Andreg shook his head in disbelief as Cutch sheepishly finished the tale of his auroch hunt. The prolonged silence between those in the room was thinly challenged by the crackling fireplace before which the man and boy sat, cross-legged on the plank floor. As Gatson approached with cups of cider and a small platter of his sharp cheese, Andreg looked up at him. After handing his guests their simple meal, the farmer scraped a stool up to the pair and sat. He nodded at the ranger.
“Aye, the boy speaks true. Half the tower is down, the dead cow lies where he says, cleanly killed with one arrow and fairly stripped by scavengers, and a frayed rope is tied to one of the fallen stones. The bow and knife are probably buried up there. The bull is nowhere in sight, so he and the herd have wandered off. Can’t imagine he is very happy to have a rope loop around his horn. That might take a while to be rid of.”
The two men shared a bright-eyed gaze while the boy looked down at his feet.
“Never ….”, Andreg began quietly. “NEVER have I heard a story that is filled with such cleverness and foolishness… and pure luck.” The ranger’s eyes slowly shifted from the farmer to the boy, who refused to look up at either of them, preferring to sullenly sip and munch.
Gatson began to chuckle, and after a moment, the two men laughed together as Cutch sat quietly, ears reddening. The laughter subsided and the ranger leaned toward the boy.
“So…. Bull-Stringer… “, Andreg began, and Gatson leaned back into a guffaw. “What did you learn?”
“Patience”, Cutch immediately muttered, still not looking at either of the men. “I should have waited, hidden, on the tower until the herd had passed completely away. They may have found my kill, but they wouldn’t have been alerted to me and would have eventually moved on.”
The men went silent and looked at each other with some surprise at the unexpected truth Cutch offered.
The ranger cleared his throat. “Aye, it might have worked out as you say, Little Man, but the better answer you already knew. You should not have done this alone. NO ONE hunts aurochs alone! I know you want to show yourself bettered but look at what you have lost: a fine bow and knife, days of fletch work, a good kill now feeding scavengers, and nearly your own life mashed into the mud!” Andreg stopped, teeth clenched behind pursed lips, eyes closing as he regained his composure. “And yet, here you sit. I can’t deny your skill with the bow, or your resourcefulness in a tough spot. However, if you think this shows you ready to be on your own….”. The ranger’s voice trailed off as he shook his head.
Summer weather arrived early in Esteldin during Cutch’s fifteenth year, the season anxious to blossom into lush greens, tall grasses, and shortened sleeves leaving arms to tan quickly and dark. The heat was unavoidable and gave good reason to move slowly and find shade. The young man was lucky, then, to have been given the task of making arrows under the three-walled tent next to the archery range. The low-ceilinged shelter hugged a worktable and two stools under its shade. The openness of a missing long wall allowed some breezes in but did not stir the air enough to carry away the distinctive aroma of auroch hides secured around the tent poles and forming the top and three sides.
Gaellant, a girl about the same age, sat beside Cutch, working with him. She had a knack for securing the feathers at a uniform angle along the shaft, thus causing a spin that kept the arrow on a true flight. His skill at finding or forming straight shafts was his best contribution to the labor, and together, combined with the points Andreg provisioned, they made arrows that could be trusted. The two worked silently, each glancing at the other’s efforts to glean their secrets. No one had instructed them to labor silently, but there was a tension between them that neither had earned or invited, and as the days wore on in the hot shade, so did Gaellant’s irritation.
“So, Little Man, is there some reason you don’t speak up? Nothing interesting to say? Shy?”
Hearing her use his nickname, one he no longer wished to endure, especially from a taunting feminine voice, his eyes narrowed as he turned them to her. “Odd”, he growled, examining her face, reddened by the summer heat. “I thought you pink cheeked little girls preferred older fellows. What are you shining up to me for?” Instantly ashamed of the rebuke, he turned back to his work, avoiding the shock on her face from the undeserved harshness.
The heavy silence lasted for nearly a minute. She kicked back the stool as she stood and cast the arrow she had been fletching onto the table. “You arrogant …. turd!”, she exclaimed, storming out of the tent. The archers practicing nearby froze, watching her leave, then glanced at him shaking their heads. Cutch turned back to his work, but only a few minutes passed before a finger stabbed at the back of his shoulder. Surprised, the young man turned to look up at Andreg’s face, close and creased with anger.
“Come with me.”
The ranger strode quickly, his pace determined and his footsteps heavy. Cutch had to hurry to keep up, his mind racing to decide what to ask, fearing he already knew what was coming. Andreg led them to the tent they shared near the crafting hall. Several paces behind it a horse stable stood against the inside of the ancient fortification wall and Cutch caught the barest glimpse of Gaellant’s angry face turn away from them as she resumed brushing one of the horses.
“Pack your things, boy.”
Cutch nodded obediently and stooped to fill a pair of rough cloth sacks with his few belongings. “Where are we going?” he dared to ask.
“WE are going to Tinnudir. YOU are staying there.”
The young man halted and looked up at Andreg. He had often heard the men speak of the ancient city of ruins, once the home of kingly power, and a place a young man would yearn to explore. Now, however, his wished-for journey there was foreshadowed with shame, knowing without being told that his abuse of Gaellant was a last straw, of sorts, and he was being exiled.
Cutch turned back to his immediate task, quietly packing.
“Cutch. I can’t seem to help you in ways you need. Perhaps this was the wrong place to try.”
With frustration cracking his voice, the young man stood, faced Andreg, and asked, “Why are you trying at all?”
The man’s face softened with a desire to reveal the truth, then hardened as he recalled The Vow.
“A promise was made, and I intend to see it kept.”
They loaded their horses and rode toward the western gate of Esteldin. Cutch looked back, thinking wrongly that he would never see the settlement again. Few of the residents watched them leave, and none of those that did waved goodbye or wished them safe travels.
