A lone droplet of sweat slid down the length of his outstretched arm. He tried with all of his might to hold still, if only for a few more seconds. Yet even in the midst of his struggle and strain, he felt that tiny bead of liquid reach his elbow, waver for a moment, and fall to the ground. With one eye shut tight, he peered down the wooden shaft, spying the black nose of his prey appear from the sanctuary of the papery birches. She edged her head out among the trees and lowered her snout to graze, bowing to some eminent figure hidden from the hunter’s sight.
Thwap.
He watched as the arrow skipped off one of the pale trees and into the underbrush. By the time the hunter registered the snap of the bowstring against his skin, only the animal’s hind legs were visible between the trees. His target had already darted away to the safety of the forest. The hunter readjusted the strap of the quiver against his back and went in pursuit of his arrow.
He searched through the patchy sunlight of the woods, determined to make up for his errant shot and faltering strength. While she may have escaped for the moment, he did not want to lose his arrow as well as his target.
Relieved, he spotted a crimson feather standing out among the deep greens of the shrubbery and fallen bark. He wrenched his arrow from the ground, cleaned off the mud covering its deadly tip, and deposited it back among its partners. His father’s words came back to him: “The arrow will always fly true; it is up to the bowman to set the correct destination.” The arrow had indeed flown true. The hunt would have been over that morning if only he had possessed enough strength to hold the bowstring taut as the animal’s tan figure emerged from the trees.
In the dirt next to where his arrow had landed, he spied a lone print pointing deeper into the forest. He stopped to examine it, gained a better idea of the size of his target, and decided to continue onward. She could not have gotten too far in the few moments he had spent probing for his arrow.
Underneath the dense canopy of the forest, only patches of sunlight filtered through the layers of leaves. He walked through these scattered beams of brightness that speckled the rows of wildflowers around him.
The hunter pushed on, scanning for any signs of his target’s flight. The morning air filled his lungs as he continued to place one leg in front of the other. At times he would break into a sprint, swept up with the sheer energy of the pursuit.
Suddenly, movement in the distance. He stopped. The branches had leaned closer to whisper a secret to one another, betraying the location of his prey. The hunter waited for the animal to move out into the clearing before even daring to reach behind him for an arrow. If he could only get closer to his shifting target, he would have an even easier shot than before.
Crack.
The deceitful branches had once more allied themselves with the creature of the forest. As the hunter stepped forward, a fallen stick snapped in half under his boot. Heeding the warning signal, the hunter’s target scampered off for the second time.
The hunter threw his bow to the ground in disgust. Perhaps, it would be better to abandon the chase for tomorrow. But who knows if he would be able to find her again in the vast forest? The thought of returning home empty-handed filled him with just as much dread as the idea of missing yet another shot.
He picked up his bow and walked on.
Following the direction of his target, the hunter continued through the woods. As he moved onward, the ground gradually sloped upwards. Soon, the hunter found himself nearly forced to grab at the young saplings lining the hill to pull himself forward. If he had not seen the tracks of his prey along the slope, he would have doubted she could have managed the sharp ascent.
After a few more minutes of struggle up the hillside, his path leveled out again. At the top, the ghostly birch trees were replaced with powerful oaks. They stood like sentinels at their watchtower, guarding the inhabitants of the forest below. As he scrambled up the last bit of the incline, the hunter could already hear the tap of a lone woodpecker hidden among the foliage, beating a marching cadence for the guards of the hilltop.
Stopping for a second to take in his surroundings, the hunter froze. The mighty oaks were not the only sentries located at the top of the hillside. Just a few yards away from the hunter lay a mountain lion asleep at the threshold of his rocky den. While the beast’s head remained perfectly still, the hunter watched its tail twitch back and forth in its slumber. He knew that the animal might look peaceful, but would tear him to pieces with its powerful jaws if provoked. The path of his target went right past the cougar’s lair.
