Artemis
-
Dorothy tightened the strings on her bow. Recently they had been lax, maybe from the bow's overuse in battle, maybe from its overuse in target practice. Most bows wore out over the course of many arrows, the wood or iron or steel from which they were wrought becoming brittle or cracked. Most archers made a routine of replacing their favored bow every several battles. Dorothy, meanwhile, took excellent care of her bows, restringing them during lulls in combat and treating them with unrivaled respect during battle. Her current bow—a beautiful, sturdy piece made of polished oak—had lasted her at least a year, maybe more. Her touch when polishing or restringing the bow was always gentle and expert, despite a penchant for her being awkward at decidedly inopportune times.
Dorothy had been traveling with Roy and his company for a short while, a month or two at most. So far they had escaped from a few difficult situations, and claimed victory each time. Slowly, the sound and clamor of battle was beginning to become familiar to Dorothy. She had not cried once. She tightened the strings on her bow, and looked up from the stump she was sitting on to survey the forest. She had not cried a single time since she started out. That was not something she was willing to do. Not if an enemy's sword slashed her skin, not if an arrow pierced her heart nor if a lance ran her through. She hardened herself enough so that her hands moved on her bow without hesitation or regret, without needing to cry every time an arrow found its mark. She wouldn't dare cry, even if the people in the city teased her because of her looks, or because of her tomboyish clothes, or because of her ruffled hair, or even if Saul—
"Ah, Dorothy!"
Dorothy sighed and set her bow down. There was the sound of crunching leaves and pine needles from the forest behind her. This was a deep bit of forest, and it seemed that someone walked quite a distance to see her.
"Father Saul. Have you been well?"
"Yes, very. You wouldn't er—be hunting right now?" The young man with the rich-purple hair smiled when Dorothy turned to look at him.
"I actually am," she said, with a hand on her hip. "I was going to see if there were any deer coming through."
"Well, maybe if I try to focus my spiritual energies I can see if—"
"Saul?"
"Right, right, sorry."
Dorothy turned away and returned to her bow. "So how fared your, er, preaching today?"
"Well," Saul said, "I'm pleased to say that I was able to convince one young lass of the glory of God—and before you say anything," Saul said preemptively, "I know that the good Saint Elimine would be pleased to hear that another beautiful young woman has been turned to the grace of the Church of Elimine. In fact, I've scheduled to meet with her again to inform her more, ah…intimately about the wonders of the kingdom of—"
"Typical," Dorothy said, and she laughed dryly, drowning the last of the young priest's words. "Typical Father Saul. Where did you learn how to be like that with all the girls?"
"Th-the girls? Dorothy, you aren't…you aren't honestly insinuating that my only motive for preaching the words of Elimine is to…meet girls, are you?"
She put her hands on her hips. "Where did you learn, again?"
"Well, actually, er—I was speaking with a traveling mercenary some time ago, a fellow in about his mid-thirties, I would say, when I met him at a tavern—when I was preaching to all the taverngoers the virtues of God's heaven!", Saul added hastily upon seeing Dorothy's reaction. "And when I was there, the mercenary had some interesting stories. He told my of his travels, and his old boon companions, and—"
"Saul? Um, can you please get to the point?"
"Of course. Anyway, he mentioned that he was a former knight of Caelin in Lycia—before it became a protectorate of Ostia, you see, this was long ago, obviously—and that he was successful with the, er, the lasses. And—and, it was because he said that women would be more likely to believe the word of God if I spoke of Elimine's Way in such a way! That's all!"
"Ugh. That's so irritating. I don't even think you even really care about the words of Elimine at all."
"That isn't true at all," Saul said. "In fact, Bishop Yodel has even commended me for my efforts in spreading the faith to those in need of—guidance."
"Why did you just pause?"
Saul shook his head. "What?"
"Sometimes I don't understand you, Saul," and now Dorothy shook her head. "Whenever I need to ask you something or go looking for you, you're always off doing…this and that. I know you just use the religion of Saint Elimine to meet prettier girls. What else would you gain from preaching Her words? I doubt you think you have any other responsibilities, huh?"
"That is most certainly not true. In fact, I also—"
Before Saul could finish, Dorothy had set off quickly, roving deeper into the forest, her bow slung over her back.
-
Who am I?
An ugly girl from the country.
No, who am I?
The hunter.
Dorothy dashed through the grove, her feet only briefly touching the leaves on the ground before they lifted into the air again with a subtle grace acquired from years of doing the same. She wore a simple green shirt, comfortable and worn at the sleeves, and one rugged brown pair of pants with one leg torn. She walked in simple, well-worn leather shoes cinched around her ankles. Dorothy waited in the ferns, sometimes sneaking slowly from the base of one tree to the next, pressing her body against a tree trunk and peering around to look for game. Her rugged green shirt rubbed roughly against the bark of the trees as she moved forward. This place could be a battlefield, she knew. Any place could become a battlefield. Dorothy steeled herself.
