Chapter 8- Adrian

a chapter of "The Shadow" narrated by Adrian Welsley.

I was left to stand at that same spot, anticipation burning my heart. The cloaked figure, whom I must refer to as master, walked into one of the cabins. Sheepishly, I followed. The cabin I was lead to was noticeably smaller than the rest. When I walked in however, the tidiness of it let the room, surprisingly large, to appear even larger. Spears, swords, bows, and quivers of arrows hung from the bare walls. Each of those organized in their specific racks. Shelves on the right wall stored axes, rope, and maces. A small wooden crate sat towards that corner, several barrels rested near the left. A door peered out from the floor adjacent to the left wall. A handle nailed on it of rusty iron. This shed was more than a shed, it was a vast storage compartment.

 

“This is the weapon compartment. See the bows and the quivers of arrows? Take one and go to Gerald, he’ll tell you what to do.”

“Wait, what’s down there?” I asked pointing at the underground door.

“Very observant, boy. But is it any of your business to be nosing with?” Master barked at me. I didn’t answer. Instead, I did what I was commanded.

 

My eyes traced the wall of weapons. It met its gaze on a compound long hanging in the far corner. A full quiver I slammed to my back and I dashed out to the training ground. Strangely, it was as if the sun was infuriated. Moments ago, the morning breeze sent chills repeatedly down my spine, now the sun flared with rage and fried me like a human egg. My blood was the yolk, hardening, and combining into a soft block. Gerald, as I expected, was at the range training grounds. This is one of the times that I wish I were Sven. Even in this forest oven, the blood that ran through my back was a semi-frozen river. I was a turtle, except I had no shell. I couldn’t hide myself from the world, but fear stopped me from contact. My stone feet shifted to the ranging grounds. A line of trainers awaited a turn. Similar bows within their hands. Quivers of arrows hung behind their backs. I met upon the few targets to be shot at. Painted on wood signs or tinted upon trees. I observed them at practice, watching and learning their every move. Bows held parallel to their face, arrow slung between the bow’s wood and string. Their fingers loosen as letting go. Whoosh. The wooden birds with metal beaks whipped across the sky, plummeting into a target range. Seems like an easy task! But that’s only how they make it look. Professional. I could care less however. Rather not talk to people I don’t know. I’m shy that way. Hopefully, this archery thing is easy like it looks.

I dashed into the queue to reserve a turn for myself. Time seemed to tick by, although I am impatient. Groups of fives took turns in the rotation. Although altogether this rebellion was massive, the archers at ground were seemingly few. My turn came to me faster than I was able to feel boredom conquer my mind. I felt everyone’s stare pierce my internally wounded self. I attempted a mimic at what these men and boys just performed. My heart thumped like non-stop. Sweat ran down from every sweat gland on my body. My hands shook with the bow, which I now know is quite heavy. I was glad I managed to hold it in front of my face. My fingers like vines choking the arrow. I managed to clumsily cross it over the string. Master called commands. We all shot in unison. I watched my arrow writhe to the dirt ground and a waterfall of blood that cascaded down my wrist of the arm holding the bow. A mark on it stained red and I noticed the same blood on my bow string. It must have cut me in the flail of the shot. Master called me out and aside. I think I felt a frown imprinted beneath the hood of the cloak. I walked right to master with my blood raining off my arm. The open cut was like drowning in an acid pool. Cold and very painful. I thought I heard few laugh behind me. I guess I was frowning myself. Perhaps not at the rude laughter of theirs, but how much I actually deserved to be funned of.

 

“Boy, what was that all about?” Master asked.

“I, I…”

“Didn’t I tell you to follow Gerald?” Master hissed at me.

“Yes master!”

“Oh? Then why did you not?”

“I was shy again, master.” My voice whispered.

“Shy, eh? You saying you afraid o’ my boys?”

“Not really.”

“Then what you shy of?”

“People, people in general.”

“You ain’t if so in this little chat right now!”

“But…” Once again, I was cut off.

“How’s the arm, young one?” Master said as my arm was grabbed over.

“It’s not that bad! Just… painful…”

“Lay off the humor, remember?”

“Yessir!”

 

I let master drag me like a misbehaving toddler to another cabin. I’m guessing it’s the medicine compartment. My arm lost all feeling in master’s firm grip. Yet, I could feel that those hands weren’t very large. Though now I’m totally disturbed at the gruffness of my little beastly master, my heart beat regained its original rhythm as I could still feel the touch. Again, I entered the room of a small hut. Again, I was astonished by it mock broadness in size. The organization of it made it seem vast. Open. Chairs, bunks, stands, tables, counters, and all those unnamable utensils flooded that room. A sink sat between two counters with cupboards on top them. I was ordered to rest on the examination stool as master got the doctor. He entered the room with an air of a somewhat teasing attitude. He must know about my accident then.

