The Bow by Don Swanbeck

That night they brought in the boy. They had found him in the deep fir-wood, lying prone on the needle carpeted floor of the forest and bleeding from many wounds. His body had been pierced by numerous feathered shafts, and his skin was waxen and chill to the touch. It was a miracle he had not died already, whether from loss of blood or at the mercy of the beasts that haunted the wild. Corwyn had been missing for days now, and most had given him up for dead. But not Broman. Each day before dawn the captain of the militia had ordered open the gates, and, with a small company of armed men, he left the shelter of Halewood town, venturing into the forest to search for the missing boy. And now, at last, they had found him.

He lay in bed, slowly recovering as his mother and sisters came and went, each day changing the dressings on his wounds. The night they brought him in, one by one the doctor had slowly removed the barbed arrows imbedded in the muscles of the calves and thighs. With each tug and pull he had cried out, knowing not where he was, screaming of the depths of the forest and the men who had hunted him in the dark like an animal for sport, and how he ran to the sound of their laughter as they loosed their shafts. Corwyn’s brown hair hung damp and the sweat ran down his face.

Broman was always there, sitting at the bedside and holding the hand of the boy whom he had raised, whom he loved as a son, and he let the silent tears run free. It was always the left hand he held, for the right was a mass of blood soaked bandages, lying limp upon the bedclothes. And though he wished otherwise, he could not help but remember a particular day some years before, the day when someone else had been brought inside the palisade of thick stakes encircling the town.

He remembered kneeling in the dust and weeping beside the body of his friend, the body he and the other villagers had found stuck full of brigand-arrows just outside the walls. The outlaws had done everything in their power to despoil the corpse, leaving it where they did so it might all the easier be found by neighbours and kin. But the sight he could never forget was that of a small boy standing at the side of the widow, looking down on the mutilated remains of what had been his father. Broman knew Corwyn had never forgotten, nor forgiven, and for that he could not blame him. But the burning hatred and all-consuming desire to kill were indeed terrible things to see in one so young. Afterward, when the boy had asked to be taught to fight, Broman had no doubt of his ward’s intent. He wanted revenge. Thinking of his tender years, he had urged him wait, but the boy’s will would not be denied. In the end, Broman had conceded.

And so from then on, with every spare moment he could find, the captain had taught Corwyn to fight with spear and with sword. He showed him how to properly bear shield and parry the striking blows of an enemy. Every day Corwyn spent hours training outdoors, and with the passing years his fervour proved only the stronger. There was hardly a weapon in that village he had not at one time or another taken up. Except the bow. However much Broman urged, this weapon alone Corwyn refused to touch. The boy was obstinate, calling it the instrument of cowards, thieves, and murderers, those too afraid to meet the gaze of their enemy. In his time Broman had known others in the village to do the same, men who believed it dishonourable to use the weapons of the brigands in combat. Broman thought them fools, and urged Corwyn to think the same, but the boy had refused point blank.

The days passed, and still the boy lay in bed, but each rising of the sun found more colour returned to the wasted face. A morning came when Corwyn opened his eyes, and later that day he was able to take some food and water. The leg-muscles had already begun to heal, and in time the skin would close completely, but the small, white scars were sure to remain.

During all this time abed Corwyn refused to speak. No one, not his mother, not Broman, nor any other could coax a word from his mouth; all the boy would do was sit and stare down at his right hand, as though his gaze might penetrate the layers of dressings and look onto the flesh itself. And so it was until the day when his mother carefully removed the cloth binding and he was finally able to see what was left of his hand.

Broman came as soon as he heard. When he entered Corwyn was sitting up in bed, looking down as always, but at the approaching footsteps and the opening door he raised his head. His face remained blank and expressionless as the captain drew up a chair.

‘I can’t use my thumb.’

Slowly Broman stretched out to gently lift Corwyn’s hand in his own, bringing it closer so he might better determine the nature of the damage. His had not been an easy life, and he had seen many wounds, and only a glance was now needed to tell him what he wanted to know. The tip of the shaft had pierced and severed the tendon at the base of the thumb, severely damaging the bone in its passing. Even when completely healed, the joint would never again be the same.

Broman looked up. ‘No, you can’t. But you are alive, my boy.’

‘So are the ones who did this to me.’

Broman could hear leaves rustling just outside the window. He wanted to say something, something that would take away the pain. But no words came.

‘Give me your sword.’ Corwyn’s toneless voice matched his expression. A scraping, metallic sound obscured the outside noises as Broman slid the iron from the scabbard at his side and without a word laid the blade across Corwyn’s lap. The plain hilt and pommel came to rest, in easy reach of the ruined hand.

Broman knew what Corwyn was about to do. He also knew that all the effort in the world would be in vain. But he made no move to stop him. He saw Corwyn rest the palm of his hand on the hilt, and watched as the four fingers wrapped around its grip. Sweat poured down the boy’s face; his jaw clenched. But his thumb only quivered. It would not close. Broman watched Corwyn try again, and again with all his will, and though at first he thought he understood the pain his ward must be feeling, nothing compared to when he saw tears of frustration begin to well up in the boy’s eyes, tears he would not let flow. It was some minutes before Corwyn ceased his attempts, exhausted, and let his head fall back against the headboard. The hand, still resting on the hilt, had already begun to swell, and the flesh was slowly turning to a dark, unsightly blue. His eyes had closed.

