The Way of the Beast

***

  Four years later...

  Two bowstrings thrummed almost simultaneously. One of the arrows missed its target by a narrow margin and sailed overhead, while the other unerringly pierced the center of a duck's colorful breast. It fluttered in the shallow water for a moment and then was still. The few other ducks that had just landed immediately took to the air again.

  Squinting up through the lightly falling snow that fell from a leaden mid-morning sky, Tullgar hesitantly reached back over his broad shoulder to pull another arrow.

  "Please don't try it, Tull," Stenhelt said quietly from two short paces away.

  His older and much larger brother relaxed his brawny arm, slumping against the rough-barked pine he was taking cover behind. "I might have gotten it, Sten."

  Stenhelt stepped away from his own tree cover, reaching up to brush accumulated snow out of his brother's wavy brown hair. "Not to be mean, but you can't hit them while they sit in the pond. If you were very lucky you might have winged one in flight, and that's not good." He saw a few flakes catching in Tull's thickening beard. "Put your hood back up," he reminded him yet again. "Mother will be upset if you catch a chill."

  "Why is that not good? We could just run it down and finish it," Tull said while he pulled the hood of his beaver coat back over his head.

  "Do you want the duck to suffer until we find it?" Stenhelt asked rhetorically as he moved away from the low, dense scrub between the two trees. "It's easy enough to get them in the pond."

  "Says you," Tullgar grumbled.

  Standing in the tall yellow grass that was beginning to bend under the snow's gathering weight, Stenhelt turned back to look at his gloomy brother. "I'm sorry you didn't get one, Tull, but this isn't a rivalry. We did this together. Now we can have some nice duck meals and barter the rest for loaves of the baker's bread you like so much."

  "I do like that bread," Tull said dreamily, "sliced thick... and with goat butter, and syrup..."

  "Yes, yes," Stenhelt cut him off with a grin as he unstrung his bow, "the whole village knows how much you love any kind of food, you hungry ox."

  Tullgar smiled at the teasing, but the placid expression turned into a slight frown when he recalled something his little brother just said. "How did we do this together, Sten? You got six ducks and I haven't hit one. I haven't helped at all."

  Stenhelt didn't want to remind his sullen brother that the last kill actually brought the count to eight for the morning. "Tull, are you baiting me?"

  "No..."

  "Did you already forget that you made these bows? They're great."

  Losing some of his sour mood, Tullgar asked, "The draw isn't too hard for you, is it?"

  "No, it's alright. I can just make the pull; it'll be perfect as I get stronger. And look," he added, hoping to bring Tull back to better cheer, "you also carved those good decoys, and these duck callers you spent so much time on sure bring them in. So without you, we wouldn't have a full sack of game to bring home."

  "I suppose so..."

  Stenhelt walked over to the pond's edge, near the wide Scroll Creek that flowed lazily next to it. Knowing that his brother followed, he didn't need to turn away from the water to be heard. "We're just better at different things, Tull. I can't make chairs or neat designs on staff heads or even spears like you can, and everyone in Bruvaal knows how good of a fletcher you are now."

  He wasn't irritated that his older brother needed to be reminded of simple things from time to time. It had been that way since Sten could remember, and was now simply expected.

  Stenhelt had heard the whispers of villagers referring to his older brother as being "soft in the head" - and he silently agreed - but that was the only thing about Tull that was weak. Just at fourteen cycles now, or what the church would call years, Tullgar was taller than their father and with much thicker muscle. He was easily the strongest person in the village, and one of the biggest. It was a good thing that the hulking young man had a gentle soul.

  "But not many people want to buy or barter for those things, Sten," Tull complained, moving to stand next to him. "All that most folk want is just for me to haul wood or stones for them."

  "Lady Krin trades for some of your wares, remember? Don't worry, others will come around and need your skill sooner or later."

  "Sooner is always better, I think," Tull said as he stared off into the distance.

  Stenhelt had been using thick twine tied to a hook-shaped stone to pull in kills off the water, as his father had once shown him. Unlike the other ducks he shot that morning, though, the last one was too far out from any angle to use the hook. He set down the bow und unstrapped his quiver. "I have a better idea," he said as he pulled off his wood cur poncho, still in good shape after four full cycles.

