Mrs. Holloway, her blonde hair brushed back and tied at the nape of her neck, looked straight ahead, smoking. Karal sat staring glumly at the dash panel. He had said few words since the previous noon, and it made Regan feel all the worse. He had lost the boy’s respect, and he knew it.

“How long will it take us to reach the Preserve?” Mrs. Holloway asked as they rolled through the edge of the village. Her eyes shone with expectancy.

“About two hours,” Regan replied heavily.

“Good.” She laughed a tiny laugh.

To the left, Regan saw the circular tabernacle where the Venusians held their religious ceremonies. Through the open cab window and above the rumble of the motor, he heard a high, reedy piping of voices. The morning ceremony, he knew. Before them the thick veil of fog lifted. The headlights, as Regan spun the wheel for a turn, struck the tabernacle door. Carved into the pillars, Regan saw the figure of the sacred animal in various poses. The red roebuck, drinking, running, standing.... He turned his eyes quickly and jerked the wheel around. The tabernacle and the singing were lost in the fog as they left the village behind them.

Two hours. Two hours of silent traveling, with only the roar of the motor. Two hours, while the dank rotting jungle rolled past, while occasional slimy rain ran in gummy streaks down the windshield and was cut away by the acid-coated wipers. Two hours, with the woman stretched out on the seat beside him, her long fleshy legs reaching under the dash, her eyes hungry. Two hours, with the boy Karal hanging his head, staring out the window with eyes that were strangely dead. Regan’s fingers were tension-white where he gripped the wheel. Two almost unendurable hours.

At last they made camp in a small glade. Regan cooked the meal of artificial beef and vegetables. Mrs. Holloway stalked up and down the glade, slapping her gloves on her thigh, and Karal moved noiselessly back and forth, obeying Regan’s commands but not speaking. As they drank their coffee, Mrs. Holloway glanced up at the fog-shrouded crowns of the trees.

She threw down the coffee cup and got to her feet. “Look, Regan, how far are we from the Preserve now?”

He pointed wearily through the trees. “About an eighth of a mile.”

“Then for God’s sake let’s go. I came here to hunt. That’s what you’re getting paid for. To lead a hunt.”

Regan rose, kicked out the fire, and shouldered his rifle. “It isn’t going to be much of a hunt, I can tell you that. The red roes are pretty tame. You’ll just stand there and blast one down while it looks at you.” He said the words bitterly.

She laughed again. “What’s the matter, Regan? Getting squeamish about the native hymn singers?” The laugh rose, tinkling, brittle, sharp. He suddenly had a wild urge to bring down his rifle butt and smash her face in. But he caught hold of himself. Remember, Regan, the cash, his mind whispered. Cash, cash, cash....

He grumbled something. She glared at him, and he knew that she was aware of his feelings. Something new shone in her eyes now. It was no longer the guide-hunter relationship. There was something like personal animosity between them. They both sensed it. Regan shivered.

A light footstep sounded behind him. He turned. Karal stood there.

“What is it?” Regan asked.

“Lord Regan,” the boy said, keeping his eyes on the ground, “I wish to ask if I may be allowed to remain here.”

“Why?”

The boy raised his eyes and stared hard at Regan. “I do not wish to see the red roe slain,” he whispered.

“All right. Stay here,” Regan said, conscious of the tense snarling quality of his voice. He turned to Mrs. Holloway. “Let’s get this over.”

He led the way out of the glade onto a narrow trail. Mrs. Holloway tramped along behind him, their boots making slogging sounds in the thick, greasy mud. Insects flitted around Regan, darting toward his face. He slapped at one and his hand came away covered with pulp and blood. He tramped on, the fog whirling in gray ropes around him, trying to forget the woman behind him. But he kept hearing the sound of her boots, kept hearing the small, tuneless melody she was humming.

The tall trees thinned out abruptly, and ahead of them were smaller, younger trees, delicately formed, with large sensuous blossoms drooping in the steamy air. The colors were riotously flamboyant, blobs of green and gold and orange and sky blue hanging suspended from thin gray limbs. A heady wine-smelling perfume floated on the air. The place had the appearance of a strange and alien garden, with the fog floating close to the ground.

