Stag with antlers on a calf

Reverend Father, you asked me to set down what the stag did at the vigil, and I have put it off because I did not want to write it plainly and be thought a fool. So plainly: it came through the wicket gate at the second bell, when the lay brothers were still at the bread ovens, and it stood in the frost of the great court as though it had been sent for. Its antlers reached above the cloister roof. The mud on its flanks had dried into a pattern of pale rings, and where the frost had caught it, the hair stood out in long grey locks like a wet dog's.

Brother Edric went to it with the lantern. I will not pretend I went with him. I stood by the well and counted the beads on my cord and watched the beast lower its head to the iron cover and breathe on it. The iron wept a little ring of mist that hung about the stag's skull, red in the lantern light, and then sank, and the stag was gone the way breath is gone.

Edric says it looked at him. I asked what it looked like and he said it looked as the bishop does when a man has confessed the wrong sin. I have decided to believe him, because he has never lied to me, and because the circles it left on the snow of the court have not melted. There are seven of them, drawn in red as if by a thumb, and they run from the gate to the well.

I have ordered them left alone. Brother Ambrose wants to sweep them. Tell me what you wish done. I will keep the lantern lit tonight.

Yours in Christ, Anselm.