Conflict of Culture

Conflict of Culture - Chapter One Scene Seven

Your mine, and this time I mean it. Fyle made sure to get downwind. He’d done what he could to minimize its ability to detect him through sight or smell. He hoped there were enough other noises to hide the sounds his movement would make. Twenty meters was all he needed.

Slowly, he crept up on it, moving as many meters as minutes passed. Twenty-one meters, the moment of truth. He took the final crouching step forward. Twenty meters, the deer didn’t move. Twenty meters was the maximum range on his bow. He’d have to make a perfect shot. Not likely. One more meter. Nineteen meters, the deer continued chewing on the grass.

He got nineteen. Why not eighteen? What’s the worst that can happen, the deer runs off again? Sixteen meters, the sweat was running down his back. His heart was in his throat. Could he do it, could he get fifteen?

Fifteen meters, the deer lifted its head and looked around. Fyle held his breath. His thighs were cramping. His back ached from bending over for so long. The deer tentatively went back to eating.

Fourteen meters, why the hell not? It was best to check the range and then strategize once he knew what his options were. The deer’s head popped up. Its ears swiveled. Fourteen meters seemed to be the limit, but he had to be sure. He waited until the deer had gone back about its business and then gave it a few minutes, gave it a chance to let its guard back down.

Thirteen meters. The head popped up. The ears swiveled. It looked around slowly. He saw the tension in its hind legs, as if it were a wound up spring waiting to release. It didn’t move, didn’t look back down.

Ten minutes, he couldn’t hold the awkward position and stumbled. It took off without a moment’s hesitation and made no effort to look back. There was nothing he could do. He didn’t even have his bow equipped, afraid it may interfere with his movements.

Thirteen meters then, that’s the best I can get. Should probably stick to fourteen or fifteen, though, because at thirteen it was just too skittish.

He settled on fifteen, noting the ear swivels at fourteen. He wasn’t sure if that meant anything, but he thought it may mean that it had focused more on hearing than sight at that point. And, since no matter what he did, he figured he’d make some sound getting the bow set and aimed, he chose to maximize his chances.

Another way he worked to maximize his chances was in figuring out the quickest way to get the bow out and ready. A good amount of practice later and he’d established it was small enough that it didn’t prove to be much hindrance to stealthy movement while in his hand. It should’ve been obvious from the outset that this was the case; retrieving it from his backpack was never going work.

He then practiced quickly raising it from at his side to aimed and shooting, over and over until he was comfortable with the movement. He had a bunch more arrows to work with so there was no longer any concern about running out.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t practice forever. He had no idea how long the deer would maintain its pattern. He also had to worry about goblok reinforcements and other creatures. When he’d done as much preparation as he’d dared, he went back on the hunt. The deer was as easy to find as ever.

OK, this time I really mean it. You’re mine.

After doing some final stretches, he went into stalk mode.

Fifteen meters out. The deer was in his sights. It’d gone back to eating. He took a few deep, controlled breaths - as he’d patterned. The third was the cue. Inhaling on the fourth, he’d raise the bow. Exhaling he’d shoot.

One…two…three… Squawk!

From out of nowhere, four ravens dive-bombed him and totally threw off his concentration. The arrow went flying off into the air. The deer darted into the distance.