The Hunter

The duck stood no chance.

In the split second before my arrow passed cleanly through its throat, it registered a threat from the woods, unfurling its ungainly wings, but too late. Its rotund body collapsed under its own weight before it could take a single step. The fact the duck reacted at all meant that my shot wasn’t clean enough. With the right conditions, an arrow can be silent, indistinguishable from leaves whispering in the wind.

I sized up the body. Sure enough, it was just about the plumpest duck I’ve seen so early in the season, second only to the spirit-defying monstrosity I shot down two years ago for graduation. Which meant it was exactly what I needed. Large enough to sell the fact that I’d be gone, not so large as to suggest I might not come back. Large enough to elicit no more questions.

Satisfied, I pulled out the arrow. Then I laid the duck on top of the mushrooms in my basket, twisting its now-lifeless neck so it could fit without sticking out on top. It fit, but just barely. Which meant that there wasn’t anything else I had left to do. I closed the lid and started my trek home.

It was barely past noon, but Grandma had been out and about since dawn, harvesting carrots for her stew. She was still outside when I returned, stirring the bubbling iron cauldron just behind her cottage.

“Got the duck,” I said, heading inside to the kitchen.

Grandma nodded.

I placed the duck in the treated wooden sink and closed my eyes. I had done the rest of this procedure countless times, and all I had to do was execute. I watched as my trained hands drained the duck of its blood and plucked it clean. Then, I sliced an opening in its tail end to remove its intestines, its two stomachs, and bladder. As expected, honey anise brine sat, cooling, beside the sink. I placed the duck in the brine to marinate. Once it became ready to roast, it would swap places with the garden stew cooking outdoors.

Today was my eighteenth birthday, the age at which the young hunters and warriors of Apple Valley were officially free to do whatever they’d like. As each of my training cohort reached that milestone, most remained with their assigned groups, the various bands of soldiers sworn to protect Apple Valley in return for glory, and a prestigious livelihood. A few chose to branch out, taking shots at smithing and weapons maintenance, or becoming an apprentice to the shamans, but always something close to what they’ve already been doing.

I chose neither of these options. Yesterday, I told my captain, a man by the name of Bugsy who years ago bragged to anyone within earshot that he saw my mother pass out at the pub, that I would be taking a break.

“But what will happen to the team?” He whimpered.

“They’ll be fine. You’re the captain,” I said, conveniently ignoring the fact that Bugsy spent most of his time as captain playing paparazzi to whoever he perceived as the most talented, the most “heroic” of the hunters, without any discernible aspirations of his own. First he aspired to my parents; and now, annoyingly, he aspired to me. “It’ll be just like before I joined.”

Bugsy looked at me like I just told him to duel a bear with his bare hands. But he knew he couldn’t stop me. “Ok. How long will you be out, Ray?”

“No more than half a year,” I said, getting up from my seat. “If I’m not back by then, assume I’ve moved on.”

Grandma never said very much, unlike Bugsy. She was content every day to wake before sunrise to water, prune, and fertilize her gardens, while watching her children and grandchildren spread their wings and find their callings elsewhere. In a town full of people trying to raise their children into updated versions of themselves, it looked almost like indifference. But I knew grandma did this because she knew she couldn’t force the farm down anyone’s throat. Anyone who took over needed to match her passion, because a half-assed steward would wreak more havoc than letting nature take its course. Better let the pure and unadulterated farmer’s name of Meyer fade with the seasons, than someone sully it for generations to come.

The food became ready as the sun dipped under the trees. Grandma set down the stew, gurgling in its cast iron cauldron, while I carved the roast duck at the center of our table. Then we sat, opposite each other, hot steam distorting each others’ faces as we dined in silence.

“Did you pack the extra pair of moccasins?” Grandma asked.

“Yeah. I know it’ll be cold in Etherport.”

Etherport. Where I told grandma I’d be going. Where my aunt left Apple Valley for the promise of fortunes made beyond the sea, and started a family. Where bejeweled traders dressed in houppelandes brought glossy ceramic plates and bags of illegibly marked seeds, some of which were now growing alongside our corn.

It was also not where I was actually going.

But I couldn’t tell Grandma that.

If grandma knew where I was actually going, she’d start trying to convince me to stop. It’s too dangerous, she’d say. But the truth was that she fully understood her words were nothing more than a formality. She would fail, fully intending to do so from the start, because everyone in this town expected me to one day depart for this exact mission. But that wouldn’t stop them from doing the same song and dance, from trying to host a farewell feast for me while tearfully pretending to beg me not to go. On the night before my departure, I had no desire to play along.

Seven and a half years ago, I was accepted to hunter training. Or rather, they accepted me halfway through the test. They must’ve thought it was embarrassing to force Gordon and Lilith’s prodigious offspring to run laps and tie traps alongside the other village children. At the time I thought I must’ve been doing super well, but in reality no one was even paying attention. The whole thing was just another formality in a life full of formalities.

A week after the test, I moved into the dorms alongside seven other kids, discharging my parents from my care. We started long days of drills and lessons in weapon technique. After some amount of time, lying awake in fits of restlessness on my bunk, I noticed festivities in the night. The cacophony extended for hours past our curfew. At the time I wondered what they could possibly be celebrating that was even larger than the annual hunter festival, which was celebrated by six villages combined.

By the time I knew what the celebration was, it had been nearly a month. It turned out that my parents had departed to challenge a monster that has eluded hunters for a century: the demon of Mount Hyacinth. What I heard was the whole village convening to send them off.

An ice demon known for murdering its victims with a blizzard cold enough to freeze blood, the mere name of Hyacinth elicited fear and awe from all who lived under the shadow of the mountains. Villagers whispered that those caught by the full force of the demon’s icy winds didn’t have time to register that they were in danger. A bringer of death swifter than an arrow to a duck’s neck. And the monster behind winters colder than its victims’ unburied souls.

Despite these daunting odds, everyone told me my parents were the best warriors Apple Valley had ever produced. If anyone stood a chance, it would be them.

Unfortunately, a few months after the celebration, the town mayor himself excused me from training and told me that my parents had vanished without a trace.