by Jacky Gray
‘I already did.’
‘Another one, then. Tanner won’t be best pleased if we send you home in that state. What were you doing?’
‘That stave. It spoke to me. Told me a story.’
‘Oh yes. You been listening to the Tillerman? Probably too much dust giving you nightmares.’
‘But …’
‘Shower. Now. I don’t know, young lads today.’ Shaking his head, Bowman picked up the two staves and almost dropped them as the images of heat and flames filled his head.
Archer spent the morning teaching completed bows how to bend, using a device with notches known as a tiller. For each notch, he strung the bow, stretched the string until it reached the correct notch and marked any stiff areas with charcoal. Then he unstrung it and trimmed the marked areas. He repeated the whole process until the bow curved smoothly. After a fifteen minute rest, he tried it on the next notch, one and a half inches further than the previous one. After the fourth notch, he added a small amount of tension to the string, repeating each stage from first to fourth notch, building up to full tension. Of all the bows he tested, not one snapped because he had rushed it or got the sequence wrong. Bowman said this was rare and he should be very proud of his ability to train bows.
The next two hours were spent firing arrows from the bows he had trained on the previous day. They would have been left strung on a light tension overnight to break in the limbs. This was another complex process and he borrowed Patricia’s idea of using a verse to help him remember. First he drew the bow short twenty times, then to the full draw twenty times, checking at the end for stiffness or weakness in the limbs. After loosing twenty arrows at twenty paces, he checked the limbs again; then fired twenty arrows at forty paces. The bow was ready for the last varnish coats before final testing out at the long distance range.
Lunch, provided by the local guild normally included a wedge of bread, slices of cheese and ham with pickles, salad leaves and a beaker of watered ale. On Freyaday there would be a treat – a slice of meat pie, a hard-boiled egg wrapped in meat and breadcrumbs or Archer’s favourite, tiny sausages filled with pork and apple.
In the afternoons, Archer started to build up the skills he would need to make his own bows, working under the close supervision of each craftsman for the first two or three attempts. For the final hour of the day, he worked on his own bows. The longbow took two weeks to complete and on the Freyaday, Bowman let him have the whole afternoon to string and test his bow. Archer had used a standard bowstring to train it, but he wanted to try something different. Although a thick twine was normally used and only twisted once, he had heard how much stronger the reverse twisted strings were and wanted to try one out.
Excitement mixed with apprehension as he strung the waxed bow and propped it up against the wall to prepare for the test. Shouldering the quiver, he pulled on a shooting glove and bracer, warming up his favourite test bow as he walked to the range. As he lined up at the twenty pace mark, he was almost bowled over by a barrel of energy which turned into a small, awe-struck boy.
Picking him up, Archer checked for injuries and allowed him to stop and watch while he put the test arrows through their paces. The lad was keen to show off his knowledge and even keener to learn more. Archer gave thanks for the distraction away from his nerves which would otherwise have built up at the idea of demonstrating his bow’s performance to the finest bowyer in the land. He grinned at the lad’s enthusiasm as he examined the marks in the target where the practice arrows had landed, exclaiming at the precision.
As they walked back to fetch his bow, Archer explained why he used such a strange arrangement of arrows. When he started testing the bows, he had tried to aim for the bull with all twenty arrows. Unfortunately, the paper targets only lasted three or four tests with this sort of treatment. Also, the feathers on the arrows were starting to get damaged as they all clustered into such a small space. To make it less wasteful, he had worked out a routine, putting eight of the arrows into the bull, then spacing the other twelve equally round the black ring like the numbers on a clock. Although giving the same accuracy, the targets lasted longer as he could do twelve or thirteen tests before needing a fresh target.
When they reached the workshop, the boy’s reaction to his pride and joy was gratifying, causing a blush of pleasure. Archer described the warming up process as he rubbed the body with a cloth, before starting the half draws. They walked towards the target, counting the full draws. As they reached the mark, the lad was called away and Archer waved a salute. He finally focussed on his surroundings. Almost the entire staff had emptied out of their workshops to watch.
