by Jae
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Beneath the leafy canopy, on a mild September afternoon, Herne waited. As the sun tilted westward, the boy came.
He was tall for his age – which the forest god judged to be around ten years. Tall and somewhat awkward of bearing, with russet hair and hazel eyes. He carried a sack in one hand. He was making his way slowly down the wooded hillside, pausing every now and again to examine some vivid bloom or odd-shaped stone beside the path.
Herne stepped into view.
The boy stopped, gazing at the antlered form through squinted eyes. "Who are you?" he asked. There was no fear in the youthful voice.
"I am Herne, the Hunter. What is your name, child?"
"My name is Tom. I am also a hunter."
"Come, sit beside me," Herne offered.
There was a large oak ahead, which offered welcome shade. Herne sat beneath it, motioning for the boy to join him. "Have you been hunting in the forest?"
"Yes."
"And did you find your prey?"
"Yes." Tom eyed the sack on the ground at his feet. "A wild fowl."
The old man’s eyes crinkled. "He led you a merry chase through the trees, and you brought him down with your bare hands. Is that what happened?"
The boy met his gaze steadily. "I found him caught in a trap. I took him out and tied him to a tree with my garter. Then I shot him."
"Ah, I see."
"My father says that hunting alone will teach me to be fearless and sure of myself."
"Your father is a wise man," Herne said.
"Yes." The boy cocked his head, listening to the call of a bird. "But there are so many new things in the forest. Plants whose names I don’t know yet. Do you know what this is?" He pulled a somewhat wilted mass of green, tipped with small red buds, from a pocket of his shirt.
The shaman examined the herb. "That is called centaury."
"Is it useful?"
"It is good for the digestion. But there are other things which will do as well, that do not taste as bad as that."
"Still, it is good to know the proper name for it." The boy returned the plant to his pocket, carefully tucking the stem in without breaking it.
"I have a gift for you," Herne said. "A very special gift."
"A gift? But you have only just met me, and today isn’t even a holiday."
The old man smiled. "I know you well enough." He reached into the bag slung over his shoulder and withdrew an arrow. It was shorter and thicker than a hunting arrow, and gleamed silver in the sunlight.
Tom gazed at it wonderingly. "Is that real silver?"
"It is made of something far rarer than silver."
The boy took it, turning it over in his hands, running his fingers along the strange inscription. "What does it do?"
"It contains powerful magic. Its purpose is to aid men who seek freedom and justice."
The boy sat a long while in thought, his eyes wandering up and down the length of the arrow, studying the arcane runes that had been carved into its surface. "I – I don’t –"
"Say what is on your mind, boy," Herne prompted.
"I was about to say that – I don’t think men need magic in order to be free."
"I see. Why not?"
"Because we have something better than magic. Something real."
"And what is that?"
"Our minds," Tom said.
"You don’t believe that magic is real?"
"I believe in what I can see, and touch, and hear. I’ve heard some of the old ones telling tales about spirits and such. But I don’t believe them. I think they tell those stories to frighten people, especially children. I’m not afraid of spirits."
"You don’t believe in them because you can’t see them, is that it?"
"Yes. I think that everything worth knowing can be known, if you put your mind to it. We shouldn’t spend too much time thinking about what we can’t know. That wouldn’t be of any use at all, would it?"
The old man chuckled softly. "I suppose not. But what this arrow stands for – that is something you can know."
"Will you teach me the meaning of these letters?" Tom asked suddenly.
"I will teach you. Give me your hand."
Somewhat shyly, the boy offered his hand. The shaman pressed the young fingers against the ancient runes.
For a long while, Tom sat with his hand wrapped around the shaft of the Arrow. Slowly, he opened his eyes. "How strange," he said softly. "I know – and yet I don’t know."
Herne reached out and brushed the ruddy curls from the child’s forehead. "Go in peace, Guardian of the Arrow." He slipped the relic into his bag.
"I don’t understand. You say I am its guardian, but you have taken it back."
"Did you not say that man no longer needs magic?"
"Yes, but –"
"You are right. Use what is here," Herne said, tapping the boy’s temple. Use it for the freedom of mankind. Nothing is ever forgotten."
Tom blinked against a sudden stabbing shaft of sunlight through the oak branches. The shaman was gone.
He picked up his bag and headed for home.
68 Years Later …
The old man reached for his pen. There were enough hours left in the day for him to write a letter to his friend John. It was the twelfth day of September, and his mind reached back in time to a boyhood dream. He had thought often of that afternoon over the years, until he had finally convinced himself that he had dreamt it. He had not seen or spoken with a man wearing the antlers of a stag, who claimed to have a magic arrow. Such things did not exist.
Slowly – for his hands moved slowly now, though his mind did not – he put pen to paper ….
He recalled a vow made years earlier, in another September, and committed it to paper ...
The afternoon wore on. The letter was long enough. John Adams, too, was old, and reading was now an effort. He made an end of it.
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©1998 by Georgia Fleming