“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 Silver Hand
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