Awoken

A resounding crash rampaged through the wooden cabin, causing me to fly to my feet to attack the intruder, arrow already notched and pointing wildly around the room. My fingers, as pale as snow from my titanic grip on the bow, seemed like steel from the amount of force exerted. My breathing was ragged and shallow as my eyes jumped around the room, searching for the disturbance. Lightning flashed outside, mocking me, and the complementary thunder rumbled with mirth at my reaction. Slowly, the sleep wore off and it dawned on me where I currently resided: in my tiny bedroom. I gradually lowered my bow and sheathed the arrow, my fingers groaning in pain and relief as the blood rushed back to them and the tension in their joints released. I curled and uncurled them repeatedly, marveling at the pain that shot through my joints as I did so. After some time, the pain neglected to return and my attention drifted to why, exactly, I had been sleeping against the wall instead of in my bed, and why my bow had been in my steely grip instead of the hunting wall, where it belonged.

“Daddy, can we hunt tonight?” I had petitioned my father that night over the meager meal of rice we could spare not to sell.

“No, Kitten, it’s too dark, and there’s a storm on its way,” he’d replied.

Daddy always called me kitten. It was a special name to me that only special people could call me by. I sighed. It wasn’t that a lack of permission prevented me from going hunting; I just wanted to use my bow without the risk of repercussions in the form of getting in trouble. “When can we go?” I continued, not really meaning the question, as I needed to hunt, today. I have to help my family, in any way I can. We barely make enough to keep food in our stomachs, and I have to help counteract that and feed us.

“When the rain lets up.”

So just about, oh, I don’t know… three months from now, when the dry season begins. I snorted and continued eating the rice. The storm was unfortunate, as it would prevent me from starting a fire and cooking my kill, but not entirely unexpected. I could just slip my prey into the game bag when I got back.

As I retreated to my room to wait for everyone to go to bed, I silently thanked my mother for teaching me how to read when I was younger; her passion was for books, while mine was for books and hunting.

I passed the time by poring over a book on plants and their uses. I liked to know herbs for my hunting trips, and just in case of a scrape or winter frostbite.

I closed the book with a snap, then winced at the noise. I glanced through the door, and, upon noting that both my parents remained in the kitchen, withdrew my eyes, tapping my fingers impatiently. I could have remained this way for an hour or five minutes. I lost track of time. Feeling unprotected and naked without my bow and arrows, I sneaked to the hunting wall and collected them. Mom’s and Daddy’s backs were to me, and the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof and the occasional rumbles of thunder masked the slight creak of the floorboards. Once in my room, I slumped on the wall near the door and waited for my parents to retire. I didn’t even notice when my eyes drooped and I slipped off to sleep.

Fully awake now and over my scare with the thunder, I crept outside, shying at the click of the lock and creak of the door. Nonetheless, my departure went unquestioned. I silently padded along, neither grass rustling nor leaf crinkling as I moved like a dark shadow through the prairie. The rains of the month of Last Frost soaked everything I wore and chilled me to the bone. I prayed to no one in particular for warmer weather, knowing no pleas would be heeded, even if a divine presence existed. No one, not even a deity, rushes the weather in Styrma. The weather pretty much does what it likes and never lets anyone tell it otherwise.

Daddy first taught me to use a bow when I turned six, but Mom wouldn’t let him take me hunting until seven. She rationalized that if I hadn’t gotten killed by then, I could avoid it in a future with a few more freedoms. Besides, the extra food would be welcome. When I turned ten, last year, my gentle passion for the bow turned to craving. The bow felt right at home, embraced in my fingers. I loved the springy twang as I released the bowstring, the sense of accomplishment as the nimble projectile found its mark. I’d gone out secretly almost every night after learning the joy of archery. Though I sneaked out often, I didn’t hunt more than twice a week. Daddy would notice if too much game appeared.