The string is more taut this time-maybe because I’m nervous, maybe because I feel more at stake. As I hold it back, I feel the bow quivering, and it’s hard to stop.
“ It’s hard to steady it,” I say. “My aim is all over the place.”
“ That’s because you’re not breathing,” he says. “Relax your shoulders, lower them, and pull it in closer to your chest.”
He comes up behind me and reaches over and puts his hands on mine. I feel his chest against my back, and slowly, I stop quivering a little bit less.
“ Good,” he says, stepping back. “Okay, take a deep breath, and release.”
I do so, and let it go.
It is exhilarating to watch the arrow go flying through the air, into the thick blizzard, and to watch it hit the tree. It doesn’t hit it in the center, as I was hoping, but it hits, along its edge. Still, I hit it.
“ Great!” Ben yells, genuinely excited.
I don’t know if he’s just being kind, or if he’s genuine; but either way, I’m grateful for his enthusiasm.
“ It wasn’t that great,” I say. “If that was a deer-especially a moving deer-I never would’ve hit.”
“ Give yourself a break,” he says. “That was your first shot. Try again.”
He reaches out and hands me another arrow. This time, I place it on the bow, more confident, and pull it back. This time, I pull it back more easily, more steadily, remembering everything he taught me. I plant my feet and lower the bow. I aim for the center of the tree, and pull back breathe deep as I let go.
Before it even leaves, somehow I know it is a good shot. It’s weird, but before it even hits, I know it will.
And it does. I hear the sound of arrow striking wood even from here-but a fog rolls in, and I can’t tell where I hit.
“ Come on,” Ben says, trotting off excitedly towards the tree. I follow him, equally curious to see the result.
We reach the tree and I can’t believe it. It is a perfect strike. Dead center.
“ Bingo!” he yells out, clapping his hands. “See? You’re a natural! I couldn’t have done that my first time out!”
For the first time in a while, I feel a sense of self-worth, of being good at something. It feels real, genuine. Maybe I do have a shot at archery-at least enough to catch dinner once in a while. That shot might have been a fluke, but either way, I feel I can get this over time. It is a skill I know that I can use. Especially out here.
“ Thank you,” I say, meaning it, as I hand him back the bow.
He takes it, as he pulls the arrows out of the tree and puts them back in his quiver.
“ You want to hold onto it?” he asks. “You want to fire on the deer, if we ever find it?”
“ No way. If we do find it, we get one crack at it. I don’t want lose dinner for everyone.”
We turn and continue on, heading farther into the island.
We walk in silence for several more minutes, but now it’s a different silence. Something in the air has shifted, and we are closer to each other than before. It’s like the silence has shifted from a comfortable one, to an intimate one. I’m starting to see things in Ben that I like, things that I hadn’t seen before. And I feel like it’s time to give him a second chance.
We keep walking, cutting through the woods, when suddenly, to my surprise, the island ends. We’ve reached the small sandy beach, now covered in snow. We stand there and look out the Hudson, now just a huge white wall. It’s like staring into a wall of fog. Like staring into nothingness.
And there, to my shock, standing on the beach, leaning down and drinking the water of the Hudson, is the deer. It is not even twenty feet ahead of us, not even aware of our presence. It is wide out in the open, almost too easy of a shot. A part of me doesn’t want to kill it.
But Ben already has the bow in hand, an arrow in place, and before I can even say anything, he pulls it back.
At the slight noise, the deer lifts its head and turns, and I feel it looking right at me.
“ No!” I scream out to Ben, despite myself.
But it is too late. The deer starts at my cry, but the arrow is already flying. It flies at lightning speed and hits the deer in the neck. The deer takes a few steps forward, stumbles, then collapses, the pure white snow immediately turning red.
Ben turns and looks at me, surprised.
“ What was that about?” he asks.
He stares at me, his large, light-blue eyes filled with wonder. They are lit up by the snow, mesmerizing.
I have no idea how to respond. I am embarrassed. I look away in shame, not wanting to meet those eyes.
“ I don’t know,” I say. “It was stupid. Sorry.”
I expect Ben to tell me that I’m stupid, that I almost lost us dinner, that I should have kept my mouth shut. And he would be right.
But instead, he reaches out with one hand, and takes my hand in his. I look up at him, and he stares down at me with his large soulful eyes, and says:
“ I understand.”
The mood is somber as we sit around the fire, staring into the flames after our meal. Night has fallen, and unbelievably, it’s still snowing. There now must be three feet piled up out there, and I think we are all wondering if we will ever leave this place.
Of course, we shouldn’t be complaining: for the first time in a long time, we have real shelter, fire, warmth, no fear from attack, and real food. Even Logan has finally relaxed his guard, realizing that no one could possibly reach this island in these conditions. He’s finally stopped sitting guard, and sits with the rest of us, staring into the flames.
Yet still, we are all morose. Because beside us, lying there, groaning, is Rose. It is obvious she has reached the point of no return, that she could die at any moment. All the color has left her skin, the black of the infection has spread across her shoulder and chest, and she lies there, pouring with sweat and writhing in pain. Bree’s eyes are red from crying. Penelope sits on Rose’s chest, whining intermittently, refusing to go anywhere else. I feel as if I am on a death vigil.
Normally, I would gorge myself on the fresh meat, but tonight I eat half-heartedly, as do the others. Bree didn’t even touch hers. Even Penelope, when I handed her a piece, refused to take it. Of course, Rose wouldn’t take a bite.
It breaks my heart to see her suffer like this. I don’t know what else to. I gave her the remainder of the sleeping pills, three at once, hoping to knock her out, to alleviate her pain. But now she’s in so much pain, it’s not doing her any good. She cries and moans and squirms in agony. I sit there, stroking her hair, staring into the flames, wondering when this will all end. I feel as if we’re all stuck in some interminable suffering that has no end in sight.
“ Read me a story,” Bree says.
I turn and see her looking up at me with red eyes.
“ Please,” she pleads.
I put one arm around her and hold her tight; she rests her head on my shoulder, crying softly.
I close my eyes and try to remember the words of The Giving Tree. They usually come to me, right away-but tonight, I’m having a hard time. My mind is jumbled.
“ I…” I begin, then trail off. I can’t believe it, but I’m drawing a blank. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember.”
“ Then tell me a story,” she says. “Anything. Please. Something from before the war.”
I think back, trying hard to remember something, anything. But I’m so tired, and so frazzled, I draw a blank. Then, suddenly, I remember.
“ I remember one night, when you were young,” I begin. “You were maybe four. I was eleven. We were with mom and dad. It was a summer night, the most perfect, beautiful night, so still, not a breeze, and the sky filled with stars. Mom and dad took us to an outdoor carnival, I don’t remember where. It was some kind of farm country, because I remember walking through all these cornfields. It felt like we walked all night long, this magical walk through open farms, up and down gentle hills. I remember looking up and being awed at all the stars. There were
