Revolutions

3 - Inuxeq

Mouth slightly ajar, I steady my breathing—long, slow breath in, long, slow breath out. The stillness of the jungle gives the target an advantage, and every step I take has to be precise and unerring or else I give my position away. I lurk low so as not to be seen by it, cautiously crouching behind vegetation. I'm within a few paces, so close I could run to it in a couple of strides. Its brown hide blends in well with the surrounding trees, and enough leaves from the multitude of new sprouts obscure its position from most predators. The large eyes of the doe are fixed on what she plans to eat, unaware of any potential threat.

Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.

As I was taught a long time ago, I carefully place my left foot in front of me to line up with the target, hips perpendicular to stabilize my stance. I steadily raise the bow, drawing the string back with my index and middle fingers that gently secure the nocked arrow as I lift the bow upward.

Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.

A sudden crack jostles both the deer's and my attention. From above, vibrant blue and yellow plumage catches my eye as a nearby macaw plucks at a tree's buds, the remnants dropping to the rainforest floor. Large, velvety antlers of a buck come into view, further beyond the doe and obstructed by numerous trees as he inspects the area. The two are still, listening for any enemy to make its presence known to them. Like them, I make no moves and even pause breathing, keeping the string taut and the arrow nocked, but halt raising them, barely blinking so that even my eyes aren't making any movements to give myself away. The macaw finishes its meal and, not interested in waiting to see who flinches first, flies away to find more sprouting buds. The doe is the first to return to eating, and the buck snaps another twig with his hoof as he positions himself for a dense patch of leaves.

Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.

With the doe more clearly in my line of sight, I relax my shoulders and complete drawing my right arm across my chest as my left arm guides me to the deer. Just how my father told me to do when I was little, now turned into instinct, I use both eyes to lock in the target—"using both eyes to see your target doubles your chances of hitting it," he always said. The string rests on my cheek and the back of the arrow touches the side of my jaw, like I always do. The doe raises her head up for a moment, sensing movement or danger, but remains still. I feel her looking at me. An outside presence seemingly guides my hands.

Long, slow breath in. Hold you breath. Remain steady.

Release.

----

"And you let the buck get away?" Sachia asks me over his left shoulder, a pole hoisted atop his right. His deep, throaty voice sounds bewildered, almost offended.

"The buck would have made for a bigger haul, but not enough of him was visible through the shrubbery and vegetation," I tell him, adjusting the pole on my right shoulder for a better grip. "I chose the guaranteed target."

"I would've gotten him," he says.

"This is why I'm a better hunter than you. You would've set your eyes too big and missed both of them. But I'm the one who got the haul."

Sachia chuckles and shakes his head. I can see the side of a smirk along his square jaw. His long, black hair is tied in a tight knot at the back of his head, and I see his back muscles flexing through the bow and quiver of arrows strapped to him while he carries the pole with our doe. He's average height, not much taller than me, but he's built as if he has the muscular structure of a man twice his size. He may be the most athletic and physically gifted in Tuatiu, but he knows my claim as the better hunter is right—he's said as much to others in our village of Iantana (when I'm not around, of course). It's because of this that I've become good friends with him. Although the Tuatiu train both men and women to hunt and fight, there aren't many men in the village who will ever confess that a woman such as myself is a better hunter than they are. Call it pride, call it chauvinism—I call it "motivation".