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Archery Story

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  • Kinjal of Moravia
    My regular persona is that of a Gusari, and Eastern Eurpean mix of bard/magician/shaman/merchant. I have written many stories about a ficticious counterpart in
    Message 1 of 1 , Jun 28, 2003
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      My regular persona is that of a Gusari, and Eastern Eurpean mix of
      bard/magician/shaman/merchant. I have written many stories about a
      ficticious counterpart in the 13th century. This is the first based
      on archery. Enjoy.

      FLU-FLU

      Kiyan strode into the hamlet just past the sun's zenith and
      instantly knew something was wrong. He stood awhile -- reaching out
      with his spirit but found no answer. His two un-haltered horses
      stood patiently behind him. He told them they could graze by the
      steam, and they happily complied. He had no concern for their
      safety. They were Mongolian ponies trained in the ancient Scythian
      way -- gentle and close in camp, but fierce in battle. Several
      years before, the Gusari had met with a tribal chieftain to arrange
      a truce. A cadre of twenty spearman had been assigned to ignoblely
      sneak up and capture him. His steed Turgey, without command,
      charged the stealthy troupes. He weaved through the double line
      while ancient sickles affixed to his hind legs cut them all to the
      ground. Then he reared up and knocked the commander from his
      horse. Claiming the mare as his prize he calmly returned to Kiyan's
      side and screamed his battle cry.
      The Gusari realized what was wrong. There was no music!
      No, not the tunes of instruments or lilting voice, but the music of
      the earth. Kiyan held an untold secret. For him, each tree sounded
      a note, each grove a cord. Flowers tinkled like elfin chimes.
      Empty houses sang a different song than a happy home. A small,
      tumbling steam held laughter, a stagnant pond had none. The town,
      which should have been bustling with noontime activity was silent.
      There was only one thing that could subdue the music -- fear.
      He found the elders gathered around a small fire by the
      well. They did not jump up to greet him as they had at the last
      passing. They were staring out at the forest. Soon a group of
      hunters appeared, their faces long, there hands empty. No game
      again today! All of the animals, great and small had vanished with
      the drought. Though these simple folk grew some rye and barley for
      porridge and bread, the land was poor. Even the few turnips never
      achieved much size. Thus they depended on their snares and prowess
      with a bow to survive. Now there was only despair. The marchlands
      were quickly depleted of fish and the birds could hear their
      spinning arrows and quickly flee -- a difficulty shot anyway. They
      feared they might have to leave their ancestral home, with no idea
      of where to go.
      The Gusari returned to his horse and got what he needed.
      Then he motioned for the young men and girls to come with him to the
      marsh. Called also were the fletcher and smithy. On a firm finger
      of ground reaching out into the shallow rippling waters, he lay out
      his three Flu-Flu arrows. The feathers were unusual, four broad
      strips instead of three, mounted in straight lines. The iron head
      was forked in two prongs and only partially sharpened. These
      unique shafts had but one purpose -- to bring down birds in flight.
      A flock of pigeons wheeled close and Kiyan quickly launched the Flu-
      Flus. They arched high above the birds in silent, non-spinning
      flight, easily mistaken for another bird. Then they came dropping
      down. Two knocked the prey from the sky, stunned rather than
      impaled. Instantly the youth dashed out in understanding to
      retrieve the arrows and fluttering catch. Again and again the dance
      was performed. Soon the girls had plucked and cleaned a basket of
      fowl. Some as small as a fist, others large -- ducks, geese and
      heron. Once a flight of swans had come near and the children
      pranced excitedly. But the archer stood still and said, "I protect
      the Angels of the Wind." To the pile was added a great hawk that
      had foolishly attacked a Flu-Flu. In quiet periods the two
      craftsmen had examined the arrows and were already at work in their
      huts.
      When the day was done the proud parade of dripping boys and
      blood stained girls sang as they walked. Any number of birds were
      already roasting in the coals and on spits. There would be a
      feast. But Kiyan explained that later they must learn to use their
      prize sparingly, cut up to be added to gruel or stew. He taught
      them how to build a smoke house to prepare for the distant winter.
      Then he took some women into the woods and showed them buried tubers
      that they did not know. With his blade he revealed the inner bark
      of a special tree that could be dried and ground to enrich their
      bread -- and more.
      That evening he rested against a tree, listening to music's
      blend. A small child brought him a gift. The plover had a golden
      crust striped with honey. Inside were three small eggs, cooked in
      their shells within the roasting bird, together with fragrant
      herbs. A cup of mead, a chunk of bread and contentment.
      On the morrow the Gusari moved on, singing a prayer that
      with the spring the game would return. A whistle had brought his
      horse friends to his side. He swung up to guide the path with his
      knees. He pulled out his Gusli harp and joined the call of Mother
      Earth.

      Kinjal
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