Husky sat his porch and looked across the turnout that had been his yard for so long. A lot had changed in the last couple years. The blocked up truck was gone, taken for scrap and with it went a lot of old, unfinished business. The archer had brought in his Bobcat and borrowed a small dozer. With a lot of fill and some roadbase he had made Husky's almost welcoming. The house still had its course and ramshackled patina, but they had taken the sag out of it, replacing the old rotted sill joists with new, set on two courses of cinder block laid straight and true over a square and solid footing. Yeah it was work. A lot of hard work if he let his mind dwell on it.
But Husky simply let the satisfaction of a job well done prevail.
So he sat his porch and the sun filtered through the boughs of the timber that softened the edges of the yard, beams of light laid across the porch floor boards and climbed the hewn chair next to Husky. He preferred to be near the sun but didn't like it hot on his skin and sat a little aside its heat. A self bow lay across his lap. It was his favorite, an amber limbed wand with a linen wrapped grip that long ago had been bright vermilion. He looked down and even without his glasses knew the inscription on the belly. And well he should, having split the stave himself. Then on to the shaving horse bringing it down to form with the draw knife, removing the stave often to eye grain and judge character. Then came the spoke shave, the rasp, and the card scraper. Until finally the bow had been coaxed from the wood stave and lay in his strong hands like a quivering bird, ready to take flight.
Husky considered his options, with the bow he loved across his legs. They had made a short but sweet 3D wander behind the house and he often kept sharp making one shots on the difficult targets. The archers daughter held the best score on both sides of the course, she could score just as well on the coming back when the targets often were below and slightly quartering to the shooter instead of away and above. Her focus under pressure was uncanny. Heckles and craftily delivered coughs at the shot by the others never seemed to affect her arrow. The archers daughter had no equal in this regard, except Husky, who in his younger days might have stood level with her. His old body sometimes betrayed him even if his focus was true.
He had her to thank for the change that had swept down onto the little house in the timber and he was thankful. The two of them had formed a quick and solid bond. Even the archer's could not equal it. Husky was a proud man. When the daughter began to spend more time at his broken down home, asking her questions and trying to beat him on the cribbage board he felt the quiet needle of pride that would not allow him to remain complacent while being able to offer better.
So the improvements began, starting with the unwashed dishes in the sink, the broken down couch, the dust balls in the corners and one at a time they added up to a big difference.
The old warrior had finally found some peace. It was plain wrote in love and in laughter with his new friends...
Topic: Monarch of Bull Mountain, part two: Son of Monarch (Read 2293 times)