Mrs. Holloway unslung the Webb-Dangerfield from her shoulder, threw the safety off and peered into the maze of small trees. “Is this the Preserve?” she asked quietly.

“This is it,” Regan replied. Wearily, he unslung his rifle also and got it ready for firing. “We might as well go in, Mrs. Holloway.”

She turned to him, her eyes narrowing in the shadowy gloom. She studied him and the harsh corners of her mouth curled upward in a little smile. “You’re afraid,” she whispered, almost wonderingly. “Regan, you’re afraid.”

“That’s right,” he said softly, and started to walk forward.

This was another world, this strange and brilliant garden in the midst of the gray jungles. Large fan-plumed birds sat on the blossom-covered branches, singing in high, clear tones, spreading their tail feathers and puffing out their chests. The boots of Regan and Mrs. Holloway stirred eddies of fog.

Abruptly Regan stopped. A shape materialized in the fog up ahead. With a finger to his lips, Regan started forward again. They had not taken more than a half dozen steps when he stopped a second time and pointed. “There. The red roebuck.”

The beast was directly in front of them, with its head turned in their direction. Regan breathed in a wondering sigh. He had never seen one before. Almost miraculously, the mist had parted and the beast stood there, its magnificent reddish coat glowing softly, its great rust-brown horns thrusting up from its head. The snout was long, and the eyes were brown-red, large, shot through with flecks of gold. They looked ... Regan shivered ... they looked almost human.

The beast certainly resembled a Terran roebuck, but it was evident that this animal was much, much different. The strange glowing coat, the eyes that seemed to thrust into Regan’s soul, full of peace and gentleness ... they were not of Earth. This was a beast of a strange world. A beautiful beast.

Mrs. Holloway laughed, and Regan suddenly felt as if he had been sprayed with filth. He turned toward her, to tell her again that the beast would not run, and that all she would have to do was shoot it down where it stood. There was a smile on Mrs. Holloway’s wet, red lips as Regan turned. The Webb-Dangerfield was pointed straight at Regan’s belly.

“What the hell....” he whispered.

“Regan, I’ve found better sport than the red roe. You!”

“Listen, Mrs. Holloway....” He took a step forward. She tensed.

“I’ll shoot you, Regan. I’m serious.”

“What’s the game?”

“Still the roebuck.” Her mouth curled into the devil-smile. “But I want you to kill it for me. I want you to shoot it down, Regan. You!”

He let out a curse and started forward. The Webb-Dangerfield exploded. He was blinded for an instant as the sizzling ball of white-hot fire ripped by his shoulder, scorching the rubber suit.

“You don’t want to die, Regan,” she said. “You want to live. You’re a weak man, Regan. Just kill the red roe, and I’ll pay you double. Double, Regan. And give you one of my rifles. In my world, Regan, there is nothing but sport. Pursuit of sport. I’ve never found anything like this before. I mean to take advantage of it....”

“You’re crazy,” he whispered.

“Perhaps I am, a little,” she replied. “But who isn’t, in one way or another?” Her tone grew commanding. The round muzzle poked at Regan. “Go ahead. Raise your rifle and kill the animal.”

It would be so easy, he thought, quickly and terribly. Easy, Regan, easy, you’ll get out alive if you do it for her. And a Webb-Dangerfield in the bargain. Think, man, think.... He turned slowly to stare at the roebuck, waiting there before them, its coat shining, its eyes full of that strange, magnificent peace and gentleness.

He swallowed. His stomach was cold. Unsteadily, he raised the rifle in the direction of the roebuck. “That’s it, Regan,” he heard Mrs. Holloway crooning, “that’s it, Regan, go ahead, go ahead, kill it, kill it, kill it, Regan....”

