Chapter 2: Scene 1
The first scene of Chapter 2: "The Hunter's Bow".
Excited about this one. Enjoy!
Joshua trekked through the northern edge of Harmony in a daze, reeling from his outburst in the market. A dark mass of rain clouds crept across the sky from the north, devouring the summer sun. His messy mane whipped to and fro as powerful gusts marched out ahead of the approaching storm. A wave of urgency was rising around him: mothers, worried eyes on the horizon, ushered their little ones indoors; songbirds, busy fleeing for refuge, ceased their collective symphony; old men grumbled to one another about how much the land needed a good rain. He loved the rain; the air would always cool down right before the first drops fell, bringing with it a comforting melancholy.
“Planning on braving this rain, kid?” A familiar, booming voice rose above the roar of the wind that blasted through the corridor. Pulling his gaze away from his feet and toward the source, he realized where he was: Baron’s Row.
Baron’s Row was the ‘wealthy’ part of town, a small strip of homes occupied by the most influential in Harmony. The crown jewel of the area was Baron Ingram’s home, the only stone structure in the village, and the only building with a second floor; it doubled as a chancery of sorts. It was a popular attraction for the passerby; any chance to lay eyes on the enigmatic baron was highly valued. There were only a few other residents that made up the Row: Mr. Ryker, the unmarried tax collector who nobody seemed to like; Mrs. Snow, an ancient woman of mysterious origins–as a result, wild rumors about black magic and necromancy always occupied space with her name in the rumor mill; and Will’s father, Mr. Graves–the owner of the voice that called out to him.
“Yes, sir! Heading up to Percival’s cottage!” he called back.
Mr. Graves beckoned him over with a wave of the hammer in his hand. Joshua took a deep, shaky breath and approached the burly giant. The blacksmith pulled a short piece of steel from his forge and lay it on the nearby anvil, leaning over to flatten it out with the hammer. Great beads of sweat hissed faintly as they fell from the man’s face onto the glowing surface of the metal. With a series of precise, rhythmic swings, a knife blade began to take shape. Each time the hammer connected with the steel, a resounding crack cut through the wind, which had built to a steady current.
“Looks like lightning in that storm,” commented Mr. Graves in between swings.
“Doesn’t bother me,” he replied, more worried about the storm raging in his head.
Mr. Graves chuckled and shrugged one of his powerful shoulders, “If you want to get burnt to a crisp, kid, be my guest.”
Joshua said nothing, the corners of his mouth upturning slightly. Despite his misgivings about the man’s son, he’d developed a great respect for Mr. Graves over the years–perhaps even a friendship. He’d always been fascinated by the art of smithing blades, and Mr. Graves had always entertained his curiosity. Though he dealt mostly in farming equipment, spearheads, and knives, his reputation as a master swordsmith who used to supply the king’s army in Knightindale preceded him.
Satisfied with the shape of the blade, Mr. Graves held it up in front of him with a gloved hand; old burns from a lifetime of forging adorned his uncovered forearms, the blonde hairs patchy in places. He took the blade and dipped it in a barrel of water, a column of steam erupting from the surface.
“Why do I wish I had a barrel of oil right now, kid?” asked Mr. Graves.
“Oil is a better quenching substance than water. Makes the steel harder.”
Mr. Graves nodded, pleased. His eyes, the same shade of grey as Will’s, held a kindness his son lacked. Joshua’s brow furrowed as the events in the market flashed painfully in his memory again.
“I know that look. What’d my son do this time?” the blacksmith asked over his shoulder. He carefully placed the blade back in the forge to begin tempering.
“I–uh…” Joshua saw an opportunity to do real damage to Will, but battled the instinct that using Mr. Graves as a weapon in his vendetta was wrong. As his internal debate raged on, the murky sky finally opened up. Droplets of cool water began to patter all around them in a gradual downpour.
“Never mind that, kid,” said Mr. Graves, eying the rumbling clouds overhead, “You better get up to that cottage quick–this place’ll be a mud hole soon.”
