February 12, 2024 8:00 AM PST
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow in its flight.
An excerpt from the poem “Arrow and the Song” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The camp fire crackled and hissed slightly as thin, almost indistinguishable whips of smoke rose from its dying flames. The glowing red embers deep inside fought to remain visible as the ash above them devoured their remaining life, but as the night moved on, the ash slowly won the battle, quieting the flames and smothering the remaining embers.
The usual bustling and energetic sounds of the forest were still, and all but non-existent, in these very early hours of the morning, as the darkness and chill of the night still lay upon the land.
Most creatures were asleep in their dens, or holed up in their nests, resting quietly until sunrise. Only the predators roamed the night looking for an opportunity, and of them, both predators and opportunities, there were many.
Even now, predators watched the dying fire from the brush and cover of the forest. They silently waited as the fire spent itself out, its light slowly fading and returning the camp to relative darkness.
They did not speak, they did not have to, but they communicated nonetheless, using hand signs and subtle gestures of the eyes and face.
Their leader, a cold, cruel man named Barabbas surveyed the dim camp area through the leaves and scrub of his nearby hiding place one final time. His keen eyes peered through the darkness with relative ease, the ease of someone who has lived in darkness most of his life.
As he quietly watched and listened, he lifted his hand to scratch the stubble on his face, his thumb tracing the scar that ran from his temple to his chin, his mind slowly imagining the upcoming scene, just as it had played out in real life so many times before.
They would rush the camp quickly and quietly, weapons drawn, surprising the inhabitants and subduing them at sword point. Once the camp was under their control, they would relieve the captured of any weapons and then search them, and their belongings, for valuables. They would then tie everyone up, having their way with any women, before finally putting them all to the sword.
“Tis a good plan,” he thought, as his eyes scanned the camp for any movement, “and it works well.”
Of course, they always kept to smaller camps with only a few travelers, to maintain their advantage and reduce the possibility of any trouble. His mind wandered back to the previous night when they had taken their most recent camp.
A wicked smile crept onto his face.
“Three women and two men,” he thought, “Well, one of the women was only just a girl, really.”
His smile grew as he licked his lips, “and a sweet little girl she was.”
His thoughts reluctantly returned to the scene before him as he frowned slightly, “no women tonight.”
They had been watching the camp closely now for the last few hours and had seen only the one man.
“Overall, this should be an easy night.”
He turned to his head man, Jarvis, who waited impatiently by his side, and gave the signal to go.
As silent as the grave, Jarvis and the other four men rushed into the camp with their weapons drawn, while he followed just a moment or two behind, “No use in getting hurt,” he thought.
“All right then! Everyone stay calm and no one gets hurt!” He said loudly as he pushed though his men to the center of the camp.
But something wasn’t quite right.
Quickly he looked around but there was no one there. The single bedroll was empty.
“Boss?” Jarvis said curiously.
“Quiet!” he snarled back.
Just then, he heard an odd little noise, a sound quite unlike anything that he had ever heard before. It was like the whisper of someone just out of earshot, or the wind flipping by your ear when you run.
It was followed immediately by two very short, “thunking” type sounds, and then a weird sort of gurgling.
Barabbas turned just in time to see Jarvis fall to his knees, his hands gripping the shaft of an arrow sticking out the front of his throat. His eyes were wide in amazement as they danced frantically from side to side looking for some kind of help. Desperately he struggled to speak but only soft gurgling and choking sounds came out of his mouth.
Just on the other side of Jarvis another man had fallen as well, this one directly into the remaining embers of the fire, though Barabbas doubted that the man felt anything as he watched his body stiffen and jerk in spasms of death, an arrow shaft protruding from his left eye socket.
“Get down!” he yelled and recklessly threw himself to the ground.
Looking around quickly he tried to get a bearing on which direction the attack had come from. He glanced back at Jarvis, who was still up on his knees but now desperately struggling just to breathe, his throat already swelling shut. He had stopped trying to speak and was now beginning to slump, his eyes unmoving, staring straight and glazing over.
