Author: lemniscate

"You all right there, Kval?"
	He blinked. The fog that had clouded the expanse between himself and the target dissipated in that flash of a second. Atop the bale of hay, his arrow stuck awkwardly upward.
	"Yeah," the rabbit said, "I might be...dehydrated."
	"Let's all head back," Mrs. Kiminy beckoned, and went to the water station. She filled a plastic cup, and handed it over to the elder rabbit, who took it with a hand that had a slight tremor.
	"Thanks."
	"No problem. Gotta drink lots of water, even on days like this where the sun ain' out, yeah?"	
	"Are you sure you're all right?" His sister asked with worry.
	"I'm fine, kid." He said, gulping the entire cup of water in two swigs. "But...I don't think I'll be seeing you in the finals."
	He felt her hand clasp on his. She looked up at him with eyes that felt... so familiar somehow. He smiled.
	She looked to the left, beyond him, and he followed her gaze. The targets were being put up. He would have to place no greater than fourth in order to go onto the next round.
	First was Carlos, with thirty-four points. Second was Art with thirty-one points. Third was Ron with twenty-nine points. Fourth was... Alex, with twenty-four points. Kval was fifth with twenty-one.
	Lyza squeezed his hand. She groaned.
	"Well, look at it this way," he said, without looking toward her. "I can be your support instead of your competition," he finally turned his head to smile at her. "Now you've gotta win for both of us. Plus, I've still got one more Bull's-eye than you."
	She took a deep breath.
	"Russel." Mrs Kiminy called. The bear hopped up and took his target.
	Kval whispered. "I think he'll win this set."
	The prediction was shared with his sister. "He and his buddies keep calling me names." She stated.
	"I know."
	Lyza chuckled. "It's kind of annoying."
	"I think it's good," he replied. "In a way, they're kind of acknowledging your skill."
	"Fire when ready!"
	"Am I late?"
	The audience was disturbed as a middle-aged woman entered the archery range. "Hey! Russel!" She whistled.
	The bear looked toward his apparent parent, wide-eyed and full of dread.
	"Go baby!"
	Even Lyza began to feel embarrassed. "Please don't ever do that to me." She begged her brother.
	"Trust me, I've had mom do that to me plenty of times and it's not fun."
	Despite the mother's interruption, Russel continued to hit yellows and blues. It was no surprise to Lyza that when it was all done, his target, which was placed last since Mr. Carlyon went in reverse-order this time, was in first place.
	The scary part was how similar to Lyza's targets it looked. Aside from one or two more holes in the yellow, most of the holes were clustered in the seven-to-nine range, on the top half of the target. He also managed to get sixty-three points. Thus far, it was more than she had managed to get.
	She would have to perform better this round than ever before.
	When her name was called, every step she took she began hypnotizing herself into a trance. She placed the target in the clothespins, and this time instead of walking away naturally, she backed away. With every step she took, she mentally adjusted the arrow in her mind. The wind blew her ears, her whiskers, and her nose. It ruffled her shirt and chilled her tummy, but she did not shiver in the slightest.
	When she got to the spot she would fire from, she had empirically calculated exactly how she would need to fire.
	She leaned down to pick up the armguard, and as she did she looked at her competitors. The girl seemed airily unconcerned about what her current position in the set meant. Rick, to her right, was giving her a weird look like she was completely insane.
	She had never felt more in tune with what she was doing. Even her improvised pieces on the wood wind did not match how serene she felt. When she lifted the bow upon permission, it felt lighter than the instrument she was so accustomed to. In a way, it was just that—another instrument. Like a harp, with only one note. And she would play a melody of near bull's-eyes; or if not then sans near.
	"Fire when ready!"
	She was ready.
	The first arrow sang through the air and gained nine points. She would raise the pitch. In response, the next arrow would bring eight points—perhaps a lower note. The wind, that unpredictable medium of acoustic distortion, made her third arrow a seven-pointer.
	"You're slipping, Pocahontas."
	Ignoring the bobcat, she broke her reverie and set about the second motion. She loosed the string of her instrument and it hummed in perfect pitch, settling the arrow once again at the nine. Challenging the wind, she fired the next note against its mighty current. She proved triumphant, a master of her former element, scoring nine more points.
	On either side, she could tell without any calculation that neither the girl nor the bobcat could hope to match her. Unless the boy on the far side of the girl was as skilled as she was, there was almost no chance of her losing.
	Still, she did not take this as a sign to go out of tune. Yet try as she might, she could not get that perfect melody: her points decrescendoed to eight, eight and seven. Her song over, she set the instrument down with almost a bow, and gazed upon her music sheet.
