The Forever Memory

            Everyone has a moment they wish to remain in forever. For some, it is an exhilarating Winter Festival. For others, it is a certain victory or achievement, wrenched from the jaws of adversity and strife. For a young half-elf, though, the moment was so simple. It was a memory that always flitted through her mind at times like this, where she lay huddled on a tree limb, trying to stay warm. It was the memory of one particular winter night.

            She was sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair, bouncing eagerly as her father poured some of his “famous” rabbit stew into cheap wooden bowls. It never tasted good, but gods, she was hungry. Several clinks and shuffles later, the table was set, and she was set down, spoon in hand. It was too big for her, but they didn’t have anything smaller. The fire roared under the cauldron, keeping the stew and cabin warm while she forced down bites of the gristly meal.

            As they ate, her mind wandered. In her absent-minded daydreaming, the half-elf’s eyes fell upon the gleaming set of plate armor adorned with the sigil of her father’s patron. Above it hung a bow, weathered with age and use, but its dark ebony varnish still shined. Since she could walk, she had pestered her father for that damned bow. But for as long as she could remember, it never left those hooks, and neither did the armor beneath it. She spooned in another bite of stew while she pondered the day she would be allowed to parade around in that armor with that bow. Maybe she would join the army, as he had. Perhaps she would simply wear it while on hunts. The possibilities were endless!

            The meal passed with few words between them. Despite his jovial demeanor, the half-elf’s father was never a man of many words. However, his movement told her everything she needed to know. He had certain rituals that were post signs of what he was to do next. They were small, but the girl knew them by heart. Thus, seeing him keep his boots on at the table was a clear sign: he was to hunt.

            After their silent meal, the little girl took to cleaning up the table, as she did every night. However, this time her father put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “No, no, Dear. Not tonight. Put your boots on.”

            The half-elf remembered her own confusion, but, even then, she knew the best way to learn was to listen. She scampered over to the small nook of their cabin she called her own and pulled on her too-big boots, along with a too-heavy fur coat. Presenting herself with a smile to her father, she patiently waited by her nook for him to finish the dishes and to pull on his own jacket. However, her father broke his pre-hunt ritual in a way she had never seen before. He lingered by the plate and bow, almost seeming to argue with himself. Finally, he sighed and picked the bow up from its hooks for the first time she could remember. When he stood, the little girl felt smaller than usual. For years, she had wondered when this night would come, but suddenly she felt unprepared… scared. However, this was replaced with trepidation when her father stood the bow in front of her. She gently took hold of the darkly varnished weapon, as was seemingly what her father wanted.

            “Draw your string,” he said.

            With great effort, the little girl raised the bow in front of her and drew the string back as far as she could. The bow was nearly as tall as her, and it was strung for someone much stronger than herself, but she managed, if barely.

            “You’ll grow into it,” he said with a soft chuckle. And so, her first hunt began.

            That memory had stuck with the half-elf through everything, the pain, loneliness, fear, and adventure. Memories flooded back to her: her father’s silver eyes, finally loosing her first arrow, and the quiet pride in his eyes when that arrow found its mark. All these moments paraded through her mind. This reminiscence was one of the few comforts she allowed herself in the ancient forests.

            However, no matter how much she wished to live in that memory forever, life never allowed such luxuries to a woman such as herself. Her thoughts were soon broken by the sound of a yell for help in the distance. Silently, the half-elf prowled through the canopy of rain-soaked trees towards the sound of distress. Upon arrival, she was met with the source of the panicked yells: an elf, surrounded by bandits. Her memories could wait, it was time for action.

The Whitetail

            On a cold October morning, in what would one day be called Oregon, a boy was awoken earlier than usual from his heavy slumber to the sight of his father, a large and mustachioed man. He was never roused by his father, who had usually left for that day’s adventure long before him or his siblings had the chance to finish dreaming. This brought many questions to the Boy’s mind. Questions that were quickly silenced by a gravelly order from his father, “Get up. It’s time you learned to hunt.”

            A knot of excitement and anxiety formed in the Boy’s core. He had been begging his father for the last five of his ten years to teach him the ways of the hunter. Despite this, the new and sudden responsibility of a student brought a shiver to his spine. He was not prepared, nor was he particularly aware of what this ‘learning’ would entail. However, one did not keep his father waiting. With as much speed as his addled mind and sleeping muscles could offer, the Boy rose from his bed and dressed himself. He pulled a satchel over his head, filling it with minor provisions he thought may be necessary for the day. Once ready for the brisk Autumn morning, the Boy stood patiently by the door to their cabin.

