Lucy A. McLaren

Thunk.

The arrow landed in the tree trunk, a shameful distance from the now departed rabbit, and Tomas cringed.

“How can you be getting worse?” Andrew sighed, walking forward to retrieve the failed shot. Tomas knew better than to answer his brother, instead jabbing at the forest floor with the toes of his scruffy brown leather boots, causing dusty clouds of dried mud to form around him.

“By your age, I was already—“

“Hunting with the men, I know.” Tomas rolled his eyes and kicked the floor harder. “But the men are gone, no one will tell me where, and I’d rather be helping mother on the farm. You know how to hunt, why do I have to?”

Andrew gave him a measured looked and opened his mouth as if to speak. Then he pinched his lips closed again and knelt to face his brother. Tomas couldn’t help but notice the strain etched across his brother’s face; he looked far older than his sixteen years.

“I won’t be here for much longer,” Andrew said. “I have to join father and the others. When I go, you’ll have to protect mother for a while. I need to know she can rely on you. There may not be much left to hunt but we have to keep trying.”

A lump rose in Tomas’s throat and he knew that if he spoke, his trembling lip would betray him. First father, now Andrew.

Andrew’s calloused hand gently lifted his chin. Their eyes met, each reflecting the green of the forest. “You’re nearly twelve, little brother. Almost a man.” He stood up, ruffled Tomas’s hair and handed over the retrieved arrow. “Come on, try again. Perhaps you’ll get lucky this time and—”

From behind, there came a rustling noise followed by the sound of approaching voices.

“Get down,” Andrew said, already dragging him to cover. There was a tangle of thick underbrush nearby, often used by Tomas as a hiding spot when he and his friends played in the forest. He wished with all his might this was a game now… but his brother’s strained features told otherwise. Tomas obediently crawled into the burrow beneath the underbrush, bow over his shoulders and single arrow clutched to his chest.

“Stay here, don’t make a sound. I will come back for you.” Andrew’s sword was already drawn. Their gazes locked for a moment and then he was gone, running back the way they’d come.

Tomas curled himself into a ball, listening for anything that might tell of his brother’s fate. At first, there was silence. Gradually, he began to hear voices. They were drawing nearer, full of tension.

Shouts. The clash of swords.

His legs slowly lost all feeling and still he daren’t move.

As he waited, his mind drifted back to a time when they were all together. Father and Andrew returning home from the hunt with fresh rabbit, pheasant or even, if they were very lucky, a boar. They’d eaten well and the village shared in their success. There was laughter and merriment around a great bonfire.

He shifted as more shouting—closer still—brought his mind back to the present. It was hard to move much in his hiding place, yet he remained frozen to the spot. Andrew told him to wait; what else could he do?

He rested his head back down and closed his eyes, trying to shut out what was happening outside his safe enclosure.

Tomas always enjoyed helping his mother on the farm. He helped pick fruit and vegetables and plant the seeds for new ones to grow. His mother always smiled at his muddied face and told him to go and play with the other children. Mother… She’d be so worried if they didn’t return. Perhaps he should check on Andrew.

A scream pierced the air. Tomas jolted up, his head brushing against the entangled branches that sheltered him. Andrew will come back for me… he said he would. He tried to believe the thought, scrunching his eyes shut and humming quietly to himself.

Over a time, the village hunts became less successful. His mother and father would whisper between themselves. He heard words he didn’t understand—poaching, punishment, protest. His father’s voice held a tone of anger, his mother’s of weary resignation.

One day, the King’s soldiers came to the village. They left with carts full of village stores of vegetables, fruit, wheat. Their farm was stripped—even the chickens, Tomas’s favourite animals to care for, were taken. There was barely anything left to eat. Where once they’d feasted, now they starved. The name of the King was spat and scorned by the villagers.

“There’s only one thing we can do,” father said. It wasn’t long before the men of the village, rage and desperation in their sunken faces, rallied together and left. Tomas didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he believed in his heart he would see his father again.

Father was brave. Andrew is too. The thought steeled him; Tomas clenched his jaw, knowing he had to move. Had to have courage. He turned his head from side to side. Silence. Even the birds appeared to have stopped singing in the surrounding trees.

Andrew.

He gulped.

What if he needs my help?

He peeked his head out of the hole, looking all around. The wind whispered through the trees, branches swayed and yet all around an eerie quiet had settled into the forest. He crept out on hands and knees, stretching his legs to bring back the blood flow, grimacing as prickles of feeling returned to them.

In a low crouch, he headed in the direction he’d seen Andrew run, sneaking from tree to tree. It didn’t take long before he saw an armoured man in a clearing ahead. He tucked himself behind a thick tree trunk, clutching his single arrow against his rapidly rising and falling chest. One of the King’s soldiers, just like those who’d ransacked the village. He let out a long, quiet exhale and dared to peer round the trunk. The soldier was facing away from Tomas, scanning the trees ahead.

“He’ll be ‘ere somewhere,” the man said, speaking to someone to his right, outside of Tomas’s sight. “Two sons, that’s what Cap’n said. We’re to get ‘em both so’s we can get that bastard’s confession.”

Tomas studied the soldier, letting the words wash over him without meaning even as some part of his mind realised what was happening.

There. He saw his opportunity. At the back of the soldier’s knee was a gap in his armour. Andrew’s voice echoed through his head: “A small target, little brother, but I know you can do it.”

He pulled his head back, leant against the tree and focused on slowing his breath. For Andrew. For father. A strange sort of calm settled over him. He pulled his bow over his head, nocked his arrow, twisted round and took aim, releasing without thinking.

To his shock, the arrow hit true. There was no time to let his flush of pride take hold. The soldier howled with shock and pain, turning around and immediately locking eyes with him.

“Got yer, little rebel,” the man growled.

 Tomas lurched sideways. Have to get away. It was only then that the rest of the clearing was revealed to him. Even as the soldier hobbled towards him, Tomas’s gaze was drawn to something that lay unmoving on the forest floor.

Or rather, someone.

He recalled the mixture of envy and pride he’d felt when Andrew was presented with those green leather boots on his fifteenth birthday.

Time seemed to slow; Tomas noticed the gentle breeze on his cheeks, the smell of sweet decay all around, his brother’s blood seeping into the earthen floor, his own quivering breaths, his heart pounding in his ears.

He dropped his bow to the ground and felt the warm betrayal of his bladder emptying.

“You little bastard. Just like yer father, eh?” the soldier said. “Over ‘ere!” Shouts of response reverberated around the forest, far too close.

Like a rabbit, Tomas fled.