Husky knew something was broken. It didn't take him long to realize that. When they flew him home from the war he consolidated what he had and started searching for a place to mend. He found that place on the high top, up on Bull Mountain. He built his home there. It was no cheap job either. The logs fit tight and the corners were square. Husky poured his anxious energy into building a place that when he looked at its details, he might feel some peace. Quieting the demons that haunted him, one lick of the axe at a time, up there in the clouds.
Husky knew what people thought of him. After a few years it was plain enough. The old man remembered those years on Bull Mountain when people formed their present opinion of him. He was tired of being alone. So earlier that summer, when the archer had come bumping over the rise in his truck and coasted to a stop in the turn around outside his shanty, Husky was ready for friendship.
He took the bark case from the archer and laid it across his lap. He opened his hands, palms down on the top and the archer could see the sun grown age spots and the slightly swollen knuckles.
"When I..." Husky started and stopped, letting out a breath.
"When..." he stopped again and with his right hand followed the edge of the leather around the lid. He touched the moose emblem, looking down, blinking.
A Hermit Thrush called somewhere deep in the thick spruce stands above them, like a muted flute.
Husky pulled in a breath, his big chest expanding. For a moment it was very quiet. The sheltered basin a bowl. Every side was rimmed in dark timber, the sky above a curved window.
"I want to thank you for your help" Husky finally said and handed the archer the case.
The archer felt a little embarrassed. It was always easier for him to give than to receive. But he had learned the importance of accepting a gift with grace. His daughter had taught him that, when after giving him something she had made, his response was a little lacking. She had looked at him right in the eye, set her jaw that way she did and said something to the effect that relationships were a two way street and if he wanted one with her he had better get with it because SHE wasn't gong to wait around for ANYONE to figure out that letting people say thank you was part of LIFE!
The archer could still see her with that determined look like it was yesterday. He smiled and took the case, placing it carefully on his legs. He opened the lid. Inside were eight perfectly fletched shafts, each one with an old Bear broad head showing razor edges in the waning light. The cresting was simple green on red with a gold band near the bottom. The shafts were tight grained and deep toned. The archer knew these were no ordinary shafts, but from some special long saved supply.
"You might want to try them, but I think you will find they are spined about right for your bow weight and draw."
The archer looked up in amazement.
"I looked at your bow one day when you were digging out the well to re-line it. Not a lot of people drive around with a recurve hanging in the gun rack...
Topic: The Monarch of Bull Mountain --DONE!-- (Read 4654 times)
