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