	When she was called back, the trance began to leave her, and she began to shake a little. No longer to her was this tournament just for fun. It became her ordeal. Her test. She was to be good at something; that was the purpose of being at Camp Connalake to begin with.
	She was good. There was no doubt about that. She didn't need to see her target on the board; the pat on the shoulder and words of encouragement she got from her brother told her where it had placed. That, coupled with the frustrated boys sitting behind her.
	"Rick, what the hell man. You're in last."
	"I swear man, this wind is crazy!"
	"Right. You were supposed to jack with Robin Hood's target; make her miss."
	"I couldn't man, she was watching it the whole damn time. And I couldn't aim right with the wind."
	"I did just fine, hell you let both girls beat you. I take that back: you're sleeping outside. J.J. can have your place in the tent."
	She was good. But it was time to stop playing among the stars. She was going to fly to the moon, and walk among the weightless.
	But for now she would have a small break as the last group decided its recipient into the finals. A pang of sadness hit her when the last name was called, and it was not Kval's.
	"Root for Alex," Kval said. "He looks like a good kid."
	The boy was probably around her age. He was a slender cat, very lanky for his stature. All skin and bones. When he pulled back on the string, Lyza couldn't tell if it was the strain of the bow, or his bony joints, that let out the loud creaking.
	She looked up at the targets once again. She had yet to attain a "ding," as the boys behind her called a bull's-eye. She understood it all now, what her brother tried to show her the night before. But still, without a ding, she would most likely get second, and then have to play the flute at the campfire.
	Then she blanked. She thought about nothing. Just stared into the distance at the archers on the range. She listened to the twang of the strings and the whisper-whistle of the arrows. The loud punch they made as they pierced the paper target, and the gentle crinkling-crunch as they settling into the hay.
	The wind blew, as it had done so many times in the past hour-and-so. The scent of hay, of dried straw baked by days of sunlight, was carried in the breeze's current. Along with it was that sweet, flowery smell of humidity. The presence of the gray clouds was no different than before, except that a massive monolith could be seen scuffing closer and closer to being over their heads.
	Disappointedly, Alex made second to Carlos once again. The happy piglet grinned, this thirty-two points proudly displayed under number one, as Lyza's more-than-double-that fell into her hands.
	Mrs. Kiminy made marks on her clipboard, and then, instead of going about the routine of calling out names, cleared her throat.
	"All right, we're approaching the final round of the tournament. Is everybody having a little fun?"
	"Yeah!" The crowd said.
	Lyza was surprised. How could you have fun just sitting around?
	"Then, we'll get started with the final round just as soon as Mr. Carlyon and I set things up..."
	Mr. Carlyon was already on the range at this point. Mrs. Kiminy set the clipboard on the table, retrieved three target sheets, and joined him. They set about preparing the final round by first placing the three targets up themselves. They made sure each target was as similar as they could, even going as far as replacing a few clothespins that seemed a bit worn.
	After that, they went to the bows, and began fiddling with the strings. They adjusted the strings to be as similar as possible in slack, testing each one and making sure it sounded almost the same.
	Lyza's ears could tell that the third one sounded just slightly sharper, and the second was the dullest of the three.
	Finally, Mr. Carlyon began pulling arrows out of the quiver as Mrs. Kiminy came back to get her clipboard. "We are going to modify the rules just a little bit for this last round—just to make things a little more exciting." She looked behind her at the clouds. "The same rules apply as before, except this time you will only be firing four arrows, so you'll have to be a little more accurate if you want to come out on top."
	"How is that fair?"
	Mrs. Kiminy's eyes twitched. The question always came up, and this time it was from the mom whose son was participating in the final round. Of course. "Ma'am, that's how the tournament is always run. As I said in the beginning, this is just for fun—there are no prizes. Now, when I call your name please pick a station with a target. First up, Carlos."
	The young pig skipped across the caution tape dividing the range from the audience. He picked the first spot.
	"Russel."
	The bear got up silently. He walked with his shoulders practically up against his ears, puffing out his chest as much as he could. He picked the third spot, and when he got there, gave the pig, and Pocahontas, a stern look of dissatisfaction at their presence in his moment of triumph.
	"And last, but not least, Lyza."
	"Break a string," Kval bid as his sister tightened the Velcro straps on her shoes.
	She approached her station feeling loose and taught at the same time. She looked down at her bow; her ears told her it was not as tuned as the one Carlos had, let alone Russel. She was playing off-key from the get-go. How was she to hit the perfect note?
	"I ain't gonna get beat by no Robin Hood." Russel told her as she affixed the armguard.
