Fade To Black (Into The Darkness Book 2)

by Doug Kelly

  On the dirt path, walking toward the tree, a man carried a young boy over the crest of the hill. The man had black, straight hair down to his shoulders, just like the boy. The boy had tied his hair back with a strip of deer leather, but the man’s hair blew freely in the wind, and on most occasions, draped the sides of his face. Both were barefoot and wore soft leather clothes made from tanned deerskin. The man’s left hand was crippled, but he was still able to carry his son down the dirt trail. The man carried the boy on his shoulders, and the child carried a bundle of rope and two bows. One was a small bow for a child, and the other was a larger bow that the man had used to kill the deer that had provided their clothes. As they got closer to the tree, the young boy wiggled to let his father know that he wanted to get down from his shoulders. The man stopped and squatted to release his son, and he took the bundle of rope and bows from him. The young boy started to scurry forward, but stopped and crouched just as quickly. He turned to look back at his smiling father. His son had glanced ahead and noticed the squirrels under the tree. As his son looked back for an approving nod from his dad, the man handed the boy the small bow and a blunt-tipped arrow. From his low position behind the tall grass, the young boy strung the bow. He nocked an arrow, gripped the string firmly with the fingers of his right hand, and held the bow with his left. He looked back at his father for approval once more, and he saw his father smile and nod. The young boy moved silently on bare feet through the tall grass. The grass was shorter and thinner as he got close to the tree. His camouflage was gone, but he was close enough to try his aim at the squirrels. He focused on the closest of the three squirrels at the base of the tree, lifted his left hand, and slowly pulled his right hand back until he felt the string touch his right cheek. He closed one eye, adjusted his aim, and let go of the string. In an instant, the squirrel in front of him was motionless on its side. It was a direct hit. The boy yelled victoriously and called for his father as the adult squirrels chattered at the invaders. The two younger squirrels scurried into their nest, high in the tree.

  “Look, I did it! I did it just like you showed me!”

  “Yes, you did.” The man leaned his bow against the tree, in case there was any dew left on the grass, and held onto the bundle of rope. “I think you’re ready to hunt with the men now.”

  The boy did not know what to say. Hunting with the men would be his first step to manhood. His father gave him a small slap on the back, and the young boy absorbed the feeling of triumph, however small a victory it actually was. The boy unstrung his bow and leaned it against the tree, just as his father had done, and set the blunt arrows beside it.

  “Who taught you to hunt?” asked the boy, in an unusually inquisitive voice.

  The man replied, “My father. He also taught me how to do this.” The man loosened his grip on the bundle and let the rope unravel to the ground. His father had given him the rope swing, decades ago.

  “What is it?” asked the boy.

  “It’s a swing. I’ll show you how it works.” The man looked at a thick branch parallel to the ground and jumped up, swinging an end of the rope at the two adult squirrels still chattering at them. The squirrels scampered farther up the tree.

  On the opposite side of the tree, the barefoot man found a low branch and pulled himself up with a dexterity unexpected from someone with a crippled hand. As a child, he had gotten much tree-climbing practice from harvesting fruit and looting eggs from bird nests. He was young when someone evil had hurt his hand, so he had had many years to adapt to the impediment. Climbing above the chosen branch, the man securely tied the rope swing to it and then climbed down, deftly.

  “There it is,” said the man, as he gave his son a gentle push forward.

  “What should I do?”

  “Sit on it, and I’ll show you.”

  The boy turned his back to the swing and grabbed the ropes. With arms extended high, he took a small jump and landed securely on the seat.

  “Hold tight,” warned his father, and he gave the young boy a gentle push forward.

  The boy’s eyes grew wide with excitement as the swing began to move higher and faster with each push.

  “This is fun. Who taught you how to do this?”

  “My father.”

  “And he taught you how to hunt, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  The man grasped the rope swing to stop it, walked in front of his son, and knelt on one knee to speak with him. He looked into his son’s eyes and began to speak with great compassion. “He is everywhere.”

  The man looked at the tree, stood up, went to its trunk, and caressed its rough bark. “When this tree was just a sapling, he gave it to me,” he said, still caressing the tree with a gentle loving touch, “and I can still hear his voice when I’m down here.”

  The boy jumped off the swing, and grasping one of the hanging ropes, used it to support himself as he listened to his father talk.

  The man knelt down again to be at eye level with his son. “Whenever I have a problem, I close my eyes and think of him. I can hear his voice speaking to me, telling me what he would do. He is with me always. That is where he is. Always with me, wherever I am.”

  The boy smiled at the comfort of his father’s words.

  “I named you after him. His name was Dylan Smith.”

  THE END