Jackson. âFeast your eyes on the work of Radnor!â he called out as if hundreds had gathered. With a great heave he swung the door open to reveal in the torchlight a long narrow room, lined on both sides with an arsenal of weapons: swords, spears, shields, and enough bows and quivers of arrows to supply a small army.
Jackson gawked. He loved bows, always had. One hung above the couch at home in Timber Grove, next to the mounted head of a six-point buck. His father had made the bow out of ash wood long before Jackson was born. For reasons that were never made clear, at no time had Jackson been allowed to touch it. That had somehow made the bow seem even nicer, like a museum piece, hanging there out of reach, looking perfect.
Here, though, there were dozens of them, each one far nicer than his fatherâs, truly perfect in every detailârecurved on the ends, intricately carved designs above the carefully wrapped leather handgrips, sanded and polished to a bright sheen.
âYou made them all ?â Jackson asked Radnor, noticing one bow in particular with a carving of a great stag on it.
A flush of embarrassment crossed Radnorâs face. âYed likes to exaggerate,â he said. âThe truth isââ
âThat he is a very good bow maker,â Yed finished for his father.
âPraise no bow before itâs tested,â Radnor said trying to sound stern. He faked a scowl but couldnât hide his pride, so waved Yed off with his hand. âTalk, talk, talk. It seems my son was born to pester me like a talking fly.â
Yed reached over and plucked a piece of lint from his fatherâs beard. âItâs my duty,â he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He let the lint float to the floor. âI may not be able to split a melon at fifty paces or shoot an arrow through a birdâs eye, but Iâm quick with my tongue.â
Radnor laughed openly. âUnfortunately, this is all too true.â
âJust as itâs true that you are a very good bow maker,â Yed insisted. He whispered loudly to Jackson, âNot only did he make most of them, he also straightened and hardened the arrows, too, forged the points, and mounted the feathers.â
Radnor ignored his sonâs boasting. âWhich bow do you like, Jackson Cooper?â
Jackson stared. âDo you mean I can use one of these?â
Radnor shook his head. âNo.â
Jacksonâs shoulders slumped.
âI mean you may have whichever one you choose. So it is spoken.â
âEasy now,â Radnor whispered into Jacksonâs ear some time later. âCalm yourself before letting the arrow go.â His rumbling voice was as steady as he was asking Jackson to be.
Jackson strained to hold the bow with the stag carving still. He squinted down the arrow shaft at his targetâa black circle of dirt rubbed into the center of a piece of stiff leather. It leaned against a large mound of hay piled in the high stone-walled enclosure behind the armory. Six shots had already flown high and wide to the left, burying themselves in the hay.
Yedâs voice came at Jackson from the other side. âThink the arrow to its mark, Jackson Cooper.â
Jacksonâs arms began to quiver. The strain of holding the bowstring back was quickly taking its toll. Sweat trickled over his temples and down the sides of his face.
âRelax,â Radnor said. âBreathe in, then halfway out, then release. Itâs the Way.â
Jackson forced all of his concentration into what he was doing. It had become very important to him to do well, to look good in both Radnorâs and Yedâs eyes. Not in the same way he had always wanted Chrisâs and Sethâs approval. That was out of fear of their teasing, their ridicule. This was different. Radnor and Yed were ⦠well, really nice and patient with him. It seemed as if they wanted him to succeed, where Chris and Seth had always seemed
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