The hunter realized that complete silence was of the essence. Before it had meant bagging his prey, now it meant the difference between life and death. He stepped forward, remembering this time to place his feet carefully among the scattered stones and twigs. The hunter crept past the mouth of the cave, worried that the animal would catch his scent. Closer up, he could get a better look at the slumbering mountain lion. He noticed that it had a ring of fur on its neck that was a different color from the rest of its coat. Abruptly, the beast rolled on its side and stretched out its menacing claws, taunting the hunter even from its dreams. He did not want to get any nearer to examine them further.
Luckily, the hunter made it safely past without determining if the claws were as sharp as they appeared. He quickened his pace to gain some ground in case the dozing feline might open its eyes. As he hurried away, he peeked behind to make sure that he had not become the one being hunted. A furry paw flexed in the air. Breathing heavily, the hunter rushed forward and suddenly found himself tumbling down the hillside. Crashing through the brush, he rolled down the slope, desperately trying to regain control over his body. But his flailing arms could not grab hold of any of the branches. He resorted to dragging his hands through the soil to stop his tumbling.
The hunter came to halt near the bottom of the slope. Somehow, his bow had landed a few feet from him and was still in one piece. Unfortunately, only a few arrows remained in his quiver. The rest could be seen strewn down the hillside, marking the path of his fall. Looking down at his leg, he saw a line of bright red along the length of his calf. He had not escaped his encounter with the mountain lion completely unscathed.
The hunter did his best to bind his wound with some leaves and dried grasses after scraping off the pebbles dotting his skin. His makeshift bandage would have to suffice to stop the bleeding. He refused to let the injury slow him down. Already the sun had moved well past the midpoint of the sky and his growing hunger told him to make haste.
The hunter strode on, occasionally spotting another print from his prey. By now, he had only a few hours of daylight left to complete his hunt. He tried his best to ignore the steady throbbing from his fresh gash, but each step seemed to slice his leg anew.
As the combination of pain and fatigue set in, the hunter’s eyelids grew reluctant to open after each blink. Once, twice, he stumbled—jarring him wide-awake for a brief moment. But then after a few more paces, he would return to a daze, that half-state where consciousness and sleep take turns at the helm.
He walked on in this way for some time, only partially aware of his surroundings. He could hear the echoing calls of the birds of the forest, yet his eyes continued to close for longer stretches. His target had stayed on this path as well, but she had remained much more alert than the hunter. ¬¬
Abruptly, he felt a change in the terrain that snapped him from his stupor. Chilling dampness began to spread up the right side of his body. He looked down to see his leg sinking into a deep pit of mud.
Alarmed, he pulled his leg out of the muck, eyes now wide open. He was boxed in by walls of trees on both sides, the pool of sludge before him and defeat to his rear. His nimbler prey had clearly crossed the pit, its shallow tracks dotting the mud. The hunter doubted he could trudge through with his weak leg. He raised his eyes to the heavens, searching for a sign that would tell him which way to go.
There in the space above him, the gnarled tree limbs had fused together as they grew. The web of interconnected branches was the result of centuries of growth, each year the boughs inching closer and closer until they became one. The hunter realized that this was his way across the mud pit.
Adjusting the bow and quiver on his back, the hunter stretched upwards and stood on his toes. His arms were just long enough to grasp the branch nearest to him. He pulled his body upwards and hung there for a moment. Already he could feel the strain on his aching tendons but knew he must ignore the pain. He would only have enough strength for one attempt at making it across.
Kicking his legs back and forth, the hunter swung his body forward. He reached with one hand and grabbed the next branch. It buckled under its newfound burden but did not snap. In this manner, the hunter swung across the mud pit, each successful transition from branch to branch giving him greater confidence and power.
Only a few branches left, he forgot about the pain in his leg. A fleeting lapse in concentration. The hunter mistimed his next swing and dropped into the pool below. The heavy mud swallowed his body, threatening to drag him down to its blind depths. The hunter crawled through the muck, fighting to keep his head free from its cold grasp. His gaze focused on the scrap of grass at the end of the pit, he pulled himself through the grime.
Heaving his body out of the mud, the hunter could not even bring himself to stand. He lay filthy on the ground, mind and body drained. Was the hunt worth all of this? He could not bring himself to determine an answer.