	"Good thing I'm not Robin Hood," she retorted. This kid was nothing compared to Ritzer. He was about as intimidating as a dust-bunny on a stuffed teddy.
	"Archers, pick up your bows."
	This bow was heavier than when last she wielded it. She passed it to her right hand, and then flexed the fingers of her left. When she tossed it back, the weight was comfortable.
	"Archers, nock your first arrow."
	Lyza placed it with the greatest care she could. She saw an identity in this arrow. In its red-and-white fletch, and steel-colored shaft. The copper tip poised at the forefront of the rubber grip, eager to fly through the air and hit the center of the target.
	"Archers, fire when ready."
	Carlos was the first to fire his. The pig had a nervous hand, as he only scored a four.
	Russel was next. He hit an eight.
	Lyza waited to fire for the very reason that the others would distract her. She loosed her eager arrow, and it too pierced the eighth ring.
	The three, almost at the same time, pulled their next arrow and nocked.
	This one, Lyza felt, was not so eager to leave the quiver. The dent in the shaft near the copper tip reflected an old wound that professed its justified disdain for flight. Yet still, she would plead for its cooperation.
	Russel was first to fire, his eye a little unfocused and scoring six.
	Carlos fired as well, also netting six.
	Lyza waited once again, slightly longer as she let the wind settle. The hesitant arrow found strength just before she let it go, and it awarded her one more point than Russel.
	The third arrow was like the first. Eager to taste the high points. She waited for Carlos to score his seven, and even longer for Russel to score his eight. She drew back on the string, its disharmonious hum straining to match perfection. It was shy of that perfection, scoring eight.
	She was still just one point ahead of Russel.
	Just after her arrow hit, Carlos shot and also got eight points. But he groaned in defeat, for even now he could see that there was no way he could get out of being third. Nothing left to do but watch his two competitors... stare each other down.
	The rabbit and the bear looked each other in the eye. The rabbit was ahead by one point, and each had one arrow left to fire. But what the rabbit didn't know, was that the bear had won one of these tournaments before, over the summer.
	Russel, never the one to sit around, retrieved the arrow from his quiver. "I'm not losing." Was all he said, as the rabbit watched him take aim. He took his time, remembering what Rick said about the wind and waiting for it to stop blowing before he launched his arrow.
	Lyza saw it drift through the air in slow-motion. It never left her sight as it lazily sailed along at what must have really been the speed of light. The arrow spun several times as it ticked the second by, until it breached the paper target. It punched through, a clean shot, and wiggled up and down as it finally settled into place, nearly half its body in the hay.
	The sound of a bell resounded in Lyza's ears. Diiiiiing... The bull winced as it was blinded, and the wind dropped a few degrees cooler.
	"I dare you to beat that." Russel said triumphantly. "Go on. You have to get a bull's-eye to win. It's that—or yer nothin'." He crossed his arms and watched her. "Everyone's waiting, Robin Hood. Give us your best shot."
	Lyza licked her lips. With three fingers she delicately retrieved her arrow, which didn't make a sound as she lifted it well above the lip of the quiver. She righted it in her hand to face the target. The arrow wanted to see it right away. Like it was speaking to her. It saw only red, demanding the exact center of every concentric ring.
	She nocked it. It quivered with anticipation. She steadied it upon the rubber grip, advising it to keep its excitement in and bring its focus to the forefront. She raised her bow ever so slowly, and beside her she could hear the bear tapping his foot.
	"Any day now."
	She ignored him. Closing her right eye, she saw down the arrow; saw what it saw. She adjusted her aim so subtly it could be mistaken for the natural movement of her breathing. Each hair-thin shift of the tip brought it closer on the path to the red dot.
	The wind blew.
	She had almost forgotten. Her ears split just a tad; one in front and one in back. She felt the current of the breeze twist between the rift of her ears, the pressure of its push giving her a feel for the push it would have on the arrow as it flew. This time, the wind would not stray her arrow. This time, she would hit the moon. This time, she—
	A tap on her shoulder. "Hey, Pocahontas. Your shoes're untied."
	Her head snapped to her right shoulder, heart pounding and veins bursting. The bear's breath, emitted from his smiling muzzle, wafted a foul scent across the rabbit's nose. She gritted her teeth angrily, and her bow's aim shifted to the right as she pivoted. The wind matched the force of her fury as she loosed the string.
	"You!" Lyza said with frustration. She turned to face him. "First of all: maintain at least three feet of space when an archer has her bow at the ready!" She shook the bow held in her hand, and then set it down as she continued.
	"Second of all," she picked up her foot and turned her instep to him, "These shoes are Velcro; I don't have laces! And third—" her foot thumped upon the worn dirt. She reeled her hands back, and with all her strength, shoved the boy away. "My name. Is not. Pocahontas!"
