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Fiction
published in Other VoicesTournament
By Paul Pekin
After a month that was winter, all winter, compressed, monotonous, and unbearably depressing, the sky turned clear and a new element rode in on the winds. There was the smell of something wet in the thick city air. Bascomb had been waiting for such a day. Since January he had been fondling his new bow, stringing it up, even coming to a full draw--but not shooting.
So here it was, a quiet Saturday morning along the block with sunlight slanting over the rooftops and cars parked bumper to bumper, windows lightly covered by frost. Nellie was still asleep. He had warned her; "Tomorrow, if it's nice, I'm going up to the archery range." And she, in her gentle mocking way, had replied:
"Watch you don't kill anyone."
The road was nearly empty, a good time to drive, and his car responded true and well, like a living thing. For long minutes and expressway miles he was scarcely aware of a wheel in his hands. A car, he supposed, was much like a bow. One got used to it, got familiar with its grip, even grew fond of it, and yet there was always that itch. A little more power. A little more glitter. One always wants a little more.
He kept his foot down on the accelerator, passing trucks, trailers, cars, even a pair of leather jacketed motorcyclists with long hair streaming back in the wind. Bascomb envied them. He thought of his job and his desk and his telephone that rang and rang, and he had to roll down the window and let in the deep cold air.
From expressway to highway, past snow spotted fields, through prosperous suburbs where rows of well kept homes reminded him that there were those who accepted good fortune as a casual birthright, he kept the window turned down. When he made the last turn down Old Factory Road, rattling over blacktop that was all broken up by the winter, he could smell, almost hear, a premature spring stirring within the earth.
Bascomb parked on the roadside. A gate blocked the entrance road and there were no other parked cars in sight. Good. Although he had been a club member since last summer, he preferred to shoot alone. Somehow he had never quite been able to shake the feeling of trespassing on this property. He would have to attend meetings and get to know people before he could do that. Bascomb was convinced he already knew too many people.
That was what was good about archery. You had your arrows, your glove, your bow--and that was all you needed. You didn't want or need companions. A man standing at full draw with his attention properly fixed upon the target has little to say and only one thing to do--release.
The range began in a grove of thorn trees, ran along a creek, spread into an overgrown pasture, and ended by a series of stunted rocky hills. Each target, set cunningly with a patch of trees, or up a deceptive incline, perhaps close by the path, perhaps distant, was meant to simulate an actual shot at a living animal. The old factory was beyond, silent and empty.
Snow persisted around the targets, surprisingly deep in places. Bascomb was ready for it. He would shoot his cheap wooden arrows today and if they were lost--well, that was why he had them. But, and he was never really to understand why, he had left space in the quiver for a set of six aluminum arrows, polished and crested, as beautiful as the new bow itself. Certainly he had not meant to shoot these over the snow.
He strolled down the path, passing up target after target where the snow seemed too deep or the footing not right, savoring the delay, feeling his heart grow larger and larger until it seemed to fill his chest. The new bow! He stopped, lips dry, and faced a straw bale some twenty-five yards off the path. The target, damp and faded, was still pinned in place from last summer.
The bow shook in his hand when he brought it to full draw and he thanked all his personal gods that he had had the good sense to stay away from the indoor range above the archery shop where he would have been watched by people who knew how to shoot these things. And this thought undid him, for it took him on to his wife who considered him clumsy, and his father who would have agreed with her. The arrow went wild, skipping through leaves and loose snow. "Oh, God, Damn!" he cried, each word as loud and clear and distinct as he could make it.
Instantly, as if called by name, an animal rose out of the earth, drowsy, confused, and shapeless. A groundhog--what else could it be?
Before he realized what he was doing, he was nocking up one of the expensive aluminum arrows (later he would always think of them as silver) and taking his draw. "What would happen," he later remembered thinking, "if this were groundhog day and I were to shoot the groundhog?"
Then he shot it, a perfect draw, a perfect sight, a perfect release. The groundhog struggled momentarily and grew still.
Not since he was a very young boy had he killed a living creature and suddenly it was as if he were back there now, standing on a frozen corn field, his ears still ringing with the report of the gun, and Dad, applauding, warm by his side. That had been a rabbit and it had bled and oozed things he wanted to forget and he had run from his father, run and thrown down his birthday gun . . .
Bascomb set his teeth and stepped through the wet leaves. The groundhog was going to be dead, no avoiding that, but when he saw the fresh dark blood spreading over the snow he could do nothing but turn away.
Driving home, a most extraordinary thought occurred. He had not actually shot the groundhog. His hand had reached into the quiver all of its own, pushed aside all those ordinary wooden arrows, found a silver one, nocked it, drawn the bow, and released. The arrow had fired itself!
