Previously published in On Target, Volume 1, Issue 2, Spring 1996.
Near my parent's home there was a glade in which the sheep pastured regularly. This habitual grazing kept the grass and shrubs in the area at a manicured perfection. I use to sit in the open areas between the trees and allow the sun to warm my body and mind as I relaxed. During one of my regular visits, I noticed that there had been some changes to the glade; an archery target had been placed at the north end of the open area and a small tarp and blanket were placed about sixty yards to the south end of the glade.
Because the area was deserted, and to the best of my knowledge on my parent's property, I went into the glade to investigate. I walked to the target to find a single arrow hole just a half-arrow width from the center. What kind of archer would go through the trouble of setting up a range and then only shoot one arrow? Maybe the other arrows missed the target and the archer got lucky once.
Walking over to the blanket I noticed a shooting line had been trimmed and flattened into the grass. The blanket was immaculate and aligned parallel to the target. I had no idea what was going on but the curiosity was becoming enough to ensure I would get to the bottom of the puzzle.
Packing a lunch and a water bottle, I returned the next day to the glade. After several hours my mystery archer arrived. I sat in the shadows silently and waited to have my questions answered.
The archer was a older man, short in stature with no hint of muscle under his loose slacks and snug sweater. After gently placing his equipment on the edge of the blanket, he paced slowly up to the target, inspected it, secured the target face, then slowly paced backwards towards the blanket, counting out sixty paces.
At the shooting line the old man crouched low and patted the line with his hands to flatten out rough spots. Then he stood and did a series of stretching exercises for ten minutes. After stretching he crouched down on the blanket and took his bow and tackle out of its carry bag. He then proceeded to inspect each piece. Ten minutes later he had one arrow, his bow, a bracer and a finger tab.
The old man walked back to the shooting line with his one arrow and bow, then he smoothly strung his bow and spent another ten minutes warming up his bow. After the ten minutes both he and the bow were ready. I knew now that this was the final moment. He brought the bow up, aimed, released, and relaxed. But, he had neither touched the string nor the arrow. Again, he went through this practice shot, and again, until something told him he was ready. Finally, he picked up the arrow, nocked it, aimed, and let fly. A perfect shot.
I was unsure of what his next action would be, so I sat silent and waited; my breath rasping out of my mouth. I wanted to get up and scream. The man unstrung his bow, placed it on the blanket, and