            The Father was rummaging through a chest at the foot of his bed, careful not to wake his sleeping wife in the process. Out of the chest, he retrieved a small object wrapped loosely in dirty cloth. From the door, the Boy could not make out what was held within the cloth, and his opportunity quickly passed as his father placed it inside his own satchel. Then, approaching the door to their first adventure together, the father smiled down at the Boy before him. “Well, let’s be off then. No sense in wasting the day looking at each other.”

            With that, a rifle was slung over the Father’s shoulder and the door creaked open to the soft yellow of a rising sun, and the air of the freezing morning. The Father took the first step out, taking a breath in only to watch the vapor escape his mouth. The Boy stepped out next, mimicking his father in the way only a son can. Silently, the two began their trek forward into the wood that surrounded their cottage. In the valley below, they could make out the smoking chimneys of a slowly awakening town through the red-leaved and barren branches of the forest. Were it not for the money he received from selling pelts and meat at their market, the Boy knew his father would have them live much farther from civilization than they already did. According to the Father, ‘civilized’ people lacked reverence and respect, two things which he did not care to sacrifice in order to live among them.

            As they walked to a location unknown to the Boy, he began to ask questions of his father:

            “Father, what will you teach me today?” the Boy asked.

            “To hunt, my boy,” the Father replied.

            “Will I get to shoot your gun?”

            “No.”

            “Why not?”

            “You don’t know how to use it.”

            “Will you teach me?”

            “Not today.”

            “Why not?”

            “There are more important things to learn about hunting before you learn to shoot things.”

            “Like what?”

            “You’ll see.”

            “When?”

            At that, the Father let out a deep but quiet laugh. “Do you ask your mother this many questions when I’m not at home?”

            The Boy’s cheeks grew red at his father’s comment before he retorted, “O-only when she doesn’t tell me things on purpose!”

            The Father laughed once more before comforting the Boy. “I’m not telling you because you’ll think about it too much. The point of what I’m going to teach you is not to overthink.”

            With that answer, the boy quieted his questions, hoping they would be answered with time, as his father had said. They continued to walk through the wood, the dirt path underneath them slowly dissolving into leaves and twigs that crunched under the Boy’s feet. However, the Boy noticed the Father’s footsteps were much quieter than his own. He wanted to ask how his father was able to achieve such silence but knew his questions would again be deflected.

            As minutes turned to hours, the Boy had become accustomed to the rhythm of their trek. However, as the minutes and hours ticked by, the boy found it increasingly difficult to keep pace with the towering figure of his father. Despite this, he did not dare complain. The Father had the “patience of a saint,” as the Boy’s mother would say, but he was not one to give griping the time of day. Eventually, though, the Boy could walk no further, and asked his father for a brief reprieve from their hike.

            Being the man of patience he was, the Father agreed, but only once they had reached a nearby thicket that bordered a clearing. The Boy exasperatedly agreed, and trudged his way to the thicket, sitting down against a tree as soon as they had arrived. The Father, seemingly not tired in the least, kneeled behind the bushes of the thicket and looked out over the clearing.

            The Boy paid little mind to his father’s refusal to sit, instead stuffing a strip of deer jerky into his mouth and gulping water from his canteen. However, once the Boy told the Father he was ready to leave, the Father waved him off. “This is where you’ll learn,” he said, leaning his rifle against a nearby tree.

            The boy scrambled up from his position to kneel next to his father. “Really?! What are we gonna-” The boy was quickly silenced by a stern look.

            “Wait and watch. That is what we’ll do.” The Father spoke in hushed tones now, not allowing his voice reach further than his son. “Now sit down and stay still,” he said, crossing his legs and looking out over the clearing.

            The Boy did not understand the point of this exercise, but he followed suit, mimicking his father in the way only a son can. There they sat, side by side, as the day ticked by. Just as before, minutes turned to hours as they sat and stared at the same barren clearing. Every once in a while, a sparrow would perch upon a nearby tree, giving the boy something to stare at for a few minutes. The sun moved at a painfully slow pace, inching across the sky like a snail across a log. As the sun continued its crawl, the Boy found himself increasingly more agitated and restless. However, each time he tried to ask his father what this exercise’s purpose was he was met with silence or a quiet reprimand. “Sit, and watch,” was all the Boy would get from the Father.