She was too strong to cry.
I'm too strong to cry. I won't cry. I won't cry, even if—
A slight rustling sound drew Dorothy out from behind a tree. She crept forward, her green and brown clothing camouflaging her amongst the greens and browns and dark oranges of autumn. She moved in the direction of a noise, stopped at the base of a large oak tree, flattened herself against its trunk, and held her breath.
—even if I miss my mark.
Dorothy knew who the only one who could give her strength now was. She slowly inched around the circumference of the tree's base, one foot moving, then the next, making ever-so-slight sounds when the drying leaves crunched beneath her feet, luckily muffled by the slight wind howling through. Her bow was lax in her right hand, her left hand waiting from the moment when it would jolt to the quiver on her back, pull an arrow, notch it, and fire. She inched to the other side of the tree, leaned forward and squinted. In the distance, she saw a deer with its head in a small berry bush, nipping.
—even if I'm all alone.
Dorothy crept forward, with the intent of moving slowly. After all, leaves crunching loudly underneath her feet would alert the sylvan creature to her presence, and she knew that, as an awkward, silly girl, she could never catch up to a deer in a footrace. Still, the sound and the feeling of her heart thumping steadily against her chest and the subtle adrenaline coursing through her body made her move a bit too fast and made the thoughts run through her mind a bit too quickly. Two heavy steps forward, and a satisfying crunch sounded.
—even if I do come back empty-handed.
The deer looked up, and Dorothy stopped. Would it run? She stood still, briefly thinking about crouching down, but she was too afraid—afraid that it would run away and leave her alone, and so she stood still, without moving a single muscle, afraid of even moving her eyes away from the creature. She felt sweat beading on her forehead, gathering on her rough skin, clinging to her freckles. She tried not to think about anything. After a few moments—it seemed to Dorothy like hours—the deer returned to nibbling at berries, and Dorothy continued to creep slowly through the grove, from tree to tree, this time moving unnecessarily slow. She tried to picture in her mind the moment when her arrow pierced the creature's side, but she couldn't see it. Her mind's eye was blind.
—even if the whole world is against me.
The deer was there. Dorothy stood behind a tree, breathing deeply as quietly as she could. She understood that it would run after one shot. But one shot was all she needed. It had to be, she reckoned. This was what she trained for. After all, she was the hunter, and this was her bow.
—even if I am an ugly, tomboyish, clumsy fool.
I will not cry.
The hunter took an arrow from her quiver, notched it in her bow, the bow with a string as taut as a lone bowstring could ever hope to be. She eyed the deer, could almost see the red and blue paint slapped on with a horse-tail in a circle, with the smallest red dot right where the beast's heart was. Her hands were trembling, and her throat seemed to labor with each swallow. Her chest tightened. Her mind blurred. She still couldn't envision the arrow in her mind piercing the beast's side; instead she needed just to have faith and let go. Let go. This was the weight of Dorothy's world pressing on her, and she knew it, and vowed to seize the moment. She stepped from behind the tree, readied her bow, pulled the string, and closed one eye, as was her habit when she loosed an arrow. As she did, she yelled a war cry for no reason in particular.
No, no, no! she thought, even before she fired the arrow, even before the arrow had sailed halfway through the air, before the arrow missed its mark and barely sailed over the deer's back, before the deer had run off into the forest and disappeared. No, no, no! she had thought, even before she had fired the arrow.
Dorothy released her held breath and fell backwards on her behind, down onto the leafy carpet. The deer had been no more than twenty yards away, but she had missed nonetheless; and, more likely than not, the next time the deer would be an enemy soldier instead, who would neither stand still nor run nor show her mercy. Dorothy's lower lip trembled and she slammed her fist against the ground once, and she cursed aloud. Her bow fell to the side.
No! I won't cry! I can't cry! No, no, even if I'm a failure. Even if I am a stupid failure, I can't cry, I can't.
Tears fell from her cheeks. She pinned her eyes shut and listened to the gentle sounds of the forest.
I can't do anything right. My hands keep shaking, I can't aim straight. Oh God, why me? I'm not a hunter, who am I kidding? I've just been lucky. That's all I am, lucky.
"No, no, no," Dorothy said softly, vigorously rubbing her eyes with her dirty arms and the sides of her hands, as if she was angry with them. Then, more loudly, she said, "I can't cry at a time like this. What would everyone say if they saw me blubbering like this?"
"Dorothy?"
The girl's heart jumped in her chest, her hand instinctively jutting to her bow. She wiped her eyes again, stood up, brushed the dirt off her boyish clothing, and steadied herself before she turned around. Pale white sunlight filtered through the canopy of the grove and through a haphazard scatter of rays stepped a young man in priest's robes.
