The One Who Made the Arrows

The One Who Made the Arrows
Featuring
THE OLD ONE and THE YOUNG ONE

by Jack L. Mace

In this following story, and others of similar nature, THE OLD ONE is no one in particular, and yet everyone; including me. Likewise, THE YOUNG ONE is no one in particular; and everyone, including me.

Joyfully, carefully THE OLD ONE went about his craft, preparing two full quivers of arrows. The old hunter carefully selected the very best and straightest from his stock of aging, drying branch-stock. From years of experience, taught by both success and failure he had learned how to select shoots for the strongest and truest flying arrows. Then he selected the best from his store of feathers for vanes and carefully crafted the arrow points. Sometimes, his arrows were for competition; sometimes for the hunt. Today He would hunt with a young friend. 

This YOUNG ONE was truly an "old" friend, because long before his birth, THE OLD ONE had known another of just such nature. Occasionally, he would pause to ponder his “old friend” and another OLD ONE. From those years past he would evoke a painful memory and wince, or a joyful memory and smile gently. Oft, he would laugh raucously.

That YOUNG ONE now long past was just so intense and impatient as this YOUNG ONE. Mostly he knew not when to hold his silence. Often angry and at odds with all around him, he was seldom truly happy. In those times of old, he was gently loved by another OLD ONE, now long past, who fed him from his own table, and cared for him without judgment even in the angriest of his moments.

THE OLD ONE worked well past night-fall at his labor of love. With labor's end he paused in satisfaction to admire his well-crafted and beautiful arrows. Then he stored his tools away, extinguished his lamp and retired for a restful night.

Gently asleep he dreamed not of joy of his hunt to come, but of distant memories from times long past; of the ancient OLD ONE and YOUNG ONE. He saw in his dreams a scene of that OLD ONE and YOUNG ONE when no others would come near save in contempt and condemnation. He saw those who were indifferent to that OLD ONE, now long past. He saw those who kept a distant vigil and would have helped if only they knew how. He viewed this ancient one’s ending, and he wept.

Dreaming past, THE OLD ONE arose refreshed by both sleep and his vision of memories. Expecting THE YOUNG ONE soon he prepared a breakfast repast. Then, their eating done, each took up his quiver and hiked into the hills in search of favored game. 

Clear sky and bright Sun promised special times; for camaraderie in the hunt; for opportunity to learn and for pleasure in their environs.

For the pleasure of their environs; THE OLD ONE did not only hunt that day. He was one with the world around. He communed with each flower almost as though they were first-name friends. He never wasted a kill, taking only that needed for food. Even field dressing his game became almost a ritual of unity with nature, for he know those entrails would feed some scavenger of the hills.

For all his love for THE OLD ONE and his desire to emulate him, THE YOUNG ONE could scarcely contain his impatience, as they went he would shoot an arrow at some target, often missing the mark. Sometimes he could retrieve his spent arrow, and sometimes not.

Each lost arrow brought THE YOUNG ONE closer to a meatless evening meal. One rule of this hunt was that they each would bag only small game, and thus he would provide his own meat. This rule was to teach care in selecting game and accuracy in shooting.

Our hunters made an unlikely pair; the one calm through years of learned discipline; the other, often impatient as a baby demanding to be fed. This unlikely pair trod on, bypassing many a doe hare with young. When at last THE YOUNG ONE sighted just the right game, a young buck hare, he nervously drew an arrow, struck it to his bow, drew bowstring to full arrow’s length, and let fly. He missed, and his quarry escaped, scampering away over the hill crest. Going to retrieve his arrow, he found it had hit a rock. It was shattered and useless.

In that ground soft from recent rains, the buck left an easily followed trail. Carefully, our young protagonist stalked his prey, and found it again perhaps a hundred yards away. Cautiously, he crept forward, coming close enough that he was assured an accurate shot and a meal.

He reached to his quiver, but with most of his arrows spent frivolously, he found only an empty quiver. He faced a lost opportunity for his favorite meal. Still, keeping a keen eye to his target he reached in desperation for a near-by rock, thinking to use it as his weapon. As he reached out, he felt a "stick" thrust into his open palm. Looking he saw that THE OLD ONE, smiling gently, had provided one of his own arrows.

Quickly, THE YOUNG ONE struck arrow to bow and drew the bow string full. He let his arrow fly and; a hit, a clean kill. He would eat well tonight. A few minutes later, THE OLD ONE made his one and only shot of the day, deftly placing his arrow just right. He too would eat well.
++ 

Over many a passing year THE YOUNG ONE would tell and retell his experience; relating his lessons of patience learned that day. Each time he told his story, he was careful to add that he ate well that night, because he "knew the one who made the arrows.”

jlm