“Yes, sir.” He bade farewell to Mr. Graves and took off toward the forest.
The village seemed abandoned; the narrow passages were empty and quiet, save for the rain that was now dumping in heavy sheets. Violent winds shot the raindrops into his eyes like arrows, blurring his vision. It was through muscle memory that he navigated the uneven rows of decrepit hovels and emerged at the edge of the forest.
Sudden flashes of lightning forked through the air, sporadically illuminating the darkness around him. The gaps between the flashes and the growling thunder grew shorter and shorter. It didn’t occur to him that he should get to cover; he was too busy ruminating. His thoughts whirled around like a hurricane–too fast to control, too cutting and lethal. Leila’s crestfallen expression forced its way in front of his mind’s eye, and he realized he must have finally driven her away for good. It was a wonder it hadn’t happened sooner, he thought–she’d finally seen what everyone else saw.
A heavy sadness crashed down onto him like a breaking wave; the feeling was so intense that he stopped mid-step in the rain-soaked forest path. Feeling insane, he let out an angry yell of frustration. The bleakest of thoughts wormed though him as he stared angrily at the sky above, wishing the next bolt of lightning would find purchase at his feet. An ominous tingling shot through his body, like the storm itself had directed its attention to him. Without thinking, he reached once more into the pouch, feeling for the crystal.
“Ah!” he cried, jerking his fingers back. The cursed thing was so cold it burned to the touch. Wincing, he held his hand palm upwards toward the rain in search of relief. He shook his head aggressively, soaked hair whipping back and forth like a dog’s. Driven by a powerful rush of self-preservation, he leapt away from the spot, acutely aware of what he'd just wished for a moment ago. Wary of his own darkness, he swallowed anxiously and propelled himself forward, keeping a watchful eye on the clouds.
The aggressive rain slowly died down as he moved deeper into the forest. All around him the trees became taller and thicker, their dense canopies offering a leaky shelter from the storm. His bare feet squelched in the sodden ground as he navigated the maze of pinecones and other sharp things. As the heavy clouds moved on, the air became thick again, condensing on his extremities. The routine of life slowly resumed as the creatures of the forest began to move about and communicate. Amid the usual forest sounds, something foreign emerged–voices.
He stopped once more and strained to listen. Not just one voice, but many, were coming from somewhere to his left. He peered into the thick vegetation apprehensively. For the second time that day an uneasy chill travelled down his spine. He was being watched.
It crossed his mind to keep walking–Percival’s wasn’t much further. But he couldn’t shake the curiosity that possessed him. He had to know who the voices belonged to.
Mind made up, he untied his pouch, laid it and the cloth-wrapped fish (which were starting to stink) securely in a tree hollow, and began to work his way into the brush. The rain turned out to be a stroke of luck as it made moving across the forest floor a quieter task. With measured movements he navigated fragile branches and dense shrubs–a medley of brown and green. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was in hostile territory. The shadows seemed more sinister than usual, like they concealed an unsprung trap. The voices became clearer as he inched closer.
He reached the horizontal trunk of a fallen oak tree. Whoever it was, they were right on the other side. Crouching low behind it he peered over the top, heart hammering in his chest. He gazed out toward a group of seven boys standing in the middle of a clearing.
“…I’m sure he’ll be here any moment, lads!”
“Come on, Eric! We waited forever for it to stop raining!”
“Shut up, you oaf. I’m not shooting this thing until Will gets here.”
Joshua had to process a lot at once–his peers’ voices, Eric’s hunting bow, the mention of Will–then something snapped behind him.
He whirled around, frigid terror forcing the breath from his lungs. Behind him, leaning casually against a pine tree and twirling a silver coin between his fingers, was Will. The taller boy stared down at him through unforgiving grey eyes, a wide, maniacal grin breaking out on his face.
A tense silence hung in the air. Joshua’s eyes darted around, frantically looking for an escape that didn’t exist. Will flicked the coin, catching it in his palm with ease. Then–
“Hey, lads!” Will belted out, “look who came to join us!”
Till next time,
Ethan Mark
