Chapter 9: The New Toy

Waking up with a sense of purpose, I ignore the aches in my muscles and the now dull pain in my abdomen. I leave the teepee in a hurry, grab a quick bite from Trevor, and set off to my goal.

I test the wooden stave, it feels dry and strong, yet flexes well under pressure.

Damn, I hope I’m strong enough to use this thing. I finish my checks, set the piece down, and grab the last full strand of dried sinew. Peeling it apart, I take the time to make sure everything is lined up right, and braid the sinew back together. Once It’s nice and tight, I form a loop on each end and tie a tight knot. Finally I take the cord to the frame and hook the loop on a hitched end, stringing it along to the bottom. It takes a lot of flex in the limbs to get the loop around, but as soon as I slip the final loop onto the notches my mind pulls.

I lose all focus as a mental image is pulled to the forefront of my mind. A series of red glowing text sweeps in.

Survivor’s Bow

A talented bowyer made the bow to assist them on the Path of Survival. This bow is tailored to her hands, and if taken care of, can last a lifetime.

I pause as the words register.

Did I just get a system prompt?!

“Hey, someone come here!” I yell with excitement.

“What’s wrong Elizabeth?” Trevor asks as the group approaches.

“Do you see anything when you look at this?” I ask, refusing to look away in case it stops.

The whole group looks at the bow and pauses.

“Holy shit,” David says

“Yeah, holy shit,” Chris agrees.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and glance over to see Cody standing next to me, a proud smile on his face. Looking back at the bow, the prompt returns.

“I mean, it’s not like it’s useful information, but that’s a system prompt….. in the real world… without the mirror…. Right?” I ask

“Mmhmm,” Big Mike agrees.

I leave the bow where it’s at, and grab a few bushels of reads. I stack them all tight together and wrap them with a braided cord. Setting the stack next to a distant tree, I pick up the bow and grab a few arrows.

Okay, I haven’t touched a bow in a few years, but maybe it’s like riding a bike?

I take the first arrow and notch it to the bow, getting into the stance my father taught me. I stress the string, starting at only a quarter of my draw length I pull and release. The arrow goes wide and I adjust. The second pull I put at half draw, and release. This time the arrow is a bit high. Third and three quarters length, the bow is holding up fine, the limbs seem even and not overly stressed. I release, and the arrow almost hits.

Okay, ten years is more than a few years.

The fourth arrow is at full draw length, and my back muscles are screaming. I push with my left hand as I release with my right and the arrow flies smooth, hitting the target at about 55-60 lbs. I barely hit the target but I don’t care. I crafted a functional bow and even if barely, I can shoot it. A grin spreads across my face, and stays as I spend the rest of the morning loosing arrows at the target.

Stopping at the fire for lunch, my entire body aches. My back is on fire, my arms are sore, my abdomen is begging me to stop, and even my legs ache. I took the occasional water break while shooting, but my body was not prepared for the intense workout.

I rest through the afternoon, barely moving, other than to drink some water. Evening rolls around and I’m approached by a giant of a man. He pulls me up as if my weight is meaningless, then thrusts my spear into my hands.

“Ready, little miss? We’ll put some muscle on you yet,” he says while directing me into some open space.

“Ready,” I say with a nod, and the next thing I know, he’s used the butt of the spear to knock me on my ass.

“Keep your eyes on your opponent,” he says with a mischievous grin.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Ummm, didn’t realize we were sparring, but okay.

I flip my spear so the blunt end is facing him, and he’s already coming at me, his large physique presses into the spear in a full bodied sweep. I barely have time to jump over before he brings it back down into a vertical slash. I bring my spear up, and his blow wrenches it from my arms. He pauses in his relentless swipes and speaks.

“Not bad instincts, but your body is small. You will never be able to shrug off my blows. Instead, try to angle the spear so my strikes slide off,” he says as I retrieve my tossed spear.

“Again” he demands and his swipes continue. He rotates from horizontal sweeps to vertical strikes, and despite seeing the obvious pattern I just can’t keep up.

Jump over the low swipe, step to the side and brace to deflect the middle, duck the high. I tell myself but it’s just not that easy. I manage to sidestep a vertical strike, and before I can counter he’s coming back with a high sweep, I duck, and the sweep flips back, coming low. I try to jump, but I’m too slow. I topple to the ground.

“Good warm up, really gets those juices going.” Big Mike says as he lifts me up to my feet.

