“Can I help you?”
It was, unfortunately, the arrogant young man whom I had lectured on climbing safety some weeks before Luckily, his self-absorption appeared to prevent him from recognizing me. I told him that I was in the market for a bow and some arrows, that I intended to use them to hunt large game.
Immediately the young man directed my attention to the crossbows and compound bows, with their complicated pulleys and cams. I quickly interrupted.
“I am looking for something compact and lightweight.”
He frowned. “Like, a shortbow?”
“Yes,” I replied, though I didn’t know the term.
“Hard to get close enough to a deer to kill it with a shortbow,” he said.
“I’d like to see some.”
With a sigh, he led me to a rack of compact, thin bows that appeared to be made of a composite of wood and fiberglass. They were precisely what I wanted.
“These, though,” the clerk said, “you wanna get any velocity out of them, you’re practically gonna give yourself a heart attack drawing them tight enough.”
“That’s none of your concern,” I said, hefting and stretching each bow. I settled upon the one that felt most supple without seeming to sacrifice tension. I held it up. “This one,” I said.
“Your funeral,” the clerk said.
I chose to ignore him. “Arrows,” I said. “I would like the arrows that would be the most lethal at low velocity.”
This comment appeared to satisfy him, at least temporarily. He nodded. “You want something that’ll take a broadhead and fly straight,” he said. He showed me a package of four arrows tipped by a quartet of razor-sharp blades, and accompanied by a collapsible nylon quiver with a shoulder strap and reinforced floor. “You’ll get a nice, clean kill from these, if you can get close enough.” He pointed to the opposite end of the arrows. “Helix fletching, turkey feathers. They’ll fly straight and true. Aluminum shaft, nice and lightweight, and pretty easy to bend back in shape, if they get bent.”
“Fine. I’ll take them.”
“Great. Let me show you some sights for that thing, it’ll help you a lot. Also you’ll want some targets to practice with, and—”
“No, thank you,” I said, and walked away.
I was back at the house by half past nine. The sun was full and bright now, and the temperature well into the fifties. I expected that it would be over sixty by noon, and though the woods would surely be colder, I was confident that my vigorous physical activity would keep me warm.
I was eager to embark on my mission, but first it was necessary to test my new weapon. I gathered up the bow and arrows and carried them into the yard, where I stood twenty yards back from the mound of earth where the deer was buried. The disturbed, clayey soil would be unlikely to dull the razor tips or deform the shafts. I first practiced drawing the bow and arrows from my quiver, which I had strapped over my right shoulder; next I nocked an arrow, raised and drew, then relaxed my fingers.
The arrow flew laser-straight, driving itself into the grass in front of the doe’s grave. The next was high, and disappeared in the weeds at the treeline. But the next two struck home, burying themselves eight inches into the soil, and I knew that this new weapon would be at least as effective, for my purposes, as any firearm. Indeed, the bow felt so good in my hands — light and strong and perfectly balanced — that I retrieved the arrows and shot them all again. This time, three hit home, and one fell a few inches short. The accuracy of the equipment was impressive, and while I would never win an archery competition, I was certainly capable of defending myself against an enemy. I was surprised to discover that I was glad to have failed the background check, for, as effective and useful a weapon as a handgun was, it could not compare to the tactile immediacy and visceral satisfaction of the bow. I was, to put it mildly, a convert. With the muscles of my fingers and upper arm pleasurably stinging, I gathered up my arrows once again and went inside to suit up for my mission.
Fifteen minutes later, I was walking along the shoulder of Lyssa Road, my pack full and tight against my back, and my quiver nestled alongside it. A light, warm breeze swept dead leaves across the empty road; the shadows of the trees swayed in sharp relief on the pavement. I reached the corner of Minerva Road and turned left, and soon I stood at the once-invisible arch of silver maples that marked the track to the rock.
It was not without excitement that I peered now into the near-dark of the forest. For the first time since I scaled the rock, I had a challenge before me, a plan with a clear objective, and my hands and feet fairly tingled with anticipation. I could feel the years falling away from me, and my senses growing more acute, reaching far out in every direction. I felt, as I once had, like the lord of my kingdom.
I must confess, however, that my certainty was curbed somewhat by the sickness and confusion of the past week, the unexpected obstacles I had confronted, and the despair I had felt in the face of them. Was it simply that there had been a time in my life when I was able to overcome obstacles, and that time was now over? Or were these experiences merely aberrations, unexpected turns in the path to success?
In any event, now was not the time to dwell upon such things. Whatever doubts I might harbor about my purpose in life, the goal of the moment was clear — to hunt down the man who lived in the castle, discover what he wanted from me, and force him to cease his incursions into my territory.
I hitched my pack higher onto my shoulders and stepped once again into the woods.
Now that I knew the way, I had no difficulty making progress toward the castle and the rock. My hiking shoes were quiet on the mossy track, and I stepped with ease over any branches blocking my path. Within ten minutes I sensed that I was growing near, and I paused to get my bearings.
My eyes, by now, had adjusted fully to the gloom, and it was possible to detect, up ahead in the distance, the sun-drenched glow of the rock face. A roughness at its base must have been the castle. I closed my eyes and listened carefully, making sure that I was not being tracked. Hearing nothing, I turned 360 degrees, studying everything within my view. But all that could be seen was the dense foliage, and the only motion was my own. Convinced now that I had not been followed, I turned to step off the path, so that I might continue my journey under cover.
It was there that I very nearly put a premature end to the mission, and possibly to my life. For my foot had come to rest less than two inches from the paddle of an old-fashioned iron bear trap.
At first, I thought I must be mistaken about the object’s identity. Such things were, as far as I knew, illegal, and at any rate were no longer in regular use. But closer examination revealed that, in fact, my foot had actually fallen directly into one of the stretched-open jaws. I backed up a step and found a stout branch, which I then used to lift off the twigs and leaves that had been concealing the device. A cursory look revealed that it had not merely been lying here for years, forgotten. The iron was clean and oiled, and the ground underneath it smoothed out, to make a flat surface.
The trap had the look of a shark’s mouth, with the jaws forming a circle in the center, and two wings of folded steel, which served as springs. The springs ended in a ring which the jaws passed through; had I pressed the center paddle with my foot, the springs would have lost their grip on the base and unfolded, forcing the jaws shut. The base, a cross of iron, was attached to a chain, which had been staked into the ground with a stout peg.