 

My doctor appeared as if a boy no older than me. A lean, but amazingly burly, figure with hair of a wild dirty blonde and eyes that was bluer than mine. No weird white robe hung down his torso, on the contrary, rags worn a million times were patched together to form his attire. A bloated sack held what he needed to fix me up.

He settled the bag by the stool. A long hand reached into it. I caught him removing some bandages from the rag sack. Pads of webbed cotton were also placed on a tray along with weird disinfecting liquids. A needle emerged from the tray as well. However, it was only used to fill the cotton pads with the perfect amount of disinfectant. The smell of the liquid was infecting my head with the sharp odor. How much it stung the cut was sharp as well. For a while, that was my feeling for it, afterwards it kind of begun to soothe. I no longer had to hold the urge to shriek in pain. My face was, as I’m sure, no longer the pepper sauce that came to affect in one’s mouth.

 

When he put the bloody pads down, I noticed he didn’t go for the bandages. He instead reached for the bag again. Leaves of many sorts flew out with his hands. I felt another tug at my arm and the herbs showering onto the cut. It was enclosed by the medical tape that would have stretched miles out. At the end, it was almost like my wrist got mummified. Tight, white gauze-like material trapped my wrist in a snare of protection. With the bandages wrapped so tight, my I saw my hand turn purple. The circulation of blood was as if not running properly. The bruise that was my cut was not the swell in my arm. He jotted some notes down on the notebooks that he carried. Pen ink scratching the roughly cut paper. And master came in to check on my arm’s progress. I was told to go back to the training grounds. This time, however, master would teach me the basics of archery.

 

When we arrived at the camp, the sky was purple and orange and red. Half of the sun set over the ground. And master and I stood alone in the open. Everyone else was out poaching for dinner. Master held a bow like mine. An arrow extended through the heartstring. Standing at farther back than the farthest line, supposedly marked off at a hundred yards, master prepared to shoot. The bow bent until it could hold that position no more. Master let go. The wooden bird flew across the shooting range. Its iron head driving the arrow straight into the center target. My chin was an anchor, weighing down my face, opening my mouth wide.

 

“Your turn now, boy! Give it a shot!” Master told me.

 

I inched myself towards the closest line which still made the target appear distant. I mocked master’s posture at the range, holding the bow out parallel to my face. I fastened an arrow through the heartstring as well. I held it there as my eyes aimed. But I never got to let it shoot.

 

“Dare to let it go, young one?” Master asked.

“You bet! Why wouldn’t I?” I asked back.

“Have you learned nothing from your arm, kid?”

“Well, what’s the lesson to be learned there?”

“Mayhaps the reason why that happened?”

“I’m sure it was an accident.”

“Yes, yes. One that’s gonna happen again if you don’t know the cause!”

“Then what would be the cause?”

“That would be you being bare of cuffs!”

 

And that’s when I realized what master was getting to. Right! I missed the importance armor serves. Even if it is just a strip of leather sewn together, it beats fighting with nothing for protection at all. Master tucked their hand into the wide robe sleeve. Out a pair of cuffs came. I was taught to strap it on and then try again. Readying myself once more. My bow in one hand an arrow in the other. This time, the arrow also flung right to the ground, but it didn’t hurt me. The thick leather blocked the impact. What confused me was how the arrow went airborne as soon as it flew. I turned towards master with a questioning look. A frown and smirk would have appeared all at once. But I can’t see beneath the hood.

 

“What am I doing wrong now?” I finally asked.

“What do you think you’re doing wrong?”

“Uh, I aimed too low?” I guessed.

“No, boy.” Master replied.

“Did I not pull hard enough?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then, what?” I gave up.

“The positioning of your feet, boy! Spread them apart for more power!”

 

I lined back behind the margin. Feet spread, bow out, an arrow intersecting it. I yanked at the sinew until the bow was going to burst. Whoosh! It soared happily in the sky for a while, then, like my previous shot, it collapsed right there. When I turned for master’s comment, all I received was a slight round of applause. My arrow shot half way down the range. I saw it. And I know master saw it too. For the first time since I was at training, I actually began to smile. There, it stayed too, the smile, on my face. I was proud of my shot. Something told me master was proud as well.

 

“Nice shot, apprentice.” Master hollered.

“Thank you, master.” I exclaimed.

“I haven’t had one student make a successful shot that fast.”

“I’ve been told constantly that I’m a fast learner.”

“Quite indeed, my boy. Very well done!”

“Why thank you! I do try my best to please thee.”

“A little practice wouldn’t hurt you, then!”

“I know. Should I start now?”

“Nah! Tomorrow, you train with them other boys, you hear me?”

“Yessir!”

“If you got any questions, Gerald can answer them! Don’t be afraid to ask!”

“Yessir!”

“Good! Now you know how to make a fire?”

“Course I do, why?”

“Light up the roasting pit! Dinner’s arrived!”

 

I looked towards the passage between the forest. Men marched back along that dirt trail. Different meats and herbs hung from all their shoulders. They part marched part dashed to the campus. Their footsteps crackling with the fire. As proud as I was.

Author's Note

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