Bartleby was slow to recover. He kept himself in the shed for many days as Turkey would watch over him much like his mother that once watched him. He would smother Bartleby with soothing kisses as his Master would mumble out nonsense words in delirium. The wound had been infected, and despite Turkey’s gentle care, it could not be touched without the little fawn’s screams and raves to accompany it.

The crows would sit by their Master in place of Turkey during the nights. It is always a grim business to watch over such a broken soul. The once shrewd, pompous Bartleby now was nothing more than a quivering shell full of pain. Periodically, birds would sing right outside the shed, making the humiliation of the fawn even more unbearable.

“The little fyeul
Gout up in the day
Ignored wor warnings
Decided to stay.

‘Haddaway! Haddaway!
W’ cried and wailed
Fash as w’ were
W’ kept on wor tails

Smug little fawn!
Hide in your hyem!
Notting more than a hemmel
Fyeul! Fyeul! Fyuel!”

Horrid songs such as this would often plague the shed, and the crows would often have to chase them away. Of course, the birds would fight back, and our crows were beginning to reach their maximum life spans to begin with. A few weeks earlier, Credit had simply fell from the air and died. Debit didn’t utter a word for several days, which greatly confused Turkey.

A few weeks later, the infection had subsided and Bartleby took a drastic new turn in his recovery. Despite the physical changes, however, he seemed to spiral into a deep melancholy that not even his dear crow could prod him out of.

Weeks passed…

Then months…

Then years…

One day Turkey awoke at dawn, his usual time, and nudged Bartleby with his muzzle until he woke as well. Then, with deliberate patience, he cleaned out the shed and collected new, sweet-smelling grass to replace it. The job was becoming harder now. Turkey’s joints had stiffened with age. His creamy brown fur had turned a dull gray, and his hooves had become cracked and worn. Bartleby, of course, never aged. Debit was now dead as well. With both crows gone, the two deer led a more quite lifestyle. Bartleby never went out anymore. Instead he stayed with Turkey, mostly in silence.

Turkey had finished placing the new bedding in and had lied down next to Bartleby. They both rarely would leave these spots except to feed now. It was a lonely, miserable life.

“Master?” Turkey nudged Bartleby with his nose. “What is it, dear Turkey?” Bartleby murmured.

“It’s just… why do I hurt so much now? My legs feel all… all wobbly…” Turkey was blubbering out the words with confusion, as if he didn’t really know what he was saying. Bartleby was silent for several minutes. Turkey then slowly, almost painfully shifted over so he could coat his Master’s body with his tender tongue. “Turkey… Love…” Bartleby began, “Your getting old… that’s all it is… It’s just a sign that it’s coming…” Turkey stopped his licking and cocked his head in puzzlement. “What’s coming?” he asked.

Bartleby’s eyes began to water. With a shaking, quivering voice, he asked, “Do you know where Debit and Credit went, Turkey?” the old stag looked at his Master. “Course’ I know! They’re just out for a little while longer than usual, right?”

Bartleby wasn’t going to even dare to hold back, as hot tears poured down his muzzle, he said, “Turkey, they’re dead. The crows are dead. When you get old, you die. You’re getting old, which means you’re going to die very soon… Do you understand?” he rubbed his small head against Turkey’s large neck, staining the gray fur with tears. Turkey pondered over this new idea for a little while. “You mean… I’ll have to go somewhere too? When do I go? Are you gonna come?” he looked at his Master with a sudden new panic. “You’re gonna come too, right?”

Bartleby suddenly turned away, biting his lower lip and trying his hardest to contain himself, he muttered, “No Turkey, I can’t go with you. You have to go by yourself. I’ll never be able to go.” Turkey still didn’t understand. He never would. Death was a concept that even we ‘they’s never have understood. Turkey then nudged the fawn and asked, with a sad voice, “It won’t hurt, will it?” Bartleby shook his head. “Okay, then it can’t be that bad… I just wish you could come too…” and with that, the old stag lowered his head and went to sleep. Bartleby laid in silence for several hours before slowly getting up and limping out of the shed.

As he pushed the door open, he was greeted with several jeers and cruel remarks. Bartleby just walked on with a purpose, not even pausing to notice the offending animals. He limped through one of the thickets surrounding the old clearing. He occasionally stumbled, and even fell several times. He walked on though, until he finally reached a small opening in the forest which brought him to the Twin God statues.

“Why…” he stumbled up and collapsed in front of them. The two merely glared down at him from a wall of stone. “Years upon years… Of this… This torment…” He stood and faced the statues, lowering his head. “Why…” he suddenly charged forward and crushed his defenseless head against the stones with every new word. “Why… Won’t… You… Let… Me…Die!?” his skull was crushing into pieces, blood poured from an open wound on his scalp, he cared little now. He stopped, dizzy and intoxicated with pain. “Please…” he pleaded. “Please… I can’t take it anymore… Every few years… my companions die… all around me…” he weakly beat his smashed skull against the blood-splattered stone once more. “Everything I do… Everything I try… I can never die… I keep going to deer who think they can… they never can… I went to ‘they’… They wouldn’t listen… Only you can make me go away… I know that now… So please… let me be with him again…” the broken deer laid on the blood-dampened soil and curled up between to the statues. “Dear Jergens… Why did you run away?” Bartleby closed his eyes and let himself be cradled in-between the two statues. “I know you won’t… You won’t make it all end… But I’ll stay here… I’ll stay here forever… You’ll get rid of me eventually… I know it…”

With that the little fawn went into a fitful sleep until he awoke the next morning. He heard, from the far off distance, a weak, helpless cry for him. He realized, with a sudden pang of guilt, that he had forgotten Turkey. “Turkey will be okay… I feel bad that I never got to say goodbye… but that’s all I’ve been doing over these hundreds of years… Saying goodbye…” the little fawn muttered.

The twin Gods never revealed themselves, for Bartleby was never to die. Why he never was to die... Hmm... That is a long and fit tale for another entirely different story. This story, we must end now, as it’s really only a story of our fawn-into-stag Turkey. Perhaps in another story, we’ll talk more of our pretty golden-hoofed fawn and how he came into the forest. But not now… I’m tired and wish to sleep. You’ve certainly had your more than your fill of silly tales like this. I’ll tell you… maybe later… but for now…

Goodnight…