He did not tell Nellie he had killed a groundhog or that he had abandoned a valuable arrow, or even why he was home early. He hung his bow and quiver in the garage and came into the living room to settle down with the Saturday paper. It was a Chicago paper and after he had read the sports, none of it seemed to matter. Here was a world, of politics, of crime, of commerce, of art, presented by unknown voices that clicked imperceptibly of some fine far off machinery. He was relieved when his sons came along with some crazy kind of a board game they had inherited from a girl cousin. "Look, it's easy," Bascomb said, joining them on his knees. You spun a metal spinner and moved as it directed. That night at the supper table he found he was staring at his wife. Her hair was cut quite short, like a boy's, and her long slender neck reminded him of something he could not quite remember.
That was February. In the weeks that followed Bascomb began working overtime at his very important job. There were meetings and negotiations and talk of promotions and money for those who would survive an impending merger. Bascomb was too busy to think of archery except fitfully and at odd moments. It seemed to him that this business of bows and arrows might be slipping out of his life--as all his hobbies eventually did. The lovely new bow and remaining five silver arrows would lie untouched in the garage, like the bones of some old and unfulfilled passion. It was sad to think this. But there were moments, sometimes at work following another heart wrenching telephone confrontation, sometimes at home surrounded by all that he loved, when he would suddenly remember that day in the grove when the groundhog raised its drowsy head.
Then it was March and another warm wet day with water running through the ditches and the ground soft underfoot. Bascomb stepped on his porch, felt the morning sun, and turned back to the telephone. "Can't make it today," he told Merrit, pretending to be sick although the lie filled him with dread. An hour later he was back at the range, stringing up his bow.
The trees, filled with twittering little birds, seemed to celebrate his arrival; he was glad to be here and alone. A man could work up a good honest sweat in this new strong sun. Why had he waited so long, so very long?
The new bow! He kept at it over an hour, nocking up the old wooden arrows. looking down their painted shafts, trying to feel or guess or sense the magic moment. To release. To release. To release! They would fly, sometimes accurately, sometimes wildly, but always carrying a whispered message that was all their own.
He was shooting across a gully when a bird landed and began to pick for worms almost thirty yards away. "Watch out there," Bascomb called, grinning. But even as he grinned he was reaching into the quiver. A silver arrow was waiting.
It almost seemed a dream. The arrow, in flight, dwindled and disappeared and the bird, brown against the brown earth, suddenly was no longer a bird.
Something bitter ran down his throat, spreading like a stain where no one would ever see it. Covering his face, Bascomb turned aside.
And it had been such a beautiful day! Birds, god damn them! Senseless dirty things that ate their food alive and shit on people's cars and twittered endlessly, meaninglessly, uselessly; you ought to be able to stamp their young, crush their cripples, throttle their warm pulsing bodies in your bare hands. So why this stain, spreading, spreading, every bit as bad as with the groundhog? He had not even meant to shoot! Something dangerous was happening. I will give up archery, he thought. I will take up something different, fishing perhaps. Fish were cold and one could kill them without this horrible stain creeping in.
The grove with its trees and the blue sky above seemed to swirl and merge and all about was the countless unendurable twittering and pulsing of unseen life. He must have run all the way to the car, the arrows jingling metallically in their quiver, but when he got there he could not even bring himself to unstring the bow. It was as if every muscle in his body were murmuring a secret message--release, release, release! Oh! It was the arrows, the silver arrows! He drew one from the quiver and touched it to his lips. He would shoot it away, shoot them all away, send them flying over the stunted trees where they
would . . .
A crow flew over, very high, calling in harsh demeaning tones. One could hate such a crow. Bascomb raised his bow and followed the bird as it circled, almost into the sun. He was not even conscious of the string, the arrow, his shooting hand, the sudden forward shock of the bow. Release. Blood rushed up his legs into the pit of his belly and the arrow rose in a whisper. Impossible. Impossible. And yet something fluttered out of the sun and the cries of the crow broke off in mid note.
There were three silver arrows left.
They came home to rest in their quiver, hung neatly from a nail in the garage. A day no longer passed that Bascomb did not think of them. He would be at the supper table and Nellie would make some chance movement, bob her graceful white neck. Bascomb would think of the arrows, hanging from that nail in the garage. Or he would be at work and suddenly look up from his desk. Merrit, his white goatee bristling, would be talking to Jimmy, the messenger. With thin feminine fingers young Jimmy would smooth back his hair and bend low over the copy. Bascomb would remember the arrows.