Absolutely no pressure, then. His face gave away nothing of the trepidation he felt as he concentrated on his gift, bringing it up from his very core to inhabit every limb. This time felt different. It didn’t settle on his skin, but flowed through from his left hand into the bow, which added its own energy. Then it flowed back through Archer’s hand and arm. Several connections in his brain were reset before it flowed out to his right arm, finally reaching the fingertips which held his first arrow.
‘Come on lad, some of us are waiting to go home, but we can’t until you’ve done.’
‘Feel free to leave Knot, the lad needs to concentrate.’
‘I would but I’ve got money says he can’t get all twenty in the gold.’
‘Who’d give you that? There isn’t room in the gold for all twenty.’
‘Gents, please. Give the lad a break. This is hard enough without your squabbles.’
Archer was in a different time and place where there was only him, the bow, the arrows and the target. Nothing else existed at all. Afterwards, Bowman remarked that if he could build a machine as accurate as the boy, he could be a rich man, with three less wages to pay. Each arrow was nocked and ready for loosing before the previous one had actually landed in the target. The first eight were all within the bull and the twelve clock arrows were not only equally spaced, but each one split the rings exactly on the divide between the outer white and the black. A huge cheer rose up and Gilpin sprang off his perch to set up the new target and bring the other one over.
Archer didn’t need to check to know it was perfect, he’d never felt anything like it. His body still buzzed with power as he picked up a full quiver at the forty pace mark. Bowman and Till had examined the target and exchanged glances of pride mixed with awe – they had never seen such a display. It was handed round the crowd, drawing gasps of admiration and comments marvelling at the accuracy and speed.
Knot coughed and ventured, ‘Don’t suppose there’s anyone will wager he can’t do it at forty paces.’
‘Behave yoursel’ Knot, there’s no one here would bet agin the lad. Keep your money and mind yer manners.’ Till’s comment drew chuckles from the crowd.
Archer barely needed a second to compose himself this time. In his mind he’d already made the shots, this time with a slight modification. Again, the first eight went in the middle, but this time his ring of twelve found the edge of the red ring where it met the inner white, ten inches closer to the bull. As the applause broke out all around him, he felt all the energy drain from his body. He staggered, with barely the strength to hold the bow.
Fletch’s uncle caught his arm saying, ‘Whoa lad, you’d better sit down, you’re white as a sheet. Good job I’ve brought the cart, don’t think you’d make the walk home.’
‘Did you see it?’
‘I certainly did. A fine shoot my lad, they’ve taught you well here.’
‘I don’t think we can take any credit for that. It’s a rare talent you have my boy, I hope you use it wisely.’ Bowman was generous in his praise.
30 The Enchantress
Archer was crying hot tears of rage and frustration as he ran through the village to the bonfire. His mind filled with the memories of the blood, sweat and tears which had gone into making his Bow.
*
Unlike the longbow, which had been a joy, this one gave nothing b
ut trouble from the start. Because she, and this one was most definitely a she, had opened her heart and soul to him before he had even put a knife to her. He loved her like the troublesome little sister he never had. Just like a little sister, she swapped between irritating mischievousness and sweetness and light. On her good days, she did everything he asked of her and more, revealing shapes so beautiful he nearly wept. On the other days, she tapped her petulant little foot and refused to co-operate with him, blunting blades and breaking tools. He got so angry he threw a broken saw blade which rebounded back off the wall and hit his arm, drawing blood.
‘There, I knew it. Now you’re ruined. Blood all over you, I might just as well throw you away.’ He picked up the stave, never thinking there was anything strange about talking to a piece of wood. There was, however, something strange about the way the blood dripped off his arm onto the wood and disappeared. He tried to let go, but couldn’t.