There was no sympathy from Barabbas for a dying companion, no thoughts of compassion for a man who had traveled and served beside him for the last few years, only selfish thoughts of survival and how he might use this to his own advantage.
Judging from the angle of the arrow sticking out of Jarvis’s throat, he determined a general direction that it had come from.
He quickly looked that way but saw nothing except the beginnings of trees and shrubs, and then only darkness.
“Damn!” he thought.
Somewhere close by in the forest, a bowstring was glowing a muted and somber light green color. It vibrated slightly and hummed as though dancing and singing a song, a song that sang of silent death from afar. While its owner patiently waited, and watched the remaining men.
Looking back, Barabbas saw the other three men lying flat on the ground, looking towards him for some sort of guidance.
“Why do you attack us friend?” He shouted, “We only meant to warm ourselves by your fire.”
He signaled his men to wait and listen. Long, quiet moments seemed to pass almost like hours, until Barabbas began to think there would be no answer.
“Do you always warm yourselves with your weapons drawn?” came the reply from the forest.
Barabbas hastily signaled the man closest to him and indicated which way the reply had come from.
The man nodded his understanding, quickly pulling himself up into a crouch and moving slowly away.
Barabbas began his distraction just as his henchman began circling quickly toward the forest. His voice was loud, but calm and smooth, the voice of a charlatan, a con artist, “Ahhh, my friend, these woods are….”
He was cut short in his reply as three arrows almost simultaneously slammed into the chest of the man moving toward the trees, the impact of the arrows lifting him off his feet and throwing him onto his back.
“….not safe.” He finished quietly.
He turned to look back at the remaining two men, who stared back at him, their eyes wide with shock.
Just as he was considering sending them both charging in at the same time in a wild gambit, an arrow landed in the ground near the man he was looking toward, then another and another, soon arrows were falling from the sky in a barrage.
Barabbas rolled over quickly and continued to roll, moving away from the camp as far as he could. When he stopped rolling and looked back the entire area was now covered in arrows. It looked like some kind of giant porcupine was emerging from the ground, the quills on its back protruding angrily toward the sky.
As far as he could tell, everything that had been in the camp was now, or would soon be, very dead.
He took the opportunity and jumped up, running headlong into the forest as fast as he could, ducking under tree limbs and pushing through thick underbrush. He didn’t look back, and he didn’t concern himself with thoughts of whether his remaining men had lived or died. He was concerned only with his own safety, his thoughts only about saving his own neck.
He ran for as long as he could, however, the years of living off the labor of others had left him weak and unhealthy. He stopped by the trunk of a large tree, leaning against it for support, bent over and gasping for air.
“Have to………… get back……….. in shape,” he wheezed out quietly between deep breaths
He peered back through the gloom of the early morning hours and saw nothing, no movement, everything was still and quiet.
“Good,” he thought as he took one last deep breath and turned to go.
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Hours later, the bright morning sun gleamed through the trees and onto the underbrush, drying the morning dew and creating a light, barely visible steam.
Passersby to this area would report seeing, what they at first thought to be an old man standing next to a large tree.
But something wasn’t quite right.
As they got closer it would appear as though he was leaning, slightly slumped against the tree, possibly hurt.
Closer still and they would realize that this man, the man with the rough and stubbly face that has a scar running down it from the temple to the chin, was not leaning against the tree at all, but rather, was pinned against it.
The horrified travelers would see that he was in fact, nailed to it so to speak, with a multitude of arrows. Arrows that penetrated his entire body and held him permanently pinned against the tree.
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Somewhere in the far off distance, in the forest, a bowstring was glowing a muted and somber light green color. It vibrated slightly and hummed as though dancing and singing a song, a song that sang of silent death from afar. While its owner patiently waited, and watched.
