Fast animals and slow hunters

Arvid would never say he was thin. But then again, he certainly would not admit to being fat either. Nor was he ever such a good hunter that he was able to become truly obese. It was not that he wanted to gorge till he burst although he never did pass up a chance to properly stuff his face. He was just a tad overweight or, as he often explained to the other hunters in the village, he was big boned and had a bit of a belly, which made him look heavy.

His weapon of choice was his bow. This was not because he was a particularly good archer or because he had better aim than the others, but a bow allowed him to strike his prey without having to prowl through the bush or chase his quarry down like his companions armed with spears and javelins had to do. He was not so nimble in the bush due to his bulging belly, which was a problem when it would brush up against branches and shrubs in the underbrush making noise that alerted his prey. Certainly, his bow had been quite expensive. There were not many bows in the village of such high quality as his. So, Arvid was happy with his purchase. The only problem with his bow was, of course, having to go and retrieve the arrows, since when he missed the target, they tended to fly far off. If they did not pierce a tree they might break up into splinters against a rock, or even worse, they would sometimes bury themselves who knows how deep in the ground. Once it took Arvid one whole hour to dig an arrow out of the ground. In the end, he was so fatigued and dirty that he swore he would never do that again.

He then decided that if he wanted to lose fewer arrows he had to improve his aim. So, behind the wooden house on the edge of the village, where he lived, he would practise archery every day. To warm-up, he would first aim for the nearest beech, oak or maple tree, to then move on to the trees that were further away. When, after shooting four or five arrows, his arm would start aching so much he could no longer draw his bow. So, shaking his arm out to loosen it, he would go out to retrieve his arrows, cussing and swearing especially when he had to search for one that was lost in the underbrush because he had missed the mark. That is, until he saw that his son was having such a good time watching him practice. In exchange for instruction on how to use the bow, his boy was willing to go and retrieve the wayward arrows. From then on, since father and son spent so much more time together, Arvid was able to teach him many things. With a satisfied smile, Arvid would take his pint of mead and watch his son frolic and romp looking for his lost arrows.

All that practise with his bow made Arvid's arms very strong, which he boasted about with the other hunters whenever he had the chance. However, he had always neglected to train his legs.

That was why when the wolves attacked, Arvid was the slowest of the group.

No one had heard their howls until it was too late: grey shadows leapt out of nowhere as they dashed through the trees. The penetrating reek of the savage animals overwhelmed the fragrance of resin and the approaching rain. All the other hunters fled screaming toward the village. The only thing Arvid could hear were the aroused snarls and the wolves' jaws snapping behind him as his legs churned at a speed he would never have believed possible, one stride after another, as primordial terror rose icily up his back. Although he was running faster than he had ever run, Arvid continued to fall behind the other men, cursing his own laziness and protruding belly at this moment as never before. He cried out for help, beseeching the others to wait for him in a voice made shrill by fear. Yet no one slowed and no one turned to face the pack of wolves ready to strike them with his spear. This was not normal behaviour for these wild animals and the hunters did not know how to behave except to flee.

Arvid's mouth was dry, and he was panting. He soon learned just how much he needed the breath he was wasting by screaming to keep running. Hearing the wolves' paws as they hit the ground right behind him, he was certain they were going to catch him, and he could no longer see the other hunters. Having decided to turn around and fight in a desperate attempt to survive, Arvid tripped and smashed his nose as he fell to the ground, where he could smell the odour of the leaves mixed with his own blood and the bitter taste of the earth in his mouth. He rolled over and over for a few interminable seconds and then ended up on his back, flailing and gasping for air.