	"What are you doing yelling at my son?"
	Fwhap!
	Lyza's eyes went wide as she felt the soft blow upon the back of her crown. She turned around to see the momma bear towering behind her, a rolled up piece of paper in her hand that had crinkled upon impact.
	"Don't you dare talk to my son in that tone of voice, missy. And it's not nice to shove."
	"Excuse me, ma'am."
	The momma bear stood up and looked behind her. "If you have a concern about my sister, you don't need to be telling her. I'm responsible for her, talk to me."
	"You?" The bear looked at the brother rabbit. "You're barely older than she is!"
	"Mooom," Russel began to say.
	"Ma'am I'm eighteen; she's not even a teenager yet."
	"Obviously not with how she's behaving!"
	"If we can all settle down for a minute," Mrs. Kiminy began, stepping into the fray. "While we're on the topic of authority, I'm responsible for the quarrels that take place in my range."
	"If you're in charge," the momma bear said, stamping her foot and placing her hands on her hips, "Then tell this boy he and his sister need better discipline!"
	"If I may, lass, didja not tap the little ga'l on the head there?" Mrs. Kiminy asked, pointing at the paper.
	The bear made an effort to hide it behind her back. "I think the better question is, are you going to allow her to shove my son? I think that deserves disqualification from this silly little tournament."
	"Mom go away!"
	"Quiet dear, grown-ups are talking."
	"Well if y'want to talk about disqualification," Mrs. Kiminy said, folding her arms. "I believe the reason why the young lass was pushin' your lad away is cuz he was breakin' the three-foot rule. Breakin' a rule disqualifies him from the tournament."
	"That's ludicrous!" The momma bear spat. "You're just giving her special treatment because she's a girl. My son is the real winner, here."
	"Actually, if ya look at his target..." Mrs. Kiminy pointed.
	All looked on as the target was noticed.
	There, amidst Russel's arrows, was an odd fifth. Beside it, Russel's last arrow was crooked and pushed downward from the force of impact. The fifth arrow was clearly, essentially, in the same exact hole as the one it had displaced.
	"She wins with one point." Mrs. Kiminy declared.
	"I demand to speak to the person in charge here." The mom spoke lividly.
	"That would be me," The ewe stated. "This is my range. Unless you'd like to talk to Mr. Carlyon." She thumbed toward the gruff range-master, who looked away.
	"Don't look at me. I'm with the lass on this one."
	"Then who is in charge of you?" The mom questioned.
	"That'd be the camp director. Ya can talk t'him if ya want."
	"I'd like that." The mom folded her arms expectantly.
	There was an awkward moment of silence.
	"Well, where is he?" She asked.
	Mrs. Kiminy pointed toward the entrance of the valley, "If ya walk about thirty minutes, you'll see a—"
	"I'm not walking!" The mom spat. "You'll bring him here."
	"I can't do that ma'am..." Mrs. Kiminy said.
	"Why not?"
	"Mr. Carlyon and I can't leave our ranges unattended."
	"Don't you have some kind of assistant?"
	"I do." Mrs. Kiminy motioned downward. "She just got done winnin' a tourney."
	"Oh that's it!" The mom, her face red with anger, grabbed her son's hand. "I'm going to talk with the camp director, and when I get done with him you won't be in charge of this range anymore! Come on Russel"
	With an embarrassed groan the bear was led by the hand out of the range.
	"That was weird." Said the pig.
	"Aye." Mrs. Kiminy agreed. She looked to her assistant. "Are ya okay?"
	Her brother knelt down to be at her level.
	"Y—yeah..." Lyza said, all the excitement giving her voice a good temblor. "I—I didn't mean to get you in trouble, Mrs. Kiminy..."
	"Ha!" Mr. Carlyon laughed, once. "Don't worry, kid. Mrs. Kiminy ain't gonna get in trouble. Now why don't you guys get your targets."
	"Hey...if he's disqualified...does that mean I get second?" Carlos said excitedly.
	"I don't see why not." Mrs. Kiminy said with approval.
	"Sw-ee—" The boy squealed, but interrupted himself. "I mean, cool." With a quick skip, he ran to get his target.
	"Mrs. Kiminy?"
	It was the ewe's turn to kneel. "What is it, lass?"
	"What do we do about Russel's target?"
	The range-master smiled. "Well, why don't you take it? If he wants it back, you can give it to him. Otherwise I'll just chuck it."
	"You can keep it as a trophy, sis." Kval suggested. "You can show it to Rini and tell her the story about how you lived up to the name 'Robin Hood'."