            Finally, once the sun had long passed the center of the sky, the Boy lost his patience. Turning to the Father, he asked “Father, this is ridiculous. We’ve been here for hours doing nothing! I’m bored and my butt is all wet from the mud!” Although he spoke with force, the boy still did not raise his voice, for fear of breaking the peaceful silence the forest had maintained around them for so many hours.

            This finally broke the Father’s silence. “We are not ‘doing nothing,’ we’re waiting.” The Father’s voice was still just as hushed as before, but it carried a much more sage-like tone now. “Hunting is not about action; it is about inaction. You cannot hunt and be impatient. You don’t chase a deer down. You wait for it to come to you.” His voice had grown near silent as he continued, something that confused the Boy until his father pointed back to the clearing.

            There, standing in all its glory, was a young whitetail buck. It was not the largest deer the boy had ever seen, nor was it even particularly large, but it was beautiful. A pristine coat of gray-brown with specks of perfect white dotting its back. Upon its head rested two small antlers, appropriate for a buck so young. Its black eyes seemingly took in the entire forest. Its gentle steps giving it an air of majesty the boy had not yet seen. With a whisper, the Father continued, “there, my son, is the rare sight of a deer who is not afraid. Not running from a hunter or predator. It is simply at peace with the world around it.”

            It was true, the Boy had never seen a deer at peace before. They had all been running away or scurrying up a mountainside in the distance. The sight would have put a knot in the Boy’s chest had his father not given him a sudden order, “alright, stand up very slowly.”

            The Boy did not understand, but he watched his father as the towering man stood with the silence of a mouse. Next, the Boy did his best to follow suit, mimicking his father in the way only a son can. The Father took the Boy’s hand, and one very careful step at a time, they approached the buck. Each step brought the boy anxiety. He had seen many larger deer before, but each had either been one of his father’s kills or only seen in the distance. Alive, the Boy could not help but realize, they had a much more intimidating presence. This presence, however, was not intimidating in the way a large man or a bear was. No, it was the type of intimidation one would feel when approaching the most beautiful person in the world, or a god whose grace and benevolence knew no end. It was the intimidation of not feeling worthy to join the presence of such a creature.

            Despite his mounting anxiety, the Boy took every pace forward with his father, placing each step just as carefully as his father did. Over the course of several minutes, they slowly inched closer to the whitetail. Finally, the Boy took his finals step towards the whitetail, able to look it in the eye as the deer’s head hung low to nibble on what little remained of a berry bush. It had seen them the moment they stood from behind their bush, but it had not run away. This baffled the young boy as he gazed into the black eye of the whitetail. Mesmerized, he only broke away briefly to look up at his father, who wore a calm and measured smile. With a nod, the Father released the Boy’s hand, and made the slightest gesture towards the whitetail.

            The Boy rested a sheepish hand on the whitetail’s shoulder. To his utter surprise, the deer did not so much as flinch. Instead, it continued to look into the Boy’s eye with a quiet knowing. Gently petting the deer, the Boy felt something he had never even considered possible. He felt a quiet respect between himself and this mythical whitetail. They each trusted one another to be this close and had both proven their trust well placed. The boy found a knot growing in his chest at this understanding. He had never felt a connection such as this with another person, let alone an animal. The knot grew until he felt it subside into a quiet love for the creature before him. However, this moment was short-lived.

            Just as quickly as he had begun petting the deer, it slowly sauntered away, into the thick wood it had emerged from. With that, the Father placed a hand on the Boy’s shoulder. “Hunting isn’t about chasing and catching. It’s about the respect between the hunter and the hunted. In order to hunt, you must understand what it means to be still. In order to be able to be still, you must respect the animals you hunt. It is difficult to grow impatient when you know you’re not just killing a deer; you’re ending a life. You’re taking one of God’s beautiful and majestic creatures from this world in a violent and painful way.” The next thing the boy felt was a cloth-covered object being placed into his hands.

            Unwrapping it, he found a small hunting knife with his initials burned into the handle. With his booming and deep voice, the Father continued, “it’s only when you respect and understand an animal that you’ve earned the right to take its life, as long as you do so to keep yours.” With that final remark, the two turned and began their long trek home to a small cottage overlooking a sleepy valley town. As they went, the Boy took careful steps, mimicking his father in the way only a son can.