‘I’m a fool.’ Only the lips moved, barely mouthing the words. But it was enough for Broman.

For days the captain had wanted to tell him exactly that. Though never for an instant had he let it show, he had really been furious, furious at the sheer insanity of what Corwyn had done. But after what he had just seen, as much as he tried he could find no anger left to express. Silently, he rose from his chair and started to take back his sword from where it lay. But then he stopped himself. For several moments all he did was look down on the boy. Then, not in the angry tone he had envisioned, but with a calm that surprised even him, he simply said, ‘You were. But no longer.’

Corwyn’s breathing had grown calmer. Broman did not know if Corwyn had heard his words or not, but it did not matter. He left.

The following day Corwyn’s condition was greatly improved, and for the first time he was able to rise from his bed and take a few steps about the room. But this action left him tired and dizzy, and he was forced to rest each time. Broman’s sword was still there, propped beside the bed. It was several days before Corwyn could leave the house, but when he did, the sword went with him. He found Broman by the barricade of sharpened stakes that encircled the town, providing shelter from the forbidding woods outside.

‘Teach me,’ Corwyn said. Broman didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. His ward’s face was more serious than he had ever seen, even more determined.

‘Corwyn,’ Broman lowered his voice. ‘I know what you’re trying to do, and I want to help you. But you know that I can’t.’

Corwyn gave no answer, and his expression did not change. Broman could see that once again nothing he said would make any difference. He sighed, reaching out a hand for his blade.

‘All right. Come with me.’

In the centre of the town there lay a length of flat, bare ground. It was here that Broman led the village militia in their weekly drill, making sure they would be ready when the time came to defend the walls. In a small building off to one side, there lay a cache of arms. Inside Broman found a sword better fitting the size of his charge. He handed it to Corwyn, and the two moved to face each other on the pitch. Broman saw the boy was trying to firmly grip the hilt with only four fingers, doing his best to hold it as he was taught. But despite all his efforts to conceal it, even this was painful. What was more, he could not seem to keep the blade steady. It shook slightly in his grasp.

Broman sighed, hating what was to come. He gave the order.

‘Attack!’

Corwyn moved forward, raised his sword, and swung. But hardly had the stroke begun than Broman met it with one of his own, jarring it from the injured hand. The blade went spinning into the dust, and Corwyn gave out an audible gasp, involuntarily clutching at his hand. But he checked himself, and, moving to where the weapon had fallen and retrieving it from the ground, he turned once more to meet his adversary. His knuckles stood out white as he grasped the blade even harder than before. He swung.

For an hour or more it went on this way. Time and again Corwyn attacked only to have Broman disarm him with pitiful ease. But always the student moved to pick up his sword, ignoring the pain and facing the master with redoubled determination. Soon a small ring of villagers had gathered about them. Before now many had thought the boy had lost his senses in leaving the town. Some of the meaner ones had even laughed, sniggering amongst themselves at the madness of the ‘idiot boy.’ But none were laughing now. It was scary, watching as the boy whom they themselves had carried into the town more dead than alive now continued to fight, a cold and implacable figure, possessed by a will they had never before seen.

But at last Broman could take it no more. Before Corwyn could pick up his fallen blade and once again turn to fight, he planted his foot firmly on the cold iron, pinning it to the ground.

‘You gave me no choice, Corwyn,’ Broman said, and his eyes were sad. Then he forced his voice to take on a hardness it had never had before. ‘But enough is enough. Go home.’

Corwyn raised his head. Many believed he was either going to try to pick up his sword once again, in spite of the impossibility, or else in a madness fly at Broman with his bare hands. He did neither. For a moment he merely stood there, head held high. Then all at once something behind his eyes seemed to break. His throat constricted. He turned, and the eyes of the villagers followed him as they parted to let him pass.

Evening had fallen by the time Broman arrived back home. Inside, he found Corwyn’s mother and sisters eating dinner at the table before the hearth. Corwyn was not there. Broman found him behind the house, sitting on a log next to a pile of uncut wood. He sat down beside him.

‘Corwyn, my boy’ Broman said softly. ‘Your hand will never heal. Let it go.’

‘I could learn with my left.’

‘Even if you spent twenty years, or thirty, or fifty, learning, still you would never even get close to them. They’ll kill you.’

For a time neither spoke. Far off in the distance the moon, almost full and painted with the season, was rising over the houses and wall and forested hills beyond, and behind these the stars too had begun to appear. Yet Corwyn’s face showed none of the wonder Broman would have wished. It showed determination.

‘I know.’

Broman felt something in his chest constrict painfully. He loved his son. He stood up.

‘Wait here.’

Broman went back into the house, but it was only a minute before he returned. All Corwyn heard was the door close, and then open once more. He didn’t look up, but he knew that Broman was standing by his side.

‘I saved this for you.’

Something hit the ground before him with a soft thud, but in the growing dark Corwyn could not discern what it was.

A stream of light fell upon a curved outline in the grass as Broman opened the door, and then vanished. He had gone, and Corwyn was left alone in the twilight. He no longer looked down at his hand, but at the weapon that lay on the ground at his feet. He remembered once saying that never while his life lasted would he use the weapon of a coward.

He picked up the bow.

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