He even dreamed them. At a tournament beside some tall castle where pennants fluttered, pages sounded fanfares on long silver bugles. Archers in medieval garb took their places at the line. Like some deadly wind arrows whispered and soared to the distant targets. It would seem the Black Knight was meant to win. Bascomb could see him prancing his stallion at the sidelines, a slotted visor pulled over his face. Then Bascomb stepped to the line. Without effort, without thought, the silver arrows sprang from his quiver and fired themselves. Release. Release. Release! Perfect. Perfect. Perfect!~ Silver and crisp, each arrow buried itself into the center of the target, clashing against its companions. He was one and the same with his target, one and the same with his bow, one and the same with his will. At last there was but a single arrow left. It was cold, like ice, in his hands. Somebody was moving out by the targets. A page--with a Prince Valiant haircut--a lad of about fourteen, was going for the arrows. Bascomb tried to shout but it was too late, the arrow was already on the string and he was coming to full draw. The muscles of his back cracked in excruciating resistance. Along the sidelines the Black Knight allowed his horse to prance and snort in hot percussive bursts. Bascomb gave in. The bow became steady and firm in his hand; he was no longer aware of it, only of the silver arrow and its flaming blue fletches that touched tenderly at his lips. The page boy
seemed close enough to touch. He was a beautiful boy, almost a girl . . .
The third time Bascomb had this dream he made up his mind he would take the arrows back to the archery shop. Trade them for something else. But somehow this never got done. There was always someplace to go on Saturday, someplace to drive Nellie and the kids. They would visit her parents, white haired kindly people who believed in God, and Bascomb would sit silently at the supper table eyeing his wife. He found himself closing his eyes and trying to recall the magic of those moments when one stood at full draw. The memory went deep. It was an affair of muscles and blood and secret organs and it made the tiny hairs along the ridge of his back stand straight up. Release. Release. God damn it! Release!
He did not get back to the range until May. The very important job kept him away just as it kept him away from everything he really wanted or needed to do. There was Merrit with his goat's beard, and the boy Jimmy, and the telephone, and the coffee machine, and the customers, and the salesmen, and the product which seemed to change with the seasons. Part of his job was to defend the product, no matter what it was. But finally there came a Wednesday morning when he woke up to see a peculiar sun and hear the twirping of birds.
Up by Old Factory Road the woods and fields were alive and green. Dogs were barking in the distance, birds were singing. Bascomb could literally feel hundreds of lives hidden around him.
He began to shoot as he always did, with the old wooden shafts in his hit or miss fashion. But there was no pleasure in it. After an hour or so he realized he was bored. Why then had he come here?
He chose a target placed uphill in a tangle of thorn bushes, a difficult shot. Deliberately, as self consciously as if he were performing for an audience, he brought a silver arrow from his quiver. You will obey me, he thought. But his hands were strange and lifeless, something went wrong with the draw, and the arrow slid awkwardly across the shelf. He was conscious of every bit of metal and string and wood. He had to force himself to let go of the string. Let go. Not release. And the arrow went wild, flying almost sideways, banging and clattering in the thicket until it was gone forever. Bascomb turned away in disgust, in relief. He felt them both.
He was almost back to his car when a chipmunk darted across the road, a tiny creature that carried it's tail straight and stiff and high. Quite naturally he shot it.
The next morning the very important job moved in upon him, making unusual demands on his time. There was the merger at last, a promotion (Bascomb was one of the lucky ones, Merrit, with the goat's beard, was lost), and a business meting in Louisiana where he and two prize winning salesmen got laid at the other company's expense, a privilege usually reserved for buyers.
A Mr. Merkel, who shook hands with sweat in his palm, set this up. Bascomb, thinking of Nellie, of her graceful white neck, her gently laughter, the almost kindly way she served him in bed, looked at the new girl. She was a redhead with long long hair and there were dark roots in it. Young. But hard. Bascomb supposed they all were hard. They spent a full night together, first loving, then drinking, then listening to the heavy jets whistle toward the nearby airport. Bascomb surprised himself with his virility. Again and again.
The next day there was a meeting with speeches about the industry and a film about the product and a dinner where many drinks were served and when that was done there was Mr. Merkel and his girls and this time, because they were all good fellows, they switched partners. Bascomb got a blonde. She was bony. There was no give in her. In the morning he took three consecutive showers before leaving for his flight, a scant half mile away. This was all he saw of Louisiana. This was very important business.
Not till the end of August and his vacation did he get back to the bow. In his dreams--which must have occurred in some distant land for he could not bring back the images when he woke--something exquisite must have been happening. Time after time he would wake with all his muscles and cells and organs murmuring.
