A Stag’s Tale of Saint Hubertus
🦌 “Between the Horns – A Stag’s Tale of Saint Hubertus”
As told by the hunted… who brought the hunter home
I was no ordinary deer.
I was born in the depths of the Ardennes, where mist clings to the moss and the trees whisper prayers older than men. The forest raised me, shadowed me, taught me to be silent, swift, elusive. I was hunted… but never caught. I belonged to no one… and yet, I was chosen.
My name is lost to history, but you know me: I am the stag with the cross between his antlers. I am the messenger of the Great Turning.
The Feast Day That Still Echoes
Every year, on the 3rd of November, humans recall the tale of the man who hunted God… and found Him instead. They call him Saint Hubertus now, and the bells ring for him in churches draped in autumn leaves.
There are dogs and horses lined up outside stone chapels. Baskets of bread (called hubkes) are brought forward to be blessed. Children giggle, not knowing they are re-enacting an ancient drama: of a chase, a revelation, and a conversionthat altered the soul of a nation.
I was there. I saw it. I was it.
A Hunter on Good Friday
Hubertus was once like many others. Noble-born, strong-armed, beloved by courts and hounds. He hunted not just for food, but for thrill, for control, for dominion.
And on one Good Friday, when the world paused to mourn a crucified carpenter from Nazareth, Hubertus rode out into the forest. Not to pray, but to pursue.
I remember the crunch of leaves under his horse’s hooves. I remember the hiss of arrows. And I remember… standing still.
The Moment We Met
He chased me through bramble and brook. I led him deeper, higher, until the light shifted and the earth seemed to hush.
And then, I turned.
My body shimmered in the clearing. Between my antlers, a glowing cross appeared, burning softly like dawn mist caught in light.
And from within me (no, through me) a Voice emerged, both thunder and whisper:
“Hubertus… unless you turn to the Lord and live a holy life, you shall soon go down into the fires of hell.”
The hunter dropped to his knees.
What He Asked
He whispered something I will never forget:
“Lord… what must I do?”
Imagine that… the hunter asking for direction from the hunted.That was the moment the hunt reversed. The predator became the pilgrim.
He Changed Everything
Hubertus gave up wealth, titles, even his bow. He became a priest, then bishop, and wandered back into the forests. No longer to conquer, but to convert. He preached not just with words, but with actions:
- Respect for creation.
- Care for animals.
- Justice for the poor.
- Bread for the hungry.
He even had the wisdom to see that hunting, rightly done, could become a prayer. A way to steward life, not devour it.
They say he became the patron saint of hunters, yes! But also of dogs, forests, mathematicians, even opticians. As if his vision of the Cross made him a healer of sight, both physical and spiritual.
I Return Each Year
Do you think I vanished?
No. Each year, I rise with the autumn mists and visit the places where his name is sung.
I see the bakers rising before dawn, kneading anise-scented dough into hubkes.
I hear the priest blessing animals, sprinkling water over wagging tails and twitching ears.
I watch as children nibble the bread, and elderly hands break off a corner to give to a beloved dog… just in case, they whisper, “to keep rabies away.”
They don’t know I’m there. But I am.
Your Conversation Remembered
And today, I heard you . Yes, you, dear reader…speak of me.
You asked for stories about Hubertus, for his quotes, his conversion, his traditions, his broodjes, and how he is remembered by Catholics, Orthodox, and Anglicans alike.
You even asked for a recipe. And I watched as the flour dust rose like incense in your kitchen, as your fingers rolled warm dough into shape. I felt the holiness in your curiosity.
That, too, is devotion.
So Here Is My Benediction
Next time you walk in the forest, pause.
Listen.
If you hear hoofbeats, feel breath upon your neck, sense eyes in the leaves… don’t be afraid. It may be I, still running.
Or maybe, I’ve turned again.
And perhaps… just perhaps… it’s your time to stop. To kneel. To ask.
“Lord… what must I do?”
Signed,
The Stag.
Ambassador of the Turning. Witness to Hubertus. Keeper of the Glowing Cross.
