“ That’s no excuse. He should’ve stayed awake, or if he couldn’t, he should’ve woke one of us. It’s his fault she got bit.”
“ You’re right. He should’ve stayed awake. But even if he was awake, do you really think things would’ve gone down differently? You think Ben would have stopped them?”
“ Yes I do,” he says. “He would have at least woken us. I could’ve responded sooner.”
“ We were outnumbered. They were fast. Even if he woke us, I don’t know that would’ve made a difference.”
Logan shrugs.
“ Anyway, anger and blame won’t help us now,” I say. “Ben is sorry. We need to stick together. You guys need to get over your thing and get along.”
“ I don’t need to get along with anybody,” Logan says.
I look at him, wondering if he thinks his whole life is an island.
“ Keep telling yourself that.”
The fog comes rolling in off the Hudson as I walk with Ben, our boots crunching in the snow, traversing the island in the afternoon, looking for food. The blizzard is still raging, worse than ever, the wind whipping at us in occasional gusts. It is incredible. I feel like it hasn’t stopped snowing for days. The snow reaches my knees, making each step an effort. When the wind blows, I can see maybe a hundred feet; when it doesn’t, and the fog gathers, I can barely see ten. Between the fog and the snow, I feel like our hunting today is a futile effort. I think Ben thinks so, too.
But we have to try. We know that other deer is out there, and has nowhere to go. We have to find it, get at least one more good meal in all of us before we leave. Bree desperately needs the protein, and Rose… Well, my heart sinks as I think of her.
It’s hideous weather out here, my feet and face numb-but in some ways, it’s still better than being in that cave. With Rose dying, the cave has become small, tense, claustrophobic, filled with the stench of death. I had to get out. And I think Ben did, too. Logan, of course, wanted to stay put and stay guard, watching the boat. I don’t think he’d ever trust Ben to stand guard again.
Ben holds the bow and arrows slung over his shoulder, and I have only my hunting knife. If we spot the deer, of course Ben is our best hope. But even with his skill, I don’t see how he’d possibly be able to hit. It is probably a lost cause-yet still, a welcome distraction.
Ben and I walk in silence, neither speaking to each other. But it is a comfortable silence. I feel that he’s come out of his shell since yesterday. Maybe he feels more confident, maybe a little bit better about himself, after bringing in that deer. Now he realizes that he is not useless.
“ Where did you learn how to shoot like that?” I ask.
He looks at me, startled; it is the first words we have spoken, breaking a long silence.
We continue for several more steps before he answers.
“ When I was younger,” he says, “before the war. Day camp. Archery was my thing. I’d stay on the range for hours and hours, long after everyone left. I don’t know why, I just always loved it. I know it’s silly,” he says, and pauses, looking embarrassed, “but it was my dream to compete in the Olympics. Before the war, that was what I lived for.”
I’m surprised by this; I hadn’t expected this from him, of all people. But I do remember his shot, and it was extraordinary.
“ I’d like to learn,” I say.
He looks at me, eyebrows arched in surprise.
“ I’ll teach you,” he says.
I look at him and smile. “I think it’s a little bit late for that.”
“ No it’s not,” he says firmly. “It’s never too late.”
I hear the seriousness in his voice, and am surprised to see how determined he is.
“ I want to teach you,” he insists.
I look at him, surprised. “Now?” I ask.
“ Why not? We’ve been out here for hours, and there’s no sign of the deer. It’s not like we’ll lose him if we take a few minutes.”
I guess he has a point.
“ But it’s not like we have a practice range here,” I say. “We don’t have any bulls eyes or anything.”
“ How wrong you are,” he says with a smile. “Look around. Everything in front of you is an archer’s target. Actually, trees make some of the best targets.”
I look around, and have a whole new appreciation for the forest.
“ Besides,” he says, “I’m tired of walking. I wouldn’t mind taking a break for a few minutes. Come here,” he says, gesturing.
My legs are getting tired, too, and I actually would love to learn. I hate relying on other people for things, and I like learning anything that can make me self-sufficient. I’m doubtful over whether I can really pick up the skill, especially in these conditions, but I’m willing to give it a try. Plus, it’s the first time Ben warmed up to me, and I feel like he’s starting to come out of his trauma. If this helps him, then I’m willing to do it.
I walk over to him, and he removes the bow from his shoulder and hands it to me.
I hold up the bow with my left hand, and hold onto the string my right, testing it. It is heavier than I thought, its large wood frame weighing down my arm.
Ben comes around behind me, reaches out, and puts his left hand over my left hand, over the handle of the bow. As he does, I feel a chill. He has caught me off guard. I didn’t expect him to come so close, or to put his hand over mine. The feel of his touch is like an electric shock.
He reaches around with his other hand, and places his right hand on my other hand, on the string. I feel his chest rub against my back.
“ Hold it like this,” he says. “Support your shoulders. If your grip is too high, you’ll never hit your target. And hold it closer,” he says, pulling it closer to my chest. “Align your eyes on the notch. You’re too tense. Relax.”
“ How am I supposed to relax when I’m pulling on the string?” I ask.
But I can’t relax for another reason: I’m nervous. I haven’t had a boy this close to me in years. And I find myself realizing that there is something about Ben that I actually do like. That I’ve always liked, since I met him.
“ The paradox of archery,” he says. “You have to be tense and relaxed at the same time. You’re pulling on a string attached to a piece of wood, and that tension is what’s going to make the arrow fly. At the same time, your muscles need to be lithe to direct it. If you tense up, you’ll miss your mark. Let your shoulders and hands and wrists and neck all relax. Don’t put your focus on the bow, but on the target. Try it. See that tree, the crooked one?”
A gust comes in and the fog lifts for a moment, and in the distance I spot a large, crooked tree, standing by itself, about thirty yards away.
Ben takes a step back, letting go of me, and I find myself missing the feel of his touch. I pull back the string and take aim. I close one eye, and try to focus on the notch at the end of the wood, trying to align the arrow.
“ Lower the bow a little bit,” he says.
I do so.
“ Now take a deep breath, then slowly let it go.”
I breathe deep and as I breathe out, I let go. The string snaps forward, and the arrow goes flying.
But I am disappointed to see that it doesn’t hit the tree. It misses by several feet.
“ I told you this was a waste of time,” I say, annoyed.
“ You’re wrong,” he answers. “That was good. The problem was, you didn’t plant your feet. You let the bow carry you. Your strength is in your feet, and in your hips. You have to be rooted. Plant yourself. Try again,” he says, handing me another arrow.
I look over at him, worried.
“ What if I miss?” I say.
He smiles. “Don’t worry. I’ll find the arrows. They can’t go far.”
I take another arrow and set it on the string.
“ Don’t pull it back all at once,” he says, gently. “That’s it,” he adds, as I begin to pull it back.
