Morgan Rice - Arena Two

“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.

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.