  "You don't mean more archery practice, do you?" Tull asked with a sullen tone.

  "No, but father may order it of you when we get back." He looked up at his unhappy brother and said in a cheerful voice, "I'm getting tired of hunting ducks, too. We have plenty anyway. You go get the fishing gear from the pack and we can test your new stonewood hooks in the creek. I'll wager the inn will buy any trout we catch. It'll take too long to toss hooks for my last kill and your decoys and that last arrow you shot. I'll just wade in and gather them."

  "You saw where my arrow went?"

  Stenhelt nodded while pulling off his boar skin boots. "It hit the water closer to the far bank. Good thing you made the arrowheads out of bone so everything floats."

  "Aren't you going to get cold? The water is near to freezing."

  "Cold doesn't bother me much, remember? Just like carrying a log across your shoulders doesn't bother you." Stenhelt stepped into the pond, only getting calf-deep before he turned around and said, "There's a small skin of worms in my pack; I dug them out of the compost last night. And get my spare trousers out, would you?"

  It was only a short while later that Stenhelt was pulling on his clothing after he dried his legs with an old cut of wool. Tullgar sat patiently on a nearby outcrop of rock that overlooked Scroll Creek - so named for the curling pattern it made through the Cragwood and beyond. The elder brother had pulled their packs over near the creek and was inspecting one of Stenhelt's kills. "Are you going to gut them now, or wait?"

  Pulling his head through the poncho's neckline and shaking his head to tug his shoulder-length black hair free, Stenhelt replied, "I'll wait." He looked around at the dense line of bare trees and snow-dusted evergreens that surrounded the small pocket of open land. "If I did it here, the breeze would carry the smell. It's not yet full into winter, so some animals will be on the hunt. Father told me ducks don't spoil too quickly, and he'll help us clean them when we get back. I don't want to tempt anything with big teeth and an appetite to spoil our fishing."

  "Wolves or bears this close to home?" Tullgar asked as he turned to look at his brother.

  Sten shrugged. "As winter comes on, they're drawn to the rabbits and chickens and goats we have penned up. That's why father always tells us to keep marking our territory."

  "Marking territory," Tull repeated. "You mean peeing on trees and squatting in bushes. I don't remember the last time I used the outhouse."

  Sten ignored that bit of information. "Even with our scent scattered around out here, an animal might be hungry enough to come closer for an easy meal."

  "Too close for my liking," Tull commented, glancing back to the north. "If it wasn't for the forest, we could see our land from here. Well, you could. Did you see some tracks or something?"

  "No..." Stenhelt answered, still scanning the trees. He sensed something out of the ordinary was nearby, but didn't want to alarm his brother. He thought it might be something as simple as the changing winter winds and put it in the back of his mind.

  "I want to see you do your trick again," Tull commented as Sten sat down next to him. "I like to watch when you do that."

  The trick, Stenhelt thought; one of the few successes he'd had after four cycles of Tovira Krin's lessons
so far. "It doesn't work on ducks," he reminded Tull while taking the fishing pole that his brother offered him. "We have to pull the feathers and down just like always."

  "Alright," Tull mumbled, and then fell silent.

  They sat in a spot they'd visited many times before, listening to the winter birds, watching the water of Scroll Creek flow on, and enjoying a shared time of unspoken serenity. Stenhelt knew that Tull wasn't bright, although he always knew when to hold his tongue. The appreciation of solitude and quiet was one of the very few things that the brothers had in common.

  Tull was only talkative in spurts at home or when he and Sten were out hunting or exploring. The big young man was usually reserved when visiting shops in the village. Not that Sten had been in Bruvaal lately to witness that behavior; his mother always had him on the move. Whether doing chores on their well-worn plot of land - which was isolated out on the eastern outskirts of the village - or helping his parents with their work, Sten was never bored. Irisella was always following along, providing friendly company.

  Those everyday activities were broken up with hunting trips - sometimes for days at a time - and with lessons at the Oma-Krin estate. It had been many seasons full of activity and learning for Sten since the Lady Krin had begun giving him his lessons.