The making of a bow.
Words: 1,043
BarAmal frowned looking down at his given bow. It was not the one his mother had given him. That bow had been taken from him at the oban camps and not returned. He sighed as he had stood there with all the rest waiting for their things and gotten his equipment back but the bow and it’s arrows had ‘disappeared’ into thin air. He hated that such a precious thing had been stolen from him. Still his was not the only story to have such a chapter in it. He had been making do with this loan and yet it felt so foreign to his touch. He needed to make his own and perhaps that would bring him better luck. He knew the steps from his family and yet he was hesitant to make one before this. His loss at the webbed feet of creatures almost too stupid to breath helped him to change his mind. With this in mind he took off into the jungle to begin his hunt for the wood he would need. Much of the wood he came across would take a long time to sweat and bend to shape. He was admittedly disappointed by all this. Still what more could expect given that he was in fact in a jungle like area. Spending the day checking limbs and cutting tree bark to see what the wood beneath it was like. Darkness fell the first nigh and still he had nothing.
Curled up in the tree BarAmal opened his eyes when the wind made the trees begin to groan. There was a storm coming tonight from the sounds of it. He didn’t want to stay in the canopy but he also wasn’t certain what it would be like on the ground on the night like this. He doubted the predators would much care as they would likely be all curled up and hiding themselves. Slowly making his way down the tree inch by painful inch in the dark he found the ground finally and let out a small sigh of relief. Droplets of rain began to make tapping noises on the tree leaves. Stay close to the trunk he half climbed a larger root so his feet were off the ground in case there was flooding a bit. The rain began to come down harder as the trees danced in the winds letting a cascade of water reach the world below. Holding the tree he felt the first of the water and wished he could see it. It wasn’t all that cold but he disliked being hit in the face with wetness in the dark.
After a time he felt the water reach his feet and keep climbing up his ankles. Flood it was then. Climbing up higher he wished he had memorized where the holds were on the way down because while he was slowly and safely climbing up the water raged on tugging at his feet and nipping at him quickly as he climbed. Eventually he was able to pass it but it had scared him far more than he wanted to admit. The idea of being swept away was not a pleaseent one. The tree tipped precariously between the wind and the flood. Still it held strong and didn’t fall. BarAmal said several prayers to all the spirits of the wood and rain, and even the water threatening him from below. He wondered if it flooded often and if it did how the new settlers of Neued would be able to handle such a threat. It was one thing to have them come and find a place, It was another to have them come in hopes of freedom and then to risk death so soon after tasting it.
That night BarAmal had no sleep. He used what materials he had to lash himself to the tree just in case he lost consciousness. The water mass receded after the storm slowly and by mid day BarAmal could climb down. The hard earth was softened by the flood and there was a good number of branches of many sizes all over the place, likely knocked down by the wind. He grabbed several nice sized ones and broke them down until they were more manageable. It would take a month to bake the wood and make certain it was dry. Then would come the time to carve it. Sweat it for impurities while having it pressed to shape with weights. Then more baking and repeating the process until the wood was not only shaped but fully dry inside. Braiding the string would be the easy part and if he did his work right for shapping then the stringing would be fair as well. He would of course have to seal it as well as make certain he had arrows of proper length to use. Then there would be testing the bow and seeing it was right for him. Yes this part of selecting the wood was the first step to making his bow. Heading back to Neued he would use the tools there to make what would become his new bow.
Quite some time later the process had gone much better than BarAmal anticipated. Of course it helped there were those in the settlement with far more experience than he. Without their input he would have likely done something wrong or used the wrong seal that would eat away at his bow or string over time. Testing the first shot that night he smiled as his target was struck and the feel of the weight in his hands was not foreign to him. Yes this was the bow he needed and wanted. He took the time to carve the mark of the resistance into it. The war might be over but he wanted a reminder of it. It had cost him his pride, his dignity, his peace, his bow. Yet he felt so much less anger now and simply did not wish to forget that such was inside of him. He headed to the grave markers to say a prayer once more for the shifter who lost his family. That was the one promise he managed to salvage and perhaps in time he would manage the others as well.
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