The Archer

"The Archer" by Greta Van Fleet

Vengeance is a bow

And arrows only justice when fired

I have loved, I have lost

I am the Archer

Devil at the door

Standing with his right arm extended

On a hunt for the kill

I am the archer

Torn, I turn to my bow, Sara

Torn, I turn to my arrow, Sara

Final blow

My heaviness of breath has been lifted

Let the world know my name

I am the Archer

Torn, I turn to my bow, Sara

Torn, I turn to my arrow, Sara

My home is on the horse I ride

What emptiness without my bride

Such heaviness inside

This was the day the Archer died

Torn, I turn to my bow, Sara

Torn, I turn to my arrow, Sara

Torn, I turn to my bow, Sara

Torn, I turn to my arrow, Sara

________________________________

The skald looked on, watching the silhouette of the Archer against the fire. The steel frame of the man moved with a delicate grace, rosining his bowstring as dusk fell across the countryside and firelight reflected off falling snow.

*        *        *

The two men had shared almost no words, but the poet knew the story of the man well. They met on the road, one starving, the other on a hunt. When the skald asked the lithe man whether he hunted elk or bison, the Archer muttered in a long-unused voice "I'm out to kill the Devil." In those five words, the poet knew the figure was more than story and song. 

The Archer was legend.

While the Archer spoke no words after that moment, he allowed the presence of the poet. In the deepest recesses of the night, he had heard the Archer toss and turn, crying out for a woman in the darkness. Sara. The skald only asked once on their journey, "Who is Sara?" While the Archer offered no reply, the tension in his shoulders told the poet all he needed to know.

The two rode together for months, all the while the skald crafted the story of the Archer. Many a night was spent reading the fledgling saga aloud. While the Archer wasted no words on critique, the skald could tell truth from fiction. While the poet hoped the Archer would share the story with him in words, and he often grew angry at the stoic man's refusal to speak, the thawing of the Archer's cold demeanor at a corrected line of prose was enough to bolster the skald's spirits.

As autumnal leaves fell under their horses' hooves and the draw of a warm hearth called to the poet, he knew his story would be incomplete if he left the Archer. He had what he believed to be the majority of the man's tale, but the piece required resolution. 

As the two crossed the wildlands in the depth of winter, the skald had the sinking feeling that the saga was coming to an end, that he would soon bear witness to the death of the Archer.

 

*        *        *

The Archer strung his freshly rosined bow as the sun dipped below the far mountains. The skald had never seen the man hunt at night, and as the Archer kicked freshly fallen snow onto their small fire, the poet knew that tonight was the night.

They rode only a short while. As the Archer, silhouetted against the new moon, crested a hill overlooking a frail hamlet, the skald dismounted his horse. The two trudged toward the tiny home in silence, the skald noting the smoke rising from the chimney, muffled voices trailing with whisps into the night sky.

The two men crept through the darkness to the house, the skald a few steps behind the steely frame of the Archer. He watched as, pressed against the lumber walls of the cabin, the Archer peered into the window. From where he knelt, the skald saw the figure of a farmer silhouetted against the hearth, and based on the fire in the Archer's eyes, he knew this was the Devil. The Archer silently drew and knocked an arrow, stepping out from under the eave of the house. 

Save for the creak of the bow, the night was silent, freshly fallen snow muffling all other noise. The Archer, bow drawn and steely-eyed, took aim into the window at the Devil. The skald prepared to witness the conclusion of the epic tale.

Moonlight shone off the snow around him, casting him in pale white light from below. 

The Archer stood frozen.

The poet saw a woman emerge from the rear of the cabin, babe in hand. As she passed the child to the Devil, the Archer's frame remained motionless. The skald feared for a moment that they would be spotted, but the inhabitants remained ignorant of the reaper outside their home.

Minutes passed, and slowly the Archer's tense bowstring slacked. As the Devil and his bride retreated into the depths of their home, the Archer noiselessly dropped the arrow into the snow. 

The man's normally steely gaze turned on the skald, a coupling of deep sadness and confusion etched into the Archer's face. As the Archer climbed the hill toward his horse, the poet followed, steeped in the same sadness and confusion. 

*        *        *

The Archer sat motionless in the pair's camp as the skald prepared a fire, eyes locked on the bow on his lap. The poet felt waves of emotion crash from the man, but he knew better than to speak in a moment like this.

Standing, the Archer took hold of his bow in both hands, swinging violently against a nearby tree. Striking his final blow, the Archer cleaved his bow in half against the sturdy trunk of the young evergreen.

The skald knew that no other sound would ever be as loud as the crack of the bow.

As the man's shoulders fell, the steel of his frame softening, normally-heavy breath breaking into silent sobs, the poet understood he had witnessed the death of the Archer.

The skald could think of no more fitting end.