After a few moments of rest, he forced himself to rise and continue on.

Once more he saw a set of fresh tracks that confirmed that his path was correct. The mossy ground was growing springy beneath his steps. The faint sound of rushing water came from the distance. As he walked farther on, this murmur grew from a faint rumble to a deafening roar. At the same time, the gaps between the beams of sunlight slicing through the forest canopy shrank. The clumps of trees began to thin. The hunter stepped out into a clearing, shocked by the harsh sunlight. As his eyes adjusted to the onrush of brightness, he saw that a powerful waterfall was the source of this noise.
He stopped for a moment and marveled at the intensity of the flow of the water. He craned his neck, tracing the path of the thunderous torrent from the peak of its mountain, through the air, and into a frothing river below. The waterway stretched on in both directions, around a bend in the tree line and out of his sight.
Where could his target have gone? He could choose a direction and follow the course of the river, but he saw no more of the tracks along the shoreline. At that point, it would be a blind chase. Only chance would grant him another opportunity to aim his bow.
As he stood making his decision, suddenly the flow of the waterfall ceased. The last few droplets fell into the river and once more he could hear the birdsong of the forest. Hidden beneath the waterfall had been a thick log spanning the banks of the river.
He could not swim across in his condition. Perhaps his prey had been granted a temporary pathway across the slick log. Yet, he feared that the waterfall’s flow could begin again at any moment. If it started while he was making his way across, the sheer strength of the water would knock him into the river. He would be carried downstream helpless.
The hunter could look for another crossing somewhere else, but that could not be for miles. By the time he found another route, his quarry would be long out of the range of even the strongest bow.
He knew he only had one path to follow if he wanted to have any chance of completing his hunt. Otherwise, he might as well turn back now. He shuffled closer to the edge of the log. Each second he delayed, the chance of the cascade returning grew. Yet, he could not bring himself to take that first step. Images of his body being swept downstream and tossed against the rocks by power of the current flashed through his head.
He placed one foot on the log, testing its ability to hold his weight. But he was only stalling—the massive trunk must have been there for years, strong enough to withstand the continued onslaught of thousands upon thousands of gallons of water. Taking a deep breath, he thrust another leg forward and stepped on to the edge of the piece of lumber. Shutting out every sensible thought that told him to go back and give up the hunt for another day, he methodically made his way across. Each stride brought him closer to the other bank of the river, but did nothing to lessen his fear. Suddenly, his foot slid off the log and he nearly splashed into the water. Yet, he regained his balance and continued onward. With only a few more steps until the safety of firm ground, he felt a drop of water land on his head.
The hunter quickened his pace as a steady shower began to rain down upon him. Reaching the opposite shore, he leaped to safety. Glancing back, he watched the growing curtain of water once again drawn across his safe passage.
Now the sky was a deep purple, the sun laying down to rest after a long day. The hunter too was weary, but willing to continue his chase until he could see no more in the fading twilight. At last, he spotted his target in a small clearing up ahead. He knocked an arrow and drew his bow. The coarse string just glanced against his cheek as he stretched it taught.
A deep breath.
Steady… steady. His prey’s ears perked up just as the hunter was about to let fly his final shot.
“Billllllly, dinner’s ready!”
His target galloped off towards the sound of her master’s voice. Billy put his suction-cup tipped arrow in his quiver and followed his dog back to the house. He ran past the sprinkler watering the patchy lawn full of crabgrass, his beloved jungle gym with the peeling blue paint that had been around since his older brother was born, the neighbor’s cat Bella stretched out on the pink patio tiles like she was every afternoon, and finally his mother’s rose garden with four types of flowers that were each named after a former First Lady. His mom waited at the door and gave him a reproachful shake of the head.
“Have you been chasing the dog around the yard again with your bow and arrow set? What have I told you about that, Billy? And how did you scrape your leg? Plus you’ve got dirt all over your new shirt we just got you. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up before your father comes home. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with you.”
Billy followed his mother inside the house without protest as the screen door slammed shut behind them. He wasn’t even mad that he didn’t get to finish his hunt.