The magnetic glow of dawn was already there waiting for us. Strands of stubble crackled under the boots, and we searched in the last dark for dark patches of grass to rest our feet in order to make our steps more silent. Every eight to ten paces, Vincenzo stopped to churn: the fields not yet plowed betrayed the presence of bushes on the yellow bottom of the stubble, and to the watchful eye of the hunter every distant shadow pretended to be deer. In the last few weeks there was a certain calm: the females had almost all been covered, the bold boys who trotted in its territory were more and more elusive. The past months had been very demanding, both physically and socially, and the old boss of the Querceta never missed an opportunity to look out onto the field to refresh himself with the tender clover that had sprung up after mowing.
We stalked at 360 degrees, slowly, but we always paused there, at the point where the two hills meet, under the two oaks that form a triangle of sky from afar. The previous day I had seen a roe deer in that spot. Below him a female with the young, who had stayed very little, while the male had stopped to eat much longer. The distance measured by the rangefinder, well over 400 meters, had suggested a cautious approach but, having reached half the established distance, the roe deer had disappeared with very high leaps, swallowed by a hole just under the two large oaks. That morning the memory of yesterday's roe deer was an obsession, the mirage that seemed real every time the eye landed there.
That roe deer was the dream we had been chasing for months. Having approached him the day before had been a great emotion. The grass had grown back within a month. It was not very thick but, with a little attention, it could serve to conceal the red fur that still covered the powerful body of the boss. Only a few patches of gray on the hips and shoulder blades foreshadowed the next moult: the body of the old is slower to revolutions and changes ... He ate voraciously, engulfed by the small clover leaves grouped in very low green tufts. He was almost stationary in place, concentrating on recovering as quickly as possible the energy lost during the tumultuous summer, when I saw him.
"There he is! It's there again!"I exclaimed, excited. Vincenzo's binoculars were already in the vicinity of the magic spot, and it didn't take a second to intercept it. The distance was not conducive to a safe shot and, without even consulting each other, mindful of the action of the day before, we took our backpack, rifle and tripod and off up the ridge. Going up the hill on which the roe deer grazed, every step was weighed, meditated on and feared. We were 200 meters away.
"From here I see the back wire, no moreI said, looking into the scope of the rifle that I had placed on the tripod. "I would not go further, we risk that he hears us or even sees us. Let's stop here and wait for him to make the next move", Vincenzo advised, concealing, behind the wisdom of the companion, a strong emotion in the presence of the handsome roe. The animal ate voraciously, with its head constantly lowered. I was slowly moving the tripod a meter higher, to regain even partial vision of the roe deer; the barrel of the rifle was still in midair, the right hand gripping the beautiful woods of the stock to rest it on the support. The deer shot up its brim. Our eyes met: the round black ones of the animal stared in amazement at my concentrated ones. "Nooo! He saw us, damn it! Stay still… immobile….Vincenzo's mouth spoke words without moving. His lips oozed advice mixed with anger, disappointment, bitterness. The rifle slowly slipped onto the tripod, and my eye slipped onto the eyepiece of the scope. The magnification wheel moved slowly towards the lower numbers, to engage the roe whose position was certainly about to change.
"Get ready to the left! You will see what time it leaves ..."Vincenzo exclaimed ("and you will see that, like yesterday, it disappears into the hole under the oaks”, He thought, without saying it so as not to demean his partner). As soon as the viewfinder rested on the roe's chest, its nimble legs received the impulse that Nature has given it to guard its life. Two leaps, not very high but fast, made him gain the first meters in the direction of the wood. I had followed the advice of my companion and had aimed the rifle in the direction of the roe deer retreat. The first two seconds of the animal's escape seemed eternal. Incredulous at the epilogue of the hunting action, we were already savoring the bitterness that rose from the stomach. Then the weight on the scales of fate shifted.
Vincenzo whistled. The roe deer, as if held back by a supernatural force, suddenly stopped just behind the only bramble in the field. Vincenzo couldn't see him. I, who was two meters from him, had instead a more favorable view, and could see the red fairy of his mantle. Behind the thorns of the bramble the handsome male felt almost safe. Not seeing he felt unseen, and even in that stop, the daughter of an incurable curiosity that had made him fall into the trap of the whistle, he ventured a bite from the grass.
The enlargements scrolled back to the higher numbers: 8, 10… 12. As the roe deer raised its head, the glow of the tips of its magnificent stage flashed among the thorns. The coldness that had hitherto guided my gestures, and the firmness of his fingers cracked. The thumb obeyed the need to act and armed the Blaser. The dim light of the illuminated reticle comforted the aim on the roe's chest. I tried not to look at the stage, too beautiful not to arouse wonder. I tried not to think about the escape of the day before, about the fact that in less than a second the roe deer would leave to disappear definitively in the woods, a few days before the closing of the selection hunt, the thousand stalking in search of "that" male ... I didn't even think of telling Vincenzo that I was ready to shoot, or to hold my breath and avoid pulling the trigger. There Blaser, telepathic, sensed and anticipated his intention, and the shot went off without warning. The roar of the 7 × 64 sounded like a whisper in the ear of the shooter, but it turned out to be a punch in Vincenzo's ear.
The canonical minutes following the shot seemed eternal. Impatient every now and then they let go a step towards the top of the hill. Halfway through Vincenzo's binoculars revealed the red coat of the roe. He was motionless and just waiting for his loyal admirers to come and pay him their honors. All summer they had been looking for him, he had always denied himself. He had defended his territory, distributed his noble genes among the females, fought against opponents and rivals. He had tasted all the tender buds that the seasons lavished on the fields, the dew that the night vaporized on the grass, the colored fruits with which winter adorns the shrubs of the wood to make up for the rigors of the cold. Now it was there, under our admiring eyes and our hands that composed it with respect, asking him for forgiveness for having made eternal in the memory of men and of nature the summer red of his mantle that will never change again in the winters to come.