It felt as though the muscles in his hand had seized; he couldn’t move his fingers. He put it down to a muscle spasm, brought on by the intense work. Then his other hand suddenly released its hold on the wood and clamped over the cut in his arm causing a searing pain. He was not wearing gloves and the dust particles from sawing the wood had mixed with the sweat on his hand and were now working their way into his blood. He could not move the fingers of either hand, and his arm felt as though it were on fire. Remembering the fever brought on by the previous year’s poisoning, he started to panic. The burning reached his elbow, his shoulder, then slowly made its way toward his chest. Taking shallow breaths, he recalled what he’d read about yew poison causing problems with the heart and closed his eyes. The stave was trying to kill him.
Archer’s head filled with a sweet singing in the purest voice and he realised she didn’t want him dead, she simply wanted him to stop hurting her. No more saws tearing away at her flesh with their cruel, rough teeth. She would be happy to give up her extra weight. He had but to touch her with a knife and it would fall off as on other days. An image of the shape she wanted to be came into his head, but she could not reach that shape by carving alone. Somehow, she would have to be teased and stretched into it. In a flash of inspiration, he knew exactly how.
The next day, he asked Bowman if he could have an old stave which lay on a pile for scrap. He glued a block of wood in the centre and two smaller blocks at either end, making sure the distance between the blocks was identical. By the time he’d finished tillering Bow’s width and belly, his moulding stick was ready for use and he clamped her hand grip on top of the centre block. He carefully pressed down on each limb, clamping in the centre so it curved into a backward ‘S’ shape.
‘Now then Bow, it is going to hurt a bit when I tighten the clamps. Let me know if it gets too much and we’ll do it in smaller steps.’
In his mind she had become as a wood nymph and she spoke back to him in her silvery voice. ‘Don’t worry, it’s what I want. To look beautiful and to be powerful.’
‘And are you sure you want to go in the hot box? The heat will be terrible.’
‘It will merely be as at Lughnasadh. Maybe just half an hour the first time. I’ll need to build up to it. If I can rest overnight, tomorrow you can raise the blocks one-eighth part of an inch and try again.’
‘All right, but only if you’re sure. We don’t want to strain you too much and damage your beautiful arms.’
‘You won’t. I’m sure if you rub some oil in, it will soothe them.’
Sometimes he worried what would happen if someone came in when he was talking to her, but when Knot came in one day, he didn’t seem to notice anything.
Archer wasn’t sure at what point she stopped being like his little sister and started becoming something more. He dreamt about her most nights: wild dreams, full of music and dancing and lots of girls wanting to kiss him.
That eve, Leathan invited him to the senior guild. Archer didn’t have a very good night. He didn’t know anyone and Leathan’s friends dragged him off to play at the handball table. Archer watched without seeing as his mind drifted back to Bow, working out the next stage in her transformation.
From that night onwards, his dreams took on a nightmare quality and the dancing scenes always ended up the same way, with flames and her screaming.
When he finished his time at the workshop, she was fully shaped, but needed a little trimming and all the finishing. Bowman gave him a pot of his special oil and wax mixture to finish her at home. ‘Shame we couldn’t have seen her finished, I reckon she’ll be a beauty. And you’ve taught me a thing or two, this mould of yours is a breakthrough in making curved bows, it cuts the time and effort in half.’
‘Thank you for everything you’ve taught me, I couldn’t have begun to do it without you.’ Archer collected the two linen bags containing his bows.
‘Maybe you could bring her back and let us watch you putting her through her paces.’
‘Yes of course.’
*
Unless Archer got to her before Edlyn threw her on the bonfire, Bowman would never see his finished Bow. Slowing as he neared the fire’s glow, he tuned in his warrior senses, trying to get information before deciding what to do. If she was on the fire he would have heard her screaming, she had shown him her death many times. So he tried to find her in his head. The connection felt strong whenever she was close.
He heard her voice as she teased Edlyn, flirting with him. She encouraged him to run his hands along her fine curves and feel her smoothness. Archer shook with outrage. How dare she? His Bow, here with another boy. Flattering him about being an excellent shot and how good they would be together. In his head he could see her as Edlyn would, with creamy skin and long, elegant limbs.
