Chapter Text
The evening began, as such evenings do, with an unutterably long speech from the master. Congratulations were in order, he said, to the faculty, students, gardeners and kitchen staff, herbivores and carnivores alike. Not to forget, he would be remiss to add, the governors, trustees, founders and re-founders, stakeholders, shareholders, board members, council members, members of the public, even, for all - he inhaled - are essential parts of a well-oiled machine, that endow our great establishment with prestige and vigour, etc., etc.
Vigour? Jack wondered; an odd choice of words, perhaps he meant valour, or honour? He was used to these now, third year in a row; sitting in rows in odd little gowns, drinking up praise like a bird in a bath, stifling yawns with his sleeve.
Now they’re calling us up, one after another, to shake hands or claws, or touch heads or brush wings, or whatever’s appropriate; for in this school we are equal, he says. All God’s animals, each evolved from a common ancestor, if you believe it, which Jack did, for it made sense, did it not? The fossils in the ground laid bare our history in terms so clear, so the scientists say, from soup to sea to land to sky; an unbroken line of descent through the ages, right up until the present: this school, this hall, this conferring of prizes onto those deemed worthy of note.
Now, said the master, we come to the crux, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. (If he hadn’t been quite so caught up in himself, he’d have noticed a lack of enthusiasm.) It is my pleasure, he said, to present to you all: the best of the best, Cherryton’s finest, thorough good sorts through and through. These young men and women have shown, time and again, qualities befitting our school. They are diligent, rigorous, zealous and studious, committed and driven and constant. They embody, as well, a great deal besides: purpose, persistence, tenacity and gall, dedication, perspiration (Jack smirked), and a good deal of jolly hard work! He stopped for a moment, and seemed to consult, a thesaurus, perhaps, or a dictionary.
He listed some names, ordered by rank, with Jack’s name right at the top. He wasn’t surprised, for he knew he’d done well; well enough, thank heavens, for a scholarship. For that was the goal, the ultimate prize, at least, so his parents believed. A guaranteed place at an Ivy League college, or Oxbridge, perhaps, if you like, dear. For, in their minds, there are good dogs and bad dogs, and dog days of summer were made, not for sleep but for study. For dogs have a gift, so they say, and we ought not to waste it; unusually smart as we are.
The audience clapped and Jack shook the hand of the dithering, dallying master. He smiled for the camera and accepted the envelope, containing, he guessed, a voucher. He walked back to his pew, beaming with pride, and sat shoulder-to-shoulder with-, Who’s this? Dear lord, it’s Louis the deer; sneering at him, eyes brimming with rage, practically shaking, red in the face, at least, redder than usual, he thought.
Jack attempted a smile, but it came out as grimace, and Louis snorted and huffed. What on earth, he thought, had he done to deserve this? Why was he in such a rut? Jack cast around, thinking of present and past, and tried to come up with a reason. Nothing, nothing, nothing at all came to mind, at least, nothing that warranted this. And why should it? He was the very picture of the perfect student: pleasant, caring, meek and mild, camomile tea by the fireside. He was top of his class, straight A’s all round, and pegged for valedictorian.
But that was just it: the dear red deer had wanted to place at the top. A glance confirmed it, the hand around it crushing an envelope marked Second. A shame, perhaps, but what could be done? It wasn’t Jack’s fault in the slightest. Perhaps, he thought, the buck could learn to buck up and show some humility.
The ceremony passed without incident, nor accident, but Jack was still on edge. To his right he could feel, smouldering, smoking, the white-hot steel loathing of Louis the deer whose grip on the bench would leave marks to rival a bear.
As soon as it was over, Jack shot out of his seat, and went to meet his parents on the bleachers. He retreated, undefeated, from the little war that had been waged; feeling all the while, like a sniper in the distance, the eyes of the enemy upon him. Eventually, thankfully, the audience obscured him: battlefield fog had come between them. His mother was proud, his father chuffed; their summer child returned from the war.
They passed out to the courtyard and into a gazebo: a special tent reserved for just the scholars. Plates and plates of nibbles, canapés and sweets, eagerly washed down with fizz, iced tea and coffee. They knocked elbows with authority, academia and management, and all Jack had to do was smile and wave. But, just as luck would have it, his reverie was shattered: circumstances gleefully conspired against him. A deep, commanding voice portended an ill omen, and world war two lurked on the horizon.
Well, beside the horizon, he supposed, might be a better description. For there was Louis, red-faced Louis, grave, stone-faced no less, stood next to a stag - his father? - peering down at Jack through half-moon glasses, hand thrust out in greeting. He took the hand and shook it hard, having read that that was proper. The sort of thing that rich types do, businessmen and women.
The stag then turned away from him and addressed his mother and father.
“An excellent young man you have,” he said, magnanimously. “He could teach my Louis a thing or two, especially mathematics.”
He clapped Louis twice upon the shoulder, and dragged him a little forward. The buck looked most uncomfortable, but prompted by his father, extended his hand too in greeting, truce, or something darker. Jack looked at it in horror, and could feel his fight-or-flight response prickle at his neck. The seconds passed; the hand remained, extended and expectant. Eventually, Jack bit the bullet, and clasped their hands together.
It only lasted but a moment: a horrible, clammy, limp, wet moment. A kiss of death had been conferred, or perhaps a curse, a hex, or malignant sorcery. Jack looked up and in those eyes saw hatred, fear and- But, wait! Not for him. Those eyes didn’t see him at all. They looked through him, past him, into some past and future, unspoken, unshared, terrified but resigned to-,
The hand withdrew. The two deer departed; dearly departed, he supposed, looking at Louis walk off like a sinner to the gallows.
The battlefield fog cleared, people dispersed; nibbles wolfed, drinks necked, farewells exchanged. Farewell to his parents at the school gate. A short hop back to the dorms. Tie loosened; gown off. Greet roommates, shower, teeth, bed.
Then, dreams of a hand crushing an envelope, and terrified eyes.