Hunter or Hunted

By: Lavinia Posted on: April 03, 2011

Blinking rapidly, I force my eyes to focus and adjust to my surroundings. The
canopy is thicker here; only the most determined streams of light penetrate,
shooting through the mottled greenery like flaming arrows. The air hangs heavily
around me, a stifling blanket that I can't throw off. Rotting vegetation and
dank undergrowth assault my nostrils, seeping into my lungs, filling them and
slowly escaping from my mouth in a forced exhale.

"Just breathe." The mantra echoes across the vacant reaches of my mind. "In and
out. Controlled and steady."

I swallow hard. My throat feels as though I've been eating sand and for a brief
instant my mind wanders to a cool, refreshing pitcher of water. Lost in this
momentary fantasy I reach my hand towards the handle, the scrape of bark across
my knuckles drawing blood and jerking me violently back to reality. Scalding
myself I focus once more, now is not the time for daydreams and child's play.

A chill runs down my spine and I feel bumps rise upon my sweaty flesh. "Focus."
The word rings out within my head like a hammer striking an anvil with painful
resonance. I narrow my eyes and scan around me, waiting and watching for the
slightest of movements.

Clenching and releasing my fists, I feel the sticky state of my clammy palms.
Knowing this will only be a hindrance when the time comes, I wipe them down my
tunic, the stiffness of my tensed muscles causing an awkward display of such an
easy action.

Closing my eyes, I allow the blackness to overcome me as I prepare myself. I
know I can do this, physically. I have been trained and moulded to succeed. This
is a mental battle. My victory or failure is now all in my mind. I listen to my
surroundings, willing every fibre of my being to be faster, stronger, to endure
more. Slowly my eyes open and, with a faint whisper of a prayer, I release the
air that has been held captive in my chest. The time has come.

I remove the bow from around my body, the movement fluid and rehearsed to the
point the weapon appears as only an extension of my arm. Reaching behind my
head, I pluck a freshly fletched arrow from the leather quiver. In the blink of
an eye the arrow is ready, nock resting against the bowstring, waiting for a
rapid draw and release. I know it's watching me. I can feel its cold stare, my
soul burning as it writhes within the topaz gaze.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand rigidly to attention as I circle the
space that has transformed into a battlefield. Instinctively I know it is as
ready as me, it is as scared as I am. The fight or flight reflex has been
initiated and there's no turning back. A cold sweat breaks out across my body,
my forehead sprinkled with moisture as I hear the low rustle emanate from the
bushes behind me. Predator or prey, the lamb or the lion, I was about to find
out in which role I was cast.

I pivot on the balls of my bare feet, positioning myself to face what could be
the last moments of my life head on. I draw the arrow toward me, the bow's limb
yielding as I exert my strength. I can feel each tendon, muscle and fibre of my
arms now. My biceps seeming to twitch uncontrollably from their core.

Like an explosion, the scene erupts into violent action. A shadow bursts from
the undergrowth and in the same instant a heroic battle cry rings from my lips,
my arrow soaring away from me toward my target.

"I'm alive." A voice calls out in my mind and a gulping intake of air brings me
back to reality. I lean my head back and release my elation. "I AM THE HUNTER!"

The words repeat around me, over again. My body is weary and drained but the
euphoria causes a lightheaded giddiness to sweep over me and carry me away as if
floating upon a cloud. I take a cautious step forward, unsure as to the exact
condition of my foe.

Would I return from my hunt as the brave basilisk slayer, renown throughout the
village and a muse to tempt the bards? Perhaps I would be a fearsome lion
hunter, able to display its claws and fangs around my neck with pride. I may
have slain a vicious wolf in the prime of life, a glorious pelt to throw about
my shoulders as I march throughout the streets. I have no doubts my I will meet
praise and jubilee when I arrive home, my skill and mastery with the bow
attested by the impressive specimen I have slain. Renown as the famous hunter,
worthy of the blessing and favour of Lupus Himself. My heart races with
excitement, my mouth whet with anticipation.

I can't help but smile as I see the arrow has flown true, the tuff of turkey
feathers ruffled by a passing breeze. Slowly I lower my gaze to marvel at my
trophy. I blink, surely I am seeing things, my mind must be playing tricks upon
me. I look up and then down once more, in an instant I feel my heart plummet to
my feet as I gaze upon my 'ferocious' foe. Lying forlornly upon the now silent
earth is a small tawny hare, its body still and lifeless.

Rushing to collect my 'prize' I trip on an exposed network of roots. Crashing to
the ground I land with a heavy thud. Laying there for a moment, my face buried
in the rich soil I begin to chuckle. Perhaps there is a story I can tell in this
all for the hare can have the last laugh, I've got some battle wounds after all!