The boy picked his way through the thicket. Bent low, he practically crawled and climbed his way through the thick bushes and trees. With one hand he pushed his way forward while, in the other, he held his bow, a ready arrow pressed tight to the string.
It was his first hunt. His older, experienced brothers were teaching him the ways of the forest. Together they had walked the game trails, found tracks, scat, and rubbings on trees where claws and antlers had been sharpened. Several hours had passed since they first set out until, finally, they had caught sight of a stag.
They had given chase at once. The boy had done his best, running as fast as he could after his taller, faster brothers. They had called for him to keep up but he had hardly been able to. The bow had felt strange in his hand as he ran: the smooth wood twisting and turning in his increasingly sweaty hands. And the quiver on his hip had been no help either. With each stride it had banged against his thigh and, with every leap or sharp turn, the boy had been afraid he’d lose his arrows and they’d all tumbled free and scatter across the undergrowth.
He had finally caught up to his brothers at a thicket. The stag had dived into it, they had said. Which was why, as the smallest, he was now crawling and climbing his way through the thick undergrowth. He would flush the stag out while his brothers, having taken position around positions around it, would shoot anything that came out.
The boy hoped his brothers wouldn’t shoot him. They had promised not to but, then, they had been grinning when they had said it.
The thicket opened abruptly. The boy paused a moment to look around. A small clearing, grass, trees, bushes…and the stag.
It stood on the far side of the clearing. And it was staring at him.
He had only caught a glimpse of the creature before, not seen it fully as his brothers had. It was magnificent! A six-pointer, with a long dark beard just beginning to fade. It stood strong and tall and held its head high like a wise old man. Like a king.
The boy thought about raising his bow. The arrow was there, notched against the string. All he had to do was raise it, aim, and release. The stag was standing still, so still. It would be as easy as shooting the targets back home behind the barn…
He couldn’t bring himself to do it. The boy’s arms remaining at his sides, the arrow fell from his slack fingers to make a small noise as it disappeared into the bushes at his feet. The stag bowed its great head and, in the blink of an eye and with hardly a sound, it turned and dove into the thicket
once more.
It was his first hunt. His older, experienced brothers were teaching him the ways of the forest. Together they had walked the game trails, found tracks, scat, and rubbings on trees where claws and antlers had been sharpened. Several hours had passed since they first set out until, finally, they had caught sight of a stag.
They had given chase at once. The boy had done his best, running as fast as he could after his taller, faster brothers. They had called for him to keep up but he had hardly been able to. The bow had felt strange in his hand as he ran: the smooth wood twisting and turning in his increasingly sweaty hands. And the quiver on his hip had been no help either. With each stride it had banged against his thigh and, with every leap or sharp turn, the boy had been afraid he’d lose his arrows and they’d all tumbled free and scatter across the undergrowth.
He had finally caught up to his brothers at a thicket. The stag had dived into it, they had said. Which was why, as the smallest, he was now crawling and climbing his way through the thick undergrowth. He would flush the stag out while his brothers, having taken position around positions around it, would shoot anything that came out.
The boy hoped his brothers wouldn’t shoot him. They had promised not to but, then, they had been grinning when they had said it.
The thicket opened abruptly. The boy paused a moment to look around. A small clearing, grass, trees, bushes…and the stag.
It stood on the far side of the clearing. And it was staring at him.
He had only caught a glimpse of the creature before, not seen it fully as his brothers had. It was magnificent! A six-pointer, with a long dark beard just beginning to fade. It stood strong and tall and held its head high like a wise old man. Like a king.
The boy thought about raising his bow. The arrow was there, notched against the string. All he had to do was raise it, aim, and release. The stag was standing still, so still. It would be as easy as shooting the targets back home behind the barn…
He couldn’t bring himself to do it. The boy’s arms remaining at his sides, the arrow fell from his slack fingers to make a small noise as it disappeared into the bushes at his feet. The stag bowed its great head and, in the blink of an eye and with hardly a sound, it turned and dove into the thicket
once more.