His finger tightened on the trigger. The sweat ran down under his arms. The eye of the roebuck was centered in his ring sight, large, round, brown-red, flecked with gold. Suddenly, Regan thought of the Old Beggar at the wall of the village, of Karal the boy who had been his friend. He thought of the tabernacle and the reedy voices and he thought of this mad woman holding her weapon trained upon him.

He squinted down the barrel. Somehow, the beast’s eye seemed to grow, grow and enfold him. That eye, so full of peace, so full of a gentle spirit, a spirit of humble patience ... a spirit.... Something whispered in Regan’s mind in a voice of terrible fear, That is the eye of God. That is the eye of God!

And his stomach jumped and revolted at the thought of slaying the beast.

He whirled, and Mrs. Holloway’s head was in the ring sight of his weapon.

She screamed and fired. The blast ripped out in white fury, blinding him, and he felt fire tear his leg. He ground his teeth together to keep from screaming with pain. Mrs. Holloway was cursing him obscenely, wildly, and readying another blast when Regan fired. The thunder echoed and re-echoed through the tiny garden. Slowly, the blinding glare vanished from before his eyes and he lowered his rifle.

Mrs. Holloway was spilling her blood out onto the ground.

Wearily, feeling the pain in his leg, seeing the scorched black hole in his flesh, Regan turned back to the red roebuck. It still stood there, its feet caught in fog, its mighty head raised toward the sky, listening. Regan threw his rifle to the ground.

The roebuck stood still for one more split instant, and then it leaped, long and far, rising up and up in its great leap and disappearing into the fog and the blossom-laden garden. Regan took one more look at the dead, mangled corpse of the woman, and turned and walked back toward the truck.

Karal rose from the ashes of the dead fire to meet him. Anxiously, he looked at the ragged black wound in Regan’s leg. The hunter stood looking down at the boy. “The roebuck is alive,” he said. “We did not kill it.” The fires of faith relit themselves in the boy’s eyes.

Karal drove the truck back to the village. Regan ordered him to drive to the wall. There Regan, his body filled with terrible pain, climbed down and approached the Old Beggar. The Venusian lifted his sightless face. Regan stood before him, tottering.

“I’m clean,” he gasped. “The roebuck lives....”

“I know.” The Old Beggar nodded his head slowly. “Peace, Lord Regan,” he whispered.

Regan turned around, the pain welling up in him, took a step, and teetered forward. The muddy earth rose to meet and swallow him....

Gradually the ragged wound healed. There was talk in the village, much talk. But one day a rocket burned down out of the gray fog, and a thin, small, gold-spectacled man in a rumpled white suit appeared at Regan’s bed. His name was Vincent Holloway. Regan told his story, omitting nothing. When it was over, Holloway told the hunter of even more terrible things, of the strange savage he had found in the woman who had been his wife in name only. Mrs. Holloway had even spent one year in an asylum on Mars. The small, gold-spectacled man had sad, regretful eyes when he went away. Vincent Holloway collected a suitcase full of clothing from the inn and got back into the rocket and vanished in a trail of orange fire among the fog-hung tree crowns. The jury of Venusian governmental inquiring into the woman’s death returned the decision of self-protection.

Regan still had two Webb-Dangerfields in the truck. He sold one. That bought passage to Red Sands on Mars, for himself as well as for the boy Karal. The two of them got on the rocket, Regan leaning unsteadily on a cane, but feeling the fibres of his leg knitting, healing, growing back together. Regan stood at the watchport as the rocket rose from the village. His hand rested on the boy’s shoulder. He stared down at the jungle, glad he was leaving, tremendously glad to leave the tiny village, the jungle, the fog-world. The engines drummed as the rocket rose toward the top of the fog.

Regan stared down and down into the swirling grayness, and one thought went around and around in his mind. He knew he could never forget. Something in his soul had been wrenched forever. Where he had been only stumbling before, now he was certain. There was a something in him that now told clearly the difference between good and evil in a man’s life. A something that was round, gold-flecked, full of peace and gentleness. And as the engines thundered and the rocket rose, Regan thought, over and over, it was the eye of God....