In the days around the winter solstice, forests were not always quiet. People across northern Europe believed that something moved through them at this time of year. Not animals. Not weather. The Hunt.
In beech forests like these, the Hunt was not imagined as a distant spectacle in the sky. It travelled at ground level. Along rides and paths. Through clearings. Down the same routes used by foresters, charcoal burners, and deer. Long straight drèves like those of La Meute, Cornelius and The Long Tail were especially feared. Sound carried too clearly there echoing off the inlaid stone.. A rush of hooves, horns, shouting, or wind that did not fit the night.
This was not something you saw head on. It was sensed. A sudden change in the forest’s mood. Dogs refusing to follow. Horses shying. A path that felt wrong to step onto. People learned to read these signs and trusted them.
Deer were said to know first. Restless movement. Sudden flight. A herd visible one moment and gone the next, leaving only churned leaves and sharp tracks pressed into damp ground. Hunters took this seriously. If deer startled, take heed.
The Hunt was not simply a warning tale for children. It was a reminder that this was not a season for wandering. The forest was in motion, carrying the old year forward. It did not pause, and it did not make room for those who ignored its signals.
Four days to the solstice.