"Father Saul!" she said. She sniffled and took a deep breath. "What are you doing here so deep in the forest?"
"I thought there was a chance you would hurt yourself, and I—had nothing else to do, so I came." He showed Dorothy the healing staff he held in his arms. "Are you all right?"
So he thought I was going to get hurt? Even he knows I can't do anything right.
"Fine, fine," she said. "I'm well."
"Good. Were you successful?"
Dorothy closed her eyes and shook her head.
"Oh, don't worry about that—I'm sure Lord Roy is having no trouble finding supplies for everyo—"
"But that's not the point!" Dorothy said, and Saul flinched. The girl held her bow loosely in one hand and looked directly at the ground. Her quiver felt ten times heavier on her back. She couldn't rightly look him in the eye now after she came back a failure, so she thought. She thought herself a failure, and she told Saul as much.
"A failure? That isn't true! Why a failure?"
"I missed. I didn't even hit my target." Dorothy bit her lip, trying to conceal her crying, but she knew she was doing a terrible job of it. She sniffled and tried to blink away the mist settling in her eyes. "I couldn't do it. I'm a terrible hunter."
"Is that what you think?"
"Y—yes."
Saul shook his head and clicked his tongue. He smiled. "Think, Dorothy. What would Bishop Yodel say were he here?"
"Ah, um…I—I don't know what he would say." Dorothy closed her eyes to squeeze out two tears. When Saul was not looking, she wiped her face dry with her sleeve and looked up.
"Bishop Yodel would probably say something like, 'You are a good hunter, Dorothy, but you must believe in your inner light', " –and here Saul irreverently imitated the elderly bishop's tone – "or some other such thing."
Dorothy giggled, and wiped away another tear, sniffling. "Right, right. He would, wouldn't he?"
"Could you believe the Bishop when he says such a thing?"
Dorothy nodded.
"Then, could you believe me when I say such a thing?" Saul said. "You are indeed a fine hunter."
"Well, um—"
"Yes, there. Now it's settled," Saul said, with the finality of a man setting down a book after reading the final word. "While we still have light left in the day, let us return. We can't leave everyone waiting for us, now can we?"
Dorothy agreed, and they left without wasting any further time. The shafts of light were poking more gently into the forest now that the afternoon was slowly turning to the eve. The day was cooling, becoming crisper in temperature like the crisp crunch of the leaves beneath Dorothy's feet as she walked slowly behind Saul. The loud, easily distinguishable sounds of the leaves and the twigs snapping meant nothing to her, were alien to her now that the hunt was done.
They were nearing their camp when Saul suddenly stopped, motioning at the girl behind him to halt. He walked over to a large growing clump of greenery, where a small plant with thin, wide, pale green leaves grew amongst a patch of darker foliage.
"Saul?" Dorothy asked. She had at last stopped sniffling, and swore to herself that she would not cry any more. Saul ambled back shortly with a handful of the thin, peculiar leaves.
"Here," he said, holding the handful out in front of Dorothy. "This is a leaf said to make the skin smooth, attractive, and healthy. Hand those out to a few soldiers in Lord Roy's cadre, so you won't have to return empty-handed. Any trip is a success if you return with some of these!"
Dorothy took the leaves in her hand, and as Saul turned to walk away, Dorothy called out to him.
"Yes?"
"Why, Saul?"
"Why?" he repeated. "Because I recognized that particular leaf. I did not take those few valuable courses in herbal medicine for nothing, you know—else nothing would have disturbed my duties to God."
"No, no, I meant…why?" Dorothy walked over to Saul, the leaves still clasped in the orb of her two hands. "I—well, I mean, why are you giving these to me?"
"Why? Well, because—you are the hunter, right?" Saul smiled on one side of his mouth. He stood almost directly behind a single diminishing column of sunlight, between the interlacing shade of two willow trees' canopies. He put a hand on his chin and seemed to be thinking. "And, I think it would be best if you brought those yourself."
"But I didn't pick these!"
"Well…let's say…I probably wouldn't have thought to look for them if you weren't here. Oh—" Saul then added suddenly, looking up at the sky. He kicked at the ground with his foot a few times. "I should be returning to camp by the evening. I'm supposed to meet that young lady at the coming of dusk! I'll see you later, Dorothy!" and he was off, scampering quickly through the shallower stretch of grove back to camp.
Dorothy stood still there, watching Saul run off, awkwardly stepping through different-sized piles of leaves and fallen boughs, almost tripping several times. When he had finally disappeared into the fading horizon, she opened her clasped orb hands and looked at the pale green leaves.
Will everyone really like these? Saul? So, these are my hunt? These leaves were…because of me?
Dorothy closed her eyes and heard the gentle, lulling hums and chirps of the forest. She felt tears beginning to well in her eyes, but all she could do was smile.