Then he actually caught sight of her, lying in the arms of his enemy as he walked towards the fire. Now Archer could see her properly, it became obvious she wasn’t his Bow any more, all pale and pure and golden. This black hearted, dark-skinned creature had tangled black hair and fiery eyes. She was concentrating so hard on luring Edlyn toward the fire, she didn’t feel Archer’s presence.
Yet another dilemma. Should he save his enemy or simply walk away and ignore it? Should he let Edlyn suffer the way he had made others suffer his whole life? Was that what this was all about? Bow obviously wanted revenge for Edlyn’s mistreatment of her. But he only pulled a branch off.
‘Only pulled a branch off? Only pulled a branch off?’ Her voice hissed in his head. It was too late, she’d felt his presence. Although still enticing Edlyn toward the fire, she glared at Archer, her eyes glowing red with the flames. Her harsh tone grated in its ugliness. ‘It’s not too late if you walk away now.’
‘What will happen to him if I do?’
‘Why should you care? I saw what he did to you and you are not the only one.’ Her voice softened, gradually getting closer to the golden tones he knew so well. ‘I have looked into his mind Archer, and what you see now is his soul reflected back. He has done bad things to people not as strong as you and he will do worse still if he is not taught a lesson.’
‘You’re not going to kill him, then.’
‘Oh Archer, I hoped you would have thought more of me than that.’ For an instant she became his Bow, golden and pure of spirit. Immediately, she began to lose her hold over Edlyn as he stopped and shook his head as though trying to clear it. It was obvious she couldn’t control both of them.
‘Take care with thoughts like that Archer.’ The harsh voice was back and she was one more the dark enchantress. ‘If I sense you would try to stop me, I can make it quite painful for you.’
He gasped as a pain shot from the scar on his arm right through to his chest. ‘All right. If you promise he won’t die.’
‘I promise I won’t kill him. I think he needs to learn a lesson. An eye for an eye. Or maybe a limb for a limb. He broke some of my branches. If he loses an arm, he won’t be able to cause as much mischief as with two.’
Archer thought about protesting; it wasn’t exactly fair. A
s a tree, she had many more than four limbs. Yet he could see her point. The little worm needed to learn something about the penalties of inflicting pain on others.
‘That’s more like it. I knew you would see my point of view.’ Did he imagine it or had her face begun to return to normal? Her hair definitely became lighter, and her clothes no longer appeared quite so black. ‘Now I suggest you walk away and look by the stream, he might have gone down there.’
Archer had no control over his legs, they turned in the direction she’d suggested and he began to run. He had lost someone, no something; it might be by the stream.
Fortunately, she didn’t know about the small room in his mind where he could go if he needed some thinking time to assess a dangerous situation. Archer didn’t know how it worked, but it was one of the things which gave him an edge. He could retreat into the room and once the door shut, none of the inputs from his senses could reach his brain. It allowed him a quiet pause to reflect on the data and compute the best course of action to recover from whatever threatened him.
Bow thought she was being very clever in her phrasing. She never actually promised Edlyn wouldn’t die, merely that she wouldn’t kill him. But just as she could read Archer’s mind, he read her thought that the fire would play its part in his death.
He needed to get some help and the stream wasn’t actually the worst place she could have sent him. It wasn’t too far and there would be people who could help. As he threw himself into the stream, fully clothed, a couple sprang up from where they had been lying in the grass. He recognised them instantly. ‘Bethia, go to the tent and raise the alarm. There’s been an accident; someone’s fallen in the fire. Fletch. Jump in the stream and follow me.’
‘But my jacket. I don’t want to ruin it.’
‘Give it to Bethia. Quick or he’ll die.’
‘Who’ll die? What’s going on?’ Fletch was reluctant.
Bethia grabbed his jacket. ‘Fletch, just do it or I will.’ Pushing him towards the stream, she turned and ran.
