Page 8 of Twenty-One Arrow Salute

PRACTICE

We moved further towards the edge of the meadow the next dawn, where a few trees and dense shrubs offered some protection from the roasting sun.

“So,” I said, stretching and failing to stifle another yawn. Given that my night shift ended well past midnight, rolling out of bed at sunrise to tutor the bright-eyed and eager Silver City boy required a healthy dose of resolve, aided by a thick slice of darhê. “I thought we’d work on forms today. You’re familiar with those, I take it?”

By forms, or Hâtachî as we referred to them at home, I meant the Highland’s eight stages of ceremonial shooting that incorporated precise body, bow and arrow movements. The purpose of this slow and dignified routine, both athletic and spiritual in nature, went beyond the mere ability to reach the target. Unlike techniques used for hunting or combat, where speed and efficiency were vital, Hâtachî constituted a character-perfecting tool that focused on an archer’s style, timing and awareness. It embodied discipline and beauty.

Hernan cocked his head. “Of course! Every Elf born and bred in Asirhwÿn knows the sequence. Watching the Honour Guard shoot every year is a tradition. I even…tried practising it. On my own and without a mountain bow. I felt somewhat stupid,” he said, red-faced.

“Well, you’re not on your own now, and you’ve got your dream weapon. How about I talk you through the moves the way my father taught me? Observe. Then we’ll do them together—without the weapon at first—just marking the forms. When you find your rhythm, we’ll add the bow. Sound good?”

“It does,” he said.

And I would have to be stone deaf not to recognise the ring of excitement in his voice. Someone was but a moment away from bouncing on his feet. The corners of my mouth turned up.

Not wanting to waste daylight, I moved straight into a shooting position. Having distributed my weight evenly, I held my bow in my left hand and two arrows in my right, anchored at hip level and fixed towards the centre of my body. The tip of my bow rested three thumbs above the grass.

“Number one. Footing,” I said, spreading my feet. “The distance of an arrow’s length. Big toes pointing in the direction of the target.”

“Number two,” he chimed in before I could continue. “Posture.”

I rewarded my diligent student with a smile, at the same time ensuring that my shoulders, hips and feet remained parallel to the ground. “That’s right. The correct alignment of the body. Number three?” I prompted.

“Reading of the bow.”

“Yes.” I set my glove, gripped the bow and faced the target. “Keep the movements fluid and unhurried. Don’t rush. Remember, you’ll have to be in sync with the other Guards. Once the rehearsals start, you’ll pick up on their pace and flow. All right. What’s next?”

“Numbers four and five. Raising and drawing the bow.”

I lifted my hands above my head, raising the bow in front of me. I could feel Hernan’s eyes on me, following my every move with utmost concentration. A tingle of excitement scurried along my backbone. “And now?”

“Completing the draw. Followed by release.”

“Aaand that’s the difficult bit,” I said. “Think about your breathing. Aim with your spirit before you aim with your eyes. Anticipate the moment. Take your time until the intensity is such that the release is inevitable.” I winked. “Mark my words: no one likes a premature shooter.”

I loosed the arrow to the sound of his snort. Why did knowing that he had a sense of humour seem so appealing? The bow rotated in place, allowing the string to swing around and touch the outside of my left arm. “The last one?” I asked, still holding the position.

“Number eight. Lowering of the bow.”

Steadily, I lowered my hands to the side, placing the bow in line with the centre of my body once more. “See?” I said, meeting his eyes. “Piece of piss. Then again, I’ve been doing that since I was five.”

Hernan’s mouth twitched, but I couldn’t overlook the molten glimmer that eclipsed his gaze.

Feeling a thumb taller all of a sudden, I tugged at one ear and then the other. Both felt hot to the touch.

“That looked effortless.” He cleared his throat, and I suppressed the need to do the same. Awkward. “I’m mostly worried about the handling of the bow while moving. Gods know the thing’s huge enough to poke out my eye. Or another Guard’s.”

“Well, it is the biggest one you’ve ever had.” I cracked up at Hernan’s bemused look. Damn, wasn’t my talent for innuendo a true gift from the gods? “No question, it’ll be tricky and unwieldy at the beginning. But once you tame that yaanöŭr beast and get used to the feel of it, it will centre you. Give you confidence. You’ll see. So are you ready?”

We commenced the sequence together, him shadowing me in a silence filled only by the sound of our breathing. In a way, it felt like dancing. Within a few moments, I heaved a sigh of relief. I could tell that Hernan had practised this. His steps were sure and well-timed, his movements round, smooth and refined. If I were a betting Elf—which of course I was—I’d wager that the lad could dance up a storm. And then it hit me: I should ask him to the Archers’ Fete. To really dance with me.

Taking a step too wide, Hernan faltered at the very end, finishing the last form at the wrong angle. The error turned his stance rigid, his poise evaporating before my eyes.

“Not bad. For an Asirhwÿnian,” I grinned and winked. “Let’s repeat it a few more times without stopping. I want to try something. Close your eyes and picture the forms in your mind. I’ll be behind you, guiding your steps, all right?”

Hernan nodded.

Slowly, I approached him from the rear and placed my hands on his hips.