But the night before they left for the north country Bascomb could not sleep at all. Pacing through the darkened house, smoking cigarette after cigarette, he felt himself sliding into a depression so dark and deep it hardly seemed possible any other world could exist. Up and down the block bungalows were blacked out. He alone was awake, his lungs burning fiercely, his eyes bright open. In the garage a new station wagon was packed and ready for the trip. Very important business made many things possible.
When morning came the depression was so strong he could not even feel the loss of sleep. During the long drive to the north country and the Company lodge, it seemed as if he were driving to the end of his life. He drove steadily, silently, with his mind only upon the road. Try as he might he could not look beyond that road. "What are you sulking?" Nellie asked.
Why am I sulking, he wondered. I have just lived another year and made some money, got a promotion, bought a new car, traveled on business, and without fear or guilt fucked two hard young woman, and yet I feel that the very sun which shines today will be blackened indelibly before my eyes.
The Company Lodge was designed with the comfort of families in mind. A clear pool. Paneled rooms with television. A lounge and a restaurant. Playgrounds, and even a young man in a sweatshirt to take the children hiking along the nature trails. A family place where people could rest from the very important job without actually forgetting it.
After the children were safely in their room that night, Bascomb embraced his wife. Beyond the window a full cool moon reflected off the lake, and in its light he could see her body joined to his own. I may never do this again, he thought, and he moved gently, trying to make it last as long as he could. Far off in the forest owls and other wild things sounded their sad doomed cries.
The next morning people gathered into the recreation room, planning a golf outing. Men and wives, dressed in crisp new sports clothes, greeted each other with jokes and laughter. "How did you sleep?" Bascomb saw the two salesmen from Louisiana, tanned young fellows who now had wives with them. "I'm going for a tramp in the woods," he whispered to Nellie. "You know how I hate golf." The bow was waiting in the car.
With it strung and ready, with the quiver dangling from his belt, he started down a sandy path that led steadily into the trees, wondering if he and his weapon were in violation of any kind of law. What would happen if he were to encounter a game warden in a Smoky the Bear hat and the man, stern, authoritative, were to confiscate his last silver arrow? Would he . . . ? Would it . . . ? This was going to be a very long walk in the woods and perhaps he would not come back.
In a clearing that somehow reminded him of the outdoor range back home he came upon a small running stream. Dozens and dozens of tree stumps, bleached and whitened, were scattered throughout the high grass. He placed an old Coke can upon one of them and prepared to shoot.
Now came one of those moments when the worlds seems to change, subtly, imperceptibly, as though a cloud that already hides the sun has darkened. Suddenly there was nothing in this clearing to remind him of the range back home. The air became more rarefied, the trees taller, the scents quite different. Most of all, there was silence. He could not feel that sense of hidden life which so haunted the range back home.
He took a wooden arrow out of his quiver, came to full draw, and held on a target that inexplicably seemed to shrink. Release! It was wrong, wrong, all wrong. The arrow hissed off into the bushes, lost. He chose another, ran his fingers down the shaft, rubbed it along his leg, and drew again. Release! Release! One by one he shot away his arrows, wrong, all wrong, until only one remained. The last silver arrow, now it would be the last to go, and when it was gone there would be nothing that could take its place. If only, if only there could be one more perfect draw, one more perfect release. If only there could be such a moment, it would be the last real moment of his life. Then he heard twigs breaking across the clearing.
A group of children led by the young man in a camp counselors sweat shirt was following the stream, single file, some with branches fashioned into walking sticks, some dragging back. One of them was his eldest son, young what's his name, the one named after himself. What was his name? The boy trudged along, unaware that his father was nocking a silver arrow into his bow on the other side of the gully.
Bascomb felt his body come alive. Way down in him parts and processes he had never imagined stirred the cold turgid blood and he felt every bit of it. He felt every moment of a perfect draw, felt the arrow come back until the feathers touched his lips, felt the muscles in his hand begin to relax. Almost--but not quite--he felt the moment when target and arrow and archer are all as one and everything scattered and perverse is united. Then he realized what he was about to do. He shut his fist tight around the bow string.
The children marched through the little gully, swatting their walking sticks at the stream. It seemed to take them forever to reenter the woods. At any point in a moment which lasted forever they might have looked up and seen a man at full draw, his muscles shrieking. Finally they were gone and Bascomb was able to relax.
The silver arrow clattered to the ground. Mute and hidden within him, a terrific battle had been fought. Something had been won and something had been lost--perhaps forever. He unstrung the bow, kicked the silver arrow into the underbrush, and started back to the Company Lodge and his very important life.
But tomorrow was unimaginable.
the end
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