Pressing the bow to the limit of his strength, he took a steadying breath and released the string, feeling the sharp tingle on his fingertips. The arrow blazed across the distance, striking the young pig low in the chest behind the front legs. Startled, it flicked its tail rigid, and turned to bolt into the wood . . . but two steps later its legs tangled; it stumbled and went down. The stricken creature squealed once and tried to rise, then subsided, dead where it fell.
Bran loosed a wild whoop of triumph. The prize was his! He ran to the pig and put his hand on the animal’s sleek, slightly speckled haunch, feeling the warmth there.
“I am sorry, my friend, and I thank you,” he murmured as Iwan had taught him. “I need your life to live.”
It was only when he tried to shoulder his kill that Bran realized his great mistake. The dead weight of the animal was more than he could lift by himself. With a sinking heart, he stood gazing at his glorious prize as tears came to his eyes. It was all for nothing if he could not carry the trophy home in triumph.
Sinking down on the ground beside the warm carcass, Bran put his head in his hands. He could not carry it, and he would not leave it.
What was he going to do?
As he sat contemplating his predicament, the sounds of the forest grew loud in his ears: the chatter of a squirrel in a treetop, the busy click and hum of insects, the rustle of leaves, the hushed flutter of wings above him, and then . . .
“Bran!”
Bran started at the voice. He glanced around hopefully.
“Here!” he called. “Here! I need help!”
“Go back!” The voice seemed to come from above. He raised his eyes to see a huge black bird watching him from a branch directly over his head.
It was only an old raven. “Shoo!”
“Go back!” said the bird. “Go back!”
“I won’t,” shouted Bran. He reached for a stick on the path, picked it up, drew back, and threw it at the bothersome bird. “Shut up!”
The stick struck the raven’s perch, and the bird flew off with a cry that sounded to Bran like laughter. “Ha, ha, haw! Ha, ha, haw!”
“Stupid bird,” he muttered. Turning again to the young pig beside him, he remembered what he had seen other hunters do with small game. Releasing the string on his bow, he gathered the creature’s short legs and tied the hooves together with the cord. Then, passing the stave through the bound hooves and gripping the stout length of oak in either hand, he tried to lift it. The carcass was still too heavy for him, so he began to drag his prize through the forest, using the bow.
It was slow going, even on the well-worn path, with frequent stops to rub the sweat from his eyes and catch his breath. All the while, the day dwindled around him.
No matter. He would not give up. Clutching the bow stave in his hands, he struggled on, step by step, tugging the young boar along the trail, reaching the edge of the forest as the last gleam of twilight faded across the valley to the west.
“Bran!”
The shout made him jump. It was not a raven this time, but a voice he knew. He turned and looked down the slope toward the valley to see Iwan coming toward him, long legs paring the distance with swift strides.
“Here!” Bran called, waving his aching arms overhead. “Here I am!”
“In the name of all the saints and angels,” the young man said when he came near enough to speak, “what do you think you are doing out here?”
“Hunting,” replied Bran. Indicating his kill with a hunter’s pride, he said, “It strayed in front of my arrow, see?”
“I see,” replied Iwan. Giving the pig a cursory glance, he turned and started away again. “We have to go. It’s late, and everyone is looking for you.”
Bran made no move to follow.
Looking back, Iwan said, “Leave it, Bran! They are searching for you. We must hurry.”
“No,” Bran said. “Not without the boar.” He stooped once more to the carcass, seized the bow stave, and started tugging again. Iwan returned, took him roughly by the arm, and pulled him away.
“Leave the stupid thing!”
“It is for my mother!” the boy shouted, the tears starting hot and quick. As the tears began to fall, he bent his head and repeated more softly, “Please, it is for my mother.”
“Weeping Judas!” Iwan relented with an exasperated sigh. “Come then. We will carry it together.”
Stephen R. Lawhead, The Paradise War
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