The Arrowsmith
The arrow struck the wooden target with a loud thwunk. Its flight had been true; the three arrows now protruding from the bull's-eye less than in inch apart were proof enough. After releasing the tension, still perfectly posed with his fist against his cheek, he allowed a thin smile.Dry leaves crunched under his feet. Late afternoon cool excitement pricked the air, for this was that time of year when man can, for a short time, indulge in the primal art of hunting, as his ancestors did so long ago.Reaching the target stand, he pulled the three arrows out, carefully holding each close to the head so as not to damage them. After placing them in a quiver hanging at his side, he returned to the shooting line, a boy and a bow.He heaved the cable with a nock of the arrow between his fingers, his breath showing before his face in the crisp autum air. Checking the shaft of the arrowrest, he lined up the pins for the shot. By mere chance, just at that moment, the mutt stepped into view. Standing directly in front of him, it was a scraggly thing, its curly black hair caked with mud and burrs. Most likely it had been abandoned as a puppy, left struggling to survive on its own. Turning its head and meeting the human's quiet stare, it stopped and crouched, muscles tense. He was a boy who loved animals. One time he had found a baby racoon along the roadside. It had been struck by a car and was crawling helplessly across the pavement. He picked it up in his arms and carried it to his bedroom. Fixing the shattered limb in a splint and nursing it back to health, he aquired a pet. It could walk eventually, but always with an inchworm, limping motition. All his care was in vain, however, for it crawled onto the road one day, and was killed by a truck that swerved out of its way to hit him. The boy now looked at the creature before him. He lowered the bead on a daring impulse and placed it on the mutt's body, straining to see in the dimming light. Suddenly the tension at his fingers released, and even as it did, he felt a pang of regret. the sliver of carbon struck the startled animal square in the front shoulders, at a mere thirteen yards. A raucous, pitiful yelp followed, searing the boy's nerves.Dropping the bow, he stumbled forward, realizing it must be put out of its misery. He fumbled in his pockets for the large jackknife he always carried. It was an elegant thing, a six-inch lockback with a white pearl handle and gold trim. His father had given it to him long ago. Where was it? For a moment he thought he felt it in his hands, then it was gone. Or was it ever there? Forgetting the knife, he turned back to the bow, grabbed it in haste, and teetered up to the mutt. With a shaky hand he reached to his side for a new arrow. There was nothing there! Feeling his waist searching the ground, he did not find the quiver. He faced the mutt. It stood upright on four legs, howling still, looking the boy calmly in the eye as if nothing had happened. The arrow stuck out of its side. The arrow! Clenching his teeth and grasping the arrow by the shaft, he pulled. It held fast. He pulled harder and actually lifted the poor mongrel off the ground, dangling helplessly at the end of the arrow. Dropping it after a ghastly, prolonged moment, he turned, tripping over his own feet and scrambling back up in his panic. He frantically searched for a stick, a rock--anything to use as a weapon. Seeing only a small branch, he picked it up, but it was rotten, and broke even as he lifted it. He ran back to the shuddering animal and jerked the shaft once again, hard. The animal lapsed into silene from the pain, and the arrow somehow came free, minus one of the six blades. He picked up the bow, fumbling to nock the arrow and began to pull the cable back. It wouldn't move. Horrified, he saw that the cable had derailed from the upper wheel when he dropped it. Desperate, he flung the bow aside and grasped the arrow with both hands. Standing over the mutt, he thrust the point deep into its throat. It struggled a moment, wheezing, covered with frothing blood. Then it lay still, its eyes glazed over. He stood upright to rest a moment, and sucked in a deep breath. A cold wind blew across his face, ruffling the dark hair. Taking hold of the worn leather collar around the mutt's neck, he lifted and, nearly running, began to carry the body. It was impossibly heavy. Shortly, he reached the small area of the swamp he was headed for and sloshed out into the middle. Throwing the body down, he sank the corpse. When he got home, he went straight to the bathroom, hoping everyone else was already in bed. He washed his hands and watched the blood swirl down the sink. Looking up in the mirror, he wiped a smear off his cheek. Finishing in a hurry, he went to his room. He stared at the ceiling for several hours before dropping off to sleep. The next day, he returned to the splattered patch of grass where the struggle had taken place. Lying at its center, an open jackknife glimmered in the morning sun.He bent down to pick it up and noticed a dark smear across the pearl handle. He tried to rub it off with his thumb, and then with his shirttail, but it was a bloodstain and would probably never come out. Angry, he threw it as far as he could and slumped down on the ground. He stared at the grass for a moment, listening to the peaceful chattering of a pair of chickadees in the distance. Suddenly, he stood and rand after the knife, dropped to his knees, and searched the brush. He found it after a worried moment and sighed while slipping it into his pocket. After a final glance around the area, he started home. 