A hunter crossed a wood. Tall and proud rolled the hills, full of trees as thick as thieves, and all the rest of life which makes its roost between. Upon the crest of one such hill a patch of bald broke the country’s mane, a small blemish to survey the beauty of the land.
The hunter paused, and with a great shrug snugged a bow close to shoulder. Its single arrow wound round and through the hunter’s playing hand, as it always did. But then it stopped.
A pale stroke swept across the canvas, leaving the hunter with a very changed picture long after green swallowed the white beast again.
With one hand gripping the bow’s middle at the chest and another fast to the arrow the hunter ran. On and on the hunter flew, down the path at a tear past many countless trees and a few similarly discounted wayfarers. This was a deep valley, where a vein of water pumped its life.
But it was not quite to it that the hunter slid short and with a great heave thrust the great bow to attention at the dirt. A keen glance gave more sight than could be seen, so the hunter took hold, and with a mammoth breath drew the bow close and silken string taut and arrow singing through the wood.
Not straight but right it rode, cutting wind and wind alone well past the hunter’s sight, leaving the faintest bellow’s echo to send the thinnest smile back through trees afar.
Then a swell of sighs and shuffling disturbed any trace of distant things, and as it happened some nearby doe with leaf stuck to gum from its perch along the hill. The hunter turned to watch a small wayfaring audience disperse, save one final witness left to shoulder with a grunt his mighty pack.
‘You missed.’