mask, glad for the first time that he was wearing it. Hunter focused his vision straight ahead.
“Come,” Raging Bull commanded. Hunter spun his head around to see where the elder was. Catching a glimpse of the elder’s back as he headed out of the encampment and into the meadow, Hunter followed. Up ahead he saw Mikey and several other bigfeet with him, as well as the other warriors who had prepared him for this task. They all walked ahead, leaving Hunter to trail behind.
Out into the meadow they trudged. Hunter was tired by the time they got out there. It was a warm day again. He felt the sun hot on his painted shoulders. The scent of wildflowers drifted up through his animal mask and gave him some relief from the tanned-hide smell that was its nature.
“Here.” Raging Bull turned to welcome Hunter.
Where ? Hunter thought, but knew enough not to ask aloud. He tried to look around. Tall grass, trees with war paint, and a large pile of small rocks on the ground.
“Throw,” Raging Bull commanded.
“What?”
Raging Bull pointed to the pile of stones at Hunter’s feet.
Hunter bent down to pick one up. The deer head nearly toppled off. Grabbing it by one antler, he managed to slide it back, skinning the side of his head on the bones scraping against his face. Back upright with one single stone in his hand, Hunter looked at Raging Bull. “What should I throw it at?”
A long slender, yet tanned, finger pointed to one of the painted trees. There, about fifty feet away, was a red circle painted on one of the trunks, looking very much like a target. Raging Bull commanded, “Throw!” with his finger pointed directly at the center.
Hunter raised the rock and threw.
The rock fell short by several yards, to the snickers of his companions. Shame welled up inside him. Tears started to flow inside the mask, and trailed down his neck in blue, red, green, and yellow streaks as they cascaded through the paint covering him.
“I can’t,” he said, hanging his head in shame. “I’m not good enough.”
Hunter’s head was snapped back up and he was pulled eye-to-eye with a large, brown, hairy face. “Learn,” Mikey commanded. Hunter felt his hand being pulled out straight, and another rock slapped in his palm. Giant hairy fingers closed around his hand, securing the rock inside. From behind, he felt another set of muscular arms drawing his arm up over his head, at a different angle than he had thrown from before. One or two practice arcs guided Hunter’s arm in the technique that was needed to throw the rock.
“Throw.” Raging Bull stood off to the side, gauging the distance.
Hunter drew his arm back and tried to mimic the movement he’d practiced. Throwing over his head, he released the rock, scraping his forearm against the antlers he wore on his head. Recoiling in pain, he brought his arm up to see the bloody slash on his forearm. Covering it with his other hand, he looked up to see Raging Bull searching for the rock he had just thrown. Stepping closer to the tree than his last shot, the elder smiled and came back to the group.
“Throw,” he said again.
Hunter’s hand was extended out again, with another rock placed in his palm. Again, the strong muscular arms from behind guided him in his throw, avoiding the antlers, but reaching the arc necessary to hurl the rock at the right trajectory to make the strike.
Again and again, Hunter tried to hit the tree, and every time he missed, the tears flowed from under his mask of shame. Hunter was so glad his father was not here to see him. Wiping away the tears blurring his vision, he raised his aching arm over and over again for hours. Each time the rock fell short. Hunter was ready to give up, but the others did not budge. Never once showing any signs that they were ready to quit, they pressed him on and on until his eyes burned, his arm ached, and his stomach churned with the turmoil he felt inside. If there was anything inside his stomach, Hunter would have
“Come,” Raging Bull commanded. Hunter spun his head around to see where the elder was. Catching a glimpse of the elder’s back as he headed out of the encampment and into the meadow, Hunter followed. Up ahead he saw Mikey and several other bigfeet with him, as well as the other warriors who had prepared him for this task. They all walked ahead, leaving Hunter to trail behind.
Out into the meadow they trudged. Hunter was tired by the time they got out there. It was a warm day again. He felt the sun hot on his painted shoulders. The scent of wildflowers drifted up through his animal mask and gave him some relief from the tanned-hide smell that was its nature.
“Here.” Raging Bull turned to welcome Hunter.
Where ? Hunter thought, but knew enough not to ask aloud. He tried to look around. Tall grass, trees with war paint, and a large pile of small rocks on the ground.
“Throw,” Raging Bull commanded.
“What?”
Raging Bull pointed to the pile of stones at Hunter’s feet.
Hunter bent down to pick one up. The deer head nearly toppled off. Grabbing it by one antler, he managed to slide it back, skinning the side of his head on the bones scraping against his face. Back upright with one single stone in his hand, Hunter looked at Raging Bull. “What should I throw it at?”
A long slender, yet tanned, finger pointed to one of the painted trees. There, about fifty feet away, was a red circle painted on one of the trunks, looking very much like a target. Raging Bull commanded, “Throw!” with his finger pointed directly at the center.
Hunter raised the rock and threw.
The rock fell short by several yards, to the snickers of his companions. Shame welled up inside him. Tears started to flow inside the mask, and trailed down his neck in blue, red, green, and yellow streaks as they cascaded through the paint covering him.
“I can’t,” he said, hanging his head in shame. “I’m not good enough.”
Hunter’s head was snapped back up and he was pulled eye-to-eye with a large, brown, hairy face. “Learn,” Mikey commanded. Hunter felt his hand being pulled out straight, and another rock slapped in his palm. Giant hairy fingers closed around his hand, securing the rock inside. From behind, he felt another set of muscular arms drawing his arm up over his head, at a different angle than he had thrown from before. One or two practice arcs guided Hunter’s arm in the technique that was needed to throw the rock.
“Throw.” Raging Bull stood off to the side, gauging the distance.
Hunter drew his arm back and tried to mimic the movement he’d practiced. Throwing over his head, he released the rock, scraping his forearm against the antlers he wore on his head. Recoiling in pain, he brought his arm up to see the bloody slash on his forearm. Covering it with his other hand, he looked up to see Raging Bull searching for the rock he had just thrown. Stepping closer to the tree than his last shot, the elder smiled and came back to the group.
“Throw,” he said again.
Hunter’s hand was extended out again, with another rock placed in his palm. Again, the strong muscular arms from behind guided him in his throw, avoiding the antlers, but reaching the arc necessary to hurl the rock at the right trajectory to make the strike.
Again and again, Hunter tried to hit the tree, and every time he missed, the tears flowed from under his mask of shame. Hunter was so glad his father was not here to see him. Wiping away the tears blurring his vision, he raised his aching arm over and over again for hours. Each time the rock fell short. Hunter was ready to give up, but the others did not budge. Never once showing any signs that they were ready to quit, they pressed him on and on until his eyes burned, his arm ached, and his stomach churned with the turmoil he felt inside. If there was anything inside his stomach, Hunter would have
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