“Go ahead and go through the strike and sweep motions I just used on you,” he continues

I take a deep shuddering breath, then do so. My form is a mess, I can barely hold the spear, and even so, I swipe, then strike. After only ten or so minutes that felt like hours he has me stop, gives me some water and allows me to take a break. Thirty minutes later I’m on it again. 10 minutes sweeping and striking, then thirty minutes off. When dinner comes, I’m practically a zombie. I’m not sure if I brought myself to bed or if Mike carried me.

One thing is for sure, I woke up at the break of dawn barely able to move.

———

Someone must have moved my stuff inside. I find my bow propped up next to my backpack, with my arrows and quiver tucked inside it. Laying next to me is my spear. I slowly grab it and use it as a cane to stand. I walk out of the shelter to see all the guys staring at me, Mike’s grin is larger than usual. I wordlessly take an offered breakfast, and trudge over to my craft-area. I sit down on the comfortable log bench, and pick up a long piece of wood.

It’s not until thirty minutes later that I realize that this bench wasn’t here before. I ignore it and continue working. At midday, Trevor hands me some food and water.

By the day's end, I have four more spear shafts, and 30 or so more arrow shafts.

The next morning I awake with a hazy memory. Leaving the shelter I notice several log benches scattered around the camp. There are three long ones around the fire, two small ones near the crafting area, and a medium one directly next to the teepee.

I shake my head at having missed them the day before and go to the fire. Sitting down on the bench at my usual spot.

“How are you feeling today?” Trevor asks as he hands me the jerky.

“I think I’m better? My muscles still ache but my head's way clearer. I can barely recall yesterday at all,” I tell him.

“Yeah, you didn’t look like you were doing okay. I’m glad you at least got some rest. Maybe you should take it easy today too?” He says with a look of concern.

“Thanks Trevor, but I think I’ll be okay. I’m sure after I stretch out I'll be back to normal.” I give him a pleasant smile.

“I guess I’ll leave you to it, just keep in mind, Mike will be looking at more training this evening. I think he’s excited, all day yesterday he kept going on about your work ethic,” Trevor says.

We say our goodbyes, and I perform some basic stretches. I grab my bow and quiver, and start practicing my form. I loose 100 arrows before I stop for the day. Trevor has a point, over stressing my body won’t work.

My accuracy isn’t that great, even at 60 feet or so. But my primary focus right now is my form. I slowly make small tweaks to keep my body straight, and even.

Finishing my practice, I leave my bow among the archery targets and head for my crafting area. Lying in the packed dirt, resting between my and Cody’s sections rest the unbleached bone shards. I organize any flat pieces by piling them up, while the thinnest and smallest are set aside. I find my stone and begin shearing the bones into rough triangles. Each piece takes pressure and force. They crack and chip. I lose a couple of shards as I go, but my arrowheads begin taking shape. For each piece, I shape a small tang out of the bone before setting it aside. The process is both enduring and painful on my hands. I’m hopeful that it’s worth it.

I leave the arrowheads in the warmth of the sun as I take up a larger shard. Far heftier at a hand’s length and two fingers’ width, I shape it. I cut the end into a fine point while chipping the flat into an edge. The bones snap and crack. The force pressing against my palms as I work it into shape. I finish with the tang, leaving it thicker but narrower than the blade itself.

Taking up the unrefined arrowheads and blades, I make for the grindstone. I pedal the wheel into a smooth rhythm and set the edge of an arrowhead upon it. Each one takes time, but I work them to satisfaction. My mind remains empty as sweat begins to pool on my brow, and the pile of arrowheads begins to grow. Time passes, and soon I’m finishing knives. I end the process by using some sinew as glue around the tang and complete the knives with a hide wrap.

A wooden handle might be better, but this will suffice.

Too bad I’ve used up almost all the sinew on these. I grumble internally.

The sun begins to set over our clearing and Mike takes me through several strikes, physically moving my body to show me how to engage my muscles properly. His touch is professional and chaste but I can’t help but focus on the contact. His warm skin distracts me and his strong arms take a new meaning within my mind. I force the thoughts into a corner of my mind and try to memorize the motions instead.

When we sit down for dinner I get everyone’s attention.

“Hey guys, so I’ve finished the spears and wanted to make sure to hand them all out, plus I made a little something extra for each of us,” I say as I pass out both spears and knives to everyone.

“I used up quite a bit of material on these, so we’ll need to hunt something before I can make more,” I explain as they each look over their weapons.

“So who all wants a bow?” I ask with a grin.

—Split chapter—