Chapter 13 - The bow

Now that the fight and the coyote were behind me, I sat under the pine tree, tracing my fingers over the carved lines in the bark, counting twelve now, imagining what the thirteenth would look like when I made it. The morning was quiet, almost painfully still, and my body ached in ways I hadn't realized it could ache. My side throbbed faintly beneath the bandage, my arms and legs stiff from yesterday's exertion, but my mind buzzed with the thought of the deer, the elk, and the bigger prey I would need to survive. Rabbit meat wasn't enough. I needed a weapon that could give me a chance. A spear wouldn't do; the coyote had proven that. I needed distance, accuracy, and something I could use quietly. A bow. My dad had shown me once, on one of those long, frustrating camping trips, how to carve a bow from nothing and how patience and observation mattered more than strength. I never thought I'd need those lessons for real. I scanned the forest floor for a branch, something long and sturdy yet flexible, eyes darting between fallen trees, studying bends, knots, and textures. My hand settled on one that curved just enough in a natural arc, dry but not brittle, thick enough to hold tension without snapping. I tested it with my hands, pressing and twisting, imagining the arrow flying from it. Yes, this would work. I dragged it back to the clearing, laying it across my knees, examining the surface. I stripped the bark carefully, pulling off the rough outer layer, revealing the pale wood beneath. Every strip I peeled brought a sense of calm, my focus narrowing until nothing else existed but the bow. I used a sharp stone I'd carried for moments like this to smooth the edges, shaping it bit by bit, testing the flex constantly. The branch was stubborn, sometimes resisting my pressure, sometimes splintering in small places, and I cursed softly, remembering my dad's words: patience, observation, and respect for the material. I almost gave up twice, thinking maybe I wasn't meant to make this work, but my hands refused to quit, fingers bleeding slightly from friction and pressure. By midday, the bow was curved, imperfect but alive in my hands. Now came the string. I sat cross-legged, pulling at fibers from old strips of cloth I had saved, braiding them tight, and combining them with strands of sinew from rabbits I had prepared. My fingers moved automatically, the braid thickening, tightening, and twisting into a string that might hold. I tested the tension, eyes narrowing as I bent the bow with it. It groaned, but it held. I smiled faintly, adrenaline mixing with relief. The bow felt like an extension of my own arms, dangerous and alive. I made another string, just in case, tying both into my bag. I experimented with small sticks, straightening them and whittling them with the stone to serve as arrows. Not perfect, not yet, but I could see it working. Hours passed in a blur of motion, testing, bending, tying, breaking, and trying again. By the late afternoon, my arms ached, and my stomach growled from skipping meals in my obsession, but I held a crude bow, a handful of arrows, and a sense of power I hadn't felt since the forest swallowed me whole. I leaned back against the pine tree, the carved lines under my fingers grounding me. Twelve marks, thirteen when I make it tomorrow. The bow rested across my lap, a bridge between desperation and possibility. I felt alive, dangerous, and ready. The forest didn't scare me anymore, not entirely. It was a challenge, yes, but now I had something to fight with, something that might keep me alive. I slept lightly that night, the bow beside me, imagining tomorrow, imagining stalking through the underbrush, imagining the shot that would finally turn the tide.