Coera

It was an evening in early autumn when Pol bi’Menan bi’Tal left his father’s house by the lower gate. Outside, he was joined by his servant Mun. Mun was also his friend.

They strode through the long glade of evenly-spaced, red-leafed birch that crowned his father’s hill, then passed over the stone bridge that led beyond the river at the edge of town. Behind them, an orange sun drifted down through gauzy strands of clouds.

“What have you got there?” asked Mun, though he already knew the answer.

Pol, who was already smiling, beamed, and held forth a grand bow. “My birthday gift,” he answered. The bow glinted in the fading light of the sun. The curving shaft, more than half his height but as narrow as his thumb, was inlaid with knotted patterns of silver and bronze that recalled the devices in the crests over his father’s door. The wood had a dusky gray grain, and he did not know its name.

Mun admired the bow, but did not ask to hold it.

Pol drew an arrow from his quiver and notched it. The bow was as light as the arrow, or lighter, and Pol had the greatest strength of his father, yet he could only just draw the bow to his shoulder. With a quick motion, he drew back and released. The arrow flew to the stump of a tree, and when it struck, the arrow shattered.

Mun ran forward to inspect the mark. When Pol arrived, he said, “The arrowhead is too deep to retrieve. Unless you have another quiver hidden beneath your cloak, you should practice with greater care.”

Pol placed the bow behind his shoulder, but did not unstring it. “My father said this is the bow of a man. I mean to bring back the greatest buck that can be found, to prove him right.”



The moon was full, so Pol and Mun walked through the night, following the river upstream toward the hills. The clouds from the evening had disappeared with the sun, and the stars rivalled the moon with their brightness. Past the mid-harvest fields, past the mill, the river led them into the forest. They knew of a clearing deep into the growth where the river pooled and creatures would often come to drink. Picking their way silently between roots and fallen leaves, they passed the night life with little notice.

They reached the clearing before morning and climbed a large tree near its edge. Perched in the great curving branches, they waited patiently, only occasionally tapping out a quick question or joke on each other’s arm.

The morning sun rose to find them alert and wide-eyed, watching the tree-line intently. Birds began to welcome the golden glow with their song, and a rabbit cautiously approached the pools edge for a drink. Pol and Mun remained still. An hour passed, and so did a fox, a racoon, and a half-dozen wild pigs. Mun rolled his shoulders against the rough bark of the trunk and stretched. Then, strolling out from between the trees across the pool came a doe, than another, and another pair. Four deer, and between them a fawn and a yearling, and then, as they reached the water, the buck came behind him. He was old, and wise by his eyes, and stood at least to Pol’s shoulder in height. He held his head aloft, feigning a sniff for danger as he proudly displayed his great crown of antlers. With measured steps he marched down between the other deer, who bowed and parted for him. He tasted the water.

Pol had not moved. Mun tapped his shoulder, Here is your shot.

Pol shook his head. He is not the greatest.

Mun’s mouth drew to a line. You will not find greater this close to the edge of the forest.

Pol hesitated, and the deer serenely disappeared back into the trees. “You are right,” he whispered to Mun. “We should go deeper.”



That afternoon, they were walking along the edge of what had become a stream, and Mun picked berries from bushes as they passed. “We only brought food for the day,” he reminded Pol. The stream twisted and turned through older growth, and there were times they had to walk in the shallows to continue.