The White Stag

By Ray Wilson

It is proper rain. lashing down in torrents, piecing stair rods—we feel the impact through our motorcycle gear as it permeates the protective fabric.

We are in the heart of the ancient Ashdown forest, where at least the harsh rain is tempered through the thick canopy of trees.

“Pull over,” my missus riding pillion nudges me in the back.

“Let’s see if she has any eggs out for sale.”

I turn onto the driveway; the narrow road is rapidly filling with water gushing from overflowing ditches.

“There aren’t any out today,” my missus says.

A woman appears in the doorway of the cottage.

“You came the other week, didn’t you? I recognise your motorcycle combination and your white dog. Do you want some eggs?”

“How many have you got?” asks the missus.

“I have five boxes.”

“Could we buy them all?”

The woman disappears inside and returns with the boxes. As we wait for the rain to ease up, she regales us with tales of the white stag that roams these woods.

“We are blessed—some say privileged—to live here,” the woman said. “There are those who should not live here—the interferers—the self appointed police who know nothing. In the countryside, everyone knows the absolute rule—you never, ever, under any circumstances, shoot at anything that is white.”

By the time we reach Lewes, the rain has stopped—an oppressive dankness is still in the air. The hound hops out of her warm, cosy sidecar. eager to explore the riverside paths.

“Same time, same place,” I shout to the missus.

She sketches out a wave as she heads towards the town.

Frohike, aka my brother-in-law, is ill, and we are going to pick up some further supplies and call in to see him on our way back home. Frohike lives in a remote caravan in the woods, where he prefers to be left alone. He has been sick for weeks, and we are worried about his health.

After seeing his doctor to receive his COVID jab in the winter of 2022, by January 2023, he was bedridden. There he remained for weeks, cared for by his friend, until he was able to fend for himself. Now it is May 2024, and we have at last found a doctor who is interested in helping him. After the great deception and the great lies came the “jabbattoir” which sucked the compliant in with threats of being unable to work, eat, or travel. Many succumbed to inducements and coercion. Frohike took the shot to protect his friend; she was in the vulnerable group. His cognitive powers are now so reduced that he is unable to say who is our reigning monarch—the date, the month, or even the current year. The once vibrant and independent Frohike now relies on constant care and assistance for even the most basic tasks. The promise of protection has turned into a nightmare of confusion and helplessness. He has virtually no eye contact with anyone speaking to him; any replies he gives are single syllables. Me and the missus went with him to the appointment.

“I am astonished,” the doctor told Frohike. “All your blood test results are within the normal range except for one; the B12 is going to be a couple more days—but your thyroid gland isn’t working. I have not seen this happen like this ever before.”

“A time of great change” is what the egg lady told us, saying that seeing a white deer is lucky and a sign of good things to come. Shooting one is said to bring bad luck. She told us tales of the forest. The Ashdown Forest is a place where legends whispered through the rustling leaves and where mysteries danced amidst the dappling shadows. Water percolates through its sandstone rock running over the ancient gnarled roots of lichen encrusted trees. She said that she had seen the white stag “only once, mind-years ago.”

News of the stag’s appearance spread like wildfire in the nearby villages—it even seemed to affect the woodland creatures. Squirrels chattered excitedly, birds sang joyous melodies, and even the ancient oaks seemed to bow in reverence to this majestic visitor. One day, back in those times, a rookie hunter visited the gun shop on the high street and purchased bullets and other supplies. He sat under his camouflage nets, the barrel of his rifle poking out. Then, with a click—a muffled bang the bad luck began.

For generations, the white stag had been spoken of in hushed tones, its presence a symbol of purity and grace. Legends foretold that its appearance heralded great change, a turning point in the tapestry of existence. As the hunter took aim at the white stag, a sudden gust of wind knocked his shot off course, causing him to miss his target. From that moment on, the hunter’s luck seemed to dwindle, as if the majestic visitor had placed a curse on him for daring to harm such a sacred creature.

By the time we arrived at the caravan, it was getting late, and the rain was slowly abating. The missus gets the supplies out of the panniers and takes them in. The doctor will have the prescription ready for him the first thing tomorrow, and I am tasked with administering it as early as possible every morning.

“It is very important; I know it’s an imposition, but it needs to be done first thing,” the doctor explained to us after the meeting.

By the second day, it was routine—I gave him the medication and took a photograph.

A few days passed, and nothing changed.

“How are you feeling?” I asked Frohike.

“I am feeling better, Ray. Guess what I saw this morning?”

He told me it was very early, and mist clung to the forest floor like a delicate veil. A stag stepped gracefully into the clearing just outside the caravan. Its coat, as pure as freshly fallen snow, shimmered in the soft light. Eyes as bright as stars surveyed the tranquil scene with a quiet wisdom that seemed to transcend time itself.

“He looked in at me—his eyes staring at me through the window—and then he was gone.”

It was the first time I had heard my brother-in-law speak a coherent sentence in months.

Recently, numerous peer reviewed studies have demonstrated the safety and efficacy of several types of COVID-19 vaccines, including mRNA-based, viral vector-based, and inactivated vaccines, that have been approved by the WHO but are not fit for purpose. The “vaccines” are not “safe’ and, in many cases, effective only in exacerbating pre existing medical conditions or causing new ones. The SARS-CoV-2 vaccines have been associated with “very rare complications,” such as thyroid disorders. The list of reported adverse reactions grows with every day that passes, as do the pharmaceutical company’s profits. immune from prosecution; their production facilities protected by government forces in every country in which they reside.

Big Pharma is heavily involved in the funding of the Regulatory Agency, the MHRA, which regulates medicines, medical devices, and blood components for transfusion in the UK.

And then, as the sun cast its golden rays through the caravan windows, I felt a glimmer of hope. In that moment, a profound stillness descended upon us, as if the very heartbeat of the forest held its breath. It was a fleeting moment of peace, a brief respite from the chaos and corruption that surrounded us. And in that moment, I knew that we had to keep fighting for justice and accountability.

“On the mend now, mate,” I say, seeing a flicker of the old Frohike in his eyes.

With a gentle inclination of his head, there was recognition not in words but in the language of the soul. It was a message woven into the fabric of existence, a reminder of the interconnectedness of all things and the eternal dance of life and death. In that silent exchange, I knew that our bond transcended time and space—a connection that would endure beyond this fleeting moment. Maybe a time of great change for us all. And as the forest whispered its secrets to us, I found solace in the knowledge that we were not alone in our journey through the unknown landscapes of this spiritual war.

Chasing the Ethereal – The White Stag’s Timeless Allure Across Myths and Realm:

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