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!