The Eye of the Stone by Tom Birdseye Page B

Jackson. “Feast your eyes on the work of Radnor!” 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 father’s, truly perfect in every detail—recurved on the ends, intricately carved designs above the carefully wrapped leather handgrips, sanded and polished to a bright sheen.
    â€œYou made them all ?” Jackson asked Radnor, noticing one bow in particular with a carving of a great stag on it.
    A flush of embarrassment crossed Radnor’s face. “Yed likes to exaggerate,” he said. “The truth is—”
    â€œThat he is a very good bow maker,” Yed finished for his father.
    â€œPraise no bow before it’s tested,” Radnor said trying to sound stern. He faked a scowl but couldn’t hide his pride, so waved Yed off with his hand. “Talk, talk, talk. It seems my son was born to pester me like a talking fly.”
    Yed reached over and plucked a piece of lint from his father’s beard. “It’s my duty,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He let the lint float to the floor. “I may not be able to split a melon at fifty paces or shoot an arrow through a bird’s eye, but I’m quick with my tongue.”
    Radnor laughed openly. “Unfortunately, this is all too true.”
    â€œJust as it’s true that you are a very good bow maker,” Yed insisted. He whispered loudly to Jackson, “Not only did he make most of them, he also straightened and hardened the arrows, too, forged the points, and mounted the feathers.”
    Radnor ignored his son’s boasting. “Which bow do you like, Jackson Cooper?”
    Jackson stared. “Do you mean I can use one of these?”
    Radnor shook his head. “No.”
    Jackson’s shoulders slumped.
    â€œI mean you may have whichever one you choose. So it is spoken.”
    â€œEasy now,” Radnor whispered into Jackson’s ear some time later. “Calm yourself before letting the arrow go.” 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 target—a 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.
    Yed’s voice came at Jackson from the other side. “Think the arrow to its mark, Jackson Cooper.”
    Jackson’s 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.
    â€œRelax,” Radnor said. “Breathe in, then halfway out, then release. It’s the Way.”
    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 Radnor’s and Yed’s eyes. Not in the same way he had always wanted Chris’s and Seth’s 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