A week had passed since my day at the creek, and life in Marlow had returned to its calm rhythm. Mornings began with firewood and warm bread, followed by chores, laughter, and the gentle comfort of being surrounded by people who made the world feel whole. I had learned the pattern of our days: Mother's gentle humming as she cooked, Father's steady footsteps returning from the woods, the quiet joy that filled our little home.
But today felt different.
It was just after dawn when Father entered my room, his voice low and even. "Are you ready?"
I sat up instantly, sleep falling away like a discarded blanket. My heart jumped in my chest, and I nodded. "Yes," I said. "I'm looking forward to this."
He offered a rare, quiet smile. "Don't worry, son."
Outside the window, the sky was still pale. Fog drifted low across the fields, and the world felt suspended in breath. I dressed quickly in my thickest tunic, pulled on boots still damp from morning dew, and laced them tight. I checked my satchel twice, though I wasn't even sure what I needed.
Downstairs, Mother was already at the hearth, stirring porridge. She turned as I entered, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes warm but filled with that familiar worry that never left when Father and I left the house together.
"See you later, Mom," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
"Be careful, son," she replied, her eyes lingering on me longer than usual. She placed a small piece of wrapped bread in my palm. "Eat this later. Hunting takes more than just strength — it takes patience."
Father waited at the door with two satchels, his bow slung across his back, a second smaller one in his hand.
"This is yours now," he said as he handed it to me. It was simple—ash wood, curved with care, the leather grip worn from his old touch.
"Yours?" I asked.
"It was," he said. "Now it's yours."
I held the bow in my hands, feeling its weight. It wasn't heavy, but it carried something in it—history, trust, perhaps a quiet hope. There were small notches on the grip, tiny scars from use. This wasn't just a tool. It was a memory.
We left the house before the sun had fully risen. The air was cool and wet, and our boots left prints in the soft earth. We walked in silence, the kind that didn't need filling. Birds chirped above us in sleepy tones, and the fog clung to the tree trunks like forgotten spirits.
Past the fields, the village faded behind us. Into the forest we went—first through the familiar edge, where the trees were spaced and light filtered in. Then deeper, where the canopy grew thick, and the ground softened with moss and decay.
"Do you remember the rules?" Father asked as we moved.
"Stay quiet. Watch the wind. Don't aim unless I'm ready."
He nodded approvingly. "And if you take the shot?"
"Only if it's clean. No suffering."
"Good. A true hunter respects life, even when he must take it."
We walked until the birds grew silent. The trees around us seemed to hold their breath.
"Here," he whispered. "Watch."
He crouched behind a thicket and motioned for me to do the same. Through the brush, a small clearing opened. A young deer stood near a stump, ears twitching.
Father didn't move. Neither did I.
The moment stretched long. I could hear my own heartbeat. The deer lifted its head, then stepped forward slowly.
Father moved in a blink. One smooth motion, the bow drawn, the arrow loosed. A sharp snap cut the silence.
The deer fell.
He exhaled and stood slowly. "That's how it's done," he said.
We approached the animal, and I stared down at it—its eyes still open, its flank rising one last time.
"Death is part of life," Father said softly. "But we do it with respect. No waste. No cruelty."
I nodded, unsure what to say. It wasn't sadness I felt. It was something more complex—a weight of understanding. Something that settled in my chest like a quiet oath.
He showed me how to dress the animal, how to cut with care. I watched, learned, helped when he guided my hands. My fingers were clumsy at first, but his steady voice kept me focused.
Later, we built a small fire and shared bread from his satchel. The forest around us remained quiet, but it no longer felt still. It felt alive. The world seemed older here, wiser.
Father handed me the bow again. "Now you try."
We spent the afternoon tracking—prints in the mud, broken twigs, disturbed leaves. He taught me what each sign meant, how to move without a sound, how to read the world like a story written in soil and scent.
When we found a rabbit trail, he let me lead. My fingers trembled as I nocked the arrow. I drew slowly, breath steady.
The shot missed. The rabbit dashed.
He said nothing, just nodded. "Again."
We tried again. And again. By the fifth arrow, I grazed the target. Not enough to bring it down, but enough to show progress.
Father grinned, just slightly. "You'll be a hunter yet."
He helped me retrieve the arrow, and we sat on a fallen log, watching the light shift in the trees.
"This forest," he said, "is older than anyone alive in Marlow. My father taught me here. His father taught him. Now I teach you."
I looked at him. "Did you always want to be a hunter?"
He was quiet for a long time. "I wanted to be someone my family could rely on. The woods gave me that. I've never needed more."
I nodded slowly. I didn't fully understand, but I wanted to.
As the sun dipped low and golden light poured between the trunks, we turned back.
By the time we reached the cottage, I was tired but proud. My boots were caked in mud, my fingers sore, my heart full. The bow felt more natural in my grip now, like it belonged.
Mother welcomed us with warm stew and quiet eyes that asked a hundred questions but said nothing. She touched my shoulder briefly, a silent gesture that said she was proud.
After the meal, Father placed the bow on the wall above the hearth.
"It belongs here," he said. "Until next time."
That night, I lay in bed, muscles aching, mind still in the forest. I thought of the deer, the silence, the first arrow. I thought of my father's hands guiding mine.
I closed my eyes.
"I'll get better," I whispered into the dark.
And I knew I would.