By Paw and Sail

Chapter 16: Alone [Shira]

Shira's paw trembled as she drew the arrow back to her chin. She took a deep breath through her nose as the gears creaked under the strain of a full draw. Finishing the last inch was easy, but getting there took all the strength she had.

The string pressed through the padded gloves and pinched her skin as she held her aim. She fixed her eyes on the feline figure in the clearing below, pushing everything else to the peripheral. Scattered rays of moonlight illuminated the cat's outline, revealing the shape of the head, body and limbs.

She pushed the air from her chest as she leveled the arrow and fixed the sights on the feline. The stinging pain in her paws turned to biting agony as she maintained the position.

One. Two. Three.

The pulleys shuddered as they lent their force to the flying arrow. It only took a second for the projectile to find its mark. The target fell to the ground as the shaft sunk into the wooden frame.

Shira lowered her weapon as the noise of the impact bounced from the thick tree trunks up into the air around her. Her limbs trembled as she leaned forward and slung the weapon behind her. She hooked the tip of the bow to her shoulder-straps before slumping onto the branch.

Her entire body trembled as she sat on the bough. Her controlled breathing became heavy and ragged as soon as she made the shot. There was no way she could do another.

Eighty-three.

She rested on the branch for a few moments before heading towards the ground. The rough bark rippled and knotted all around the trunk, creating hundreds of natural handles to ease her descent. It only took her a few seconds clamber back down the towering hardwood.

The squirrel leapt to a moss-covered stone sitting in a patch of grass near the tree's base. She snorted and tugged on the tip of her hood as she stepped towards the fallen target. The mesh mask clung to the tip of her nose. It was a constant distraction when she was shooting.

Shira pulled the padded gauntlets from her paws and felt around the base of her neck. The buttons were small and easily lost in the folds of fabric.

She took a deep breath as she pulled the hood and mask away from her head. They hung behind her, attached to the tunic by a thin strap.

The black cat lay in the middle of the open space in front of her. It was an accurate replica, but hundreds of arrows had shredded the cloth body over the last few weeks. Most of the straw stuffing had fallen out of the gaping injuries, leaving nothing but tattered fabric propped up by a flimsy frame.

Several full arrows stuck out from the target, but most of them had splintered and fractured on impact. Disembodied arrow heads and splintered shafts poked through the blades of grass around the fallen figure.

Shira stood motionless for several seconds as she examined the fallen form. She lifted her paw and held it over the body as she stared down at the woven face. The wood shattered as she stomped down with all her might, filling the clearing with the crackle of breaking sticks.

The archer was the only animal that heard the sound.  No one had lived on the island for almost ten years, although dozens of old bridges still strung the branches of the largest trees together. They linked the vacant dwellings that haunted island's canopy.

The young squirrel sunk to her knees and fell backwards onto the ground. Her heart still pounded from hours of exercise, though it was gradually returning to its normal rhythm. The sudden rush of blood into her head made her dizzy. Her body buzzed with energy, but sleep was the only thing she could think about.

She took deep breaths through her nose and expelled them from her mouth to clear her mind. For a moment, she felt the cool stillness of the surrounding forest seep through her skin. It pushed the tension from her limbs, leaving only a gentle tingling sensation in her aching muscles. It felt like she was floating above the ground.

Shira clenched her teeth as the black cat appeared behind her closed eyelids. The Dhoma's sneering voice rang in her ears as their last conversation replayed itself in her mind. She struggled to push the figure away, but her efforts only put new life into the image.

She had known the cat for years, and had spoken with her many times, but she didn't know the animal's face or name. The Dhoma always wore a black mask with large, white fangs. It was fixed in a perpetual mocking grin.  

There were other cats with the same mask, but she didn't know how many. She didn't care. There was no mistaking her target — the haughty posture and shrill voice were distinct enough.

She's already dead. 

She saw the cat in full detail, from the dark yellow eyes inside the gilded mask to the patterned hem on her cloak. Burning pain spread from her stomach up to her throat as she pictured the animal.

She's already dead. 

The squirrel repeated the words silently as she struggled to her feet and turned away from the clearing. She slipped between trees and brush to follow the path back towards the cove.

The night sky opened up overhead as she emerged from the forest and stepped onto the sand. She followed the wooden walkway along the abandonded docks, passing the flights of wooden stairs and empty terraces where shipwrights had sat only a month ago.

She's already dead.

Shira turned onto one of the piers near the end of the secluded harbor. The ropes tethering her ship to the wooden pillars creaked as waves licked at the sides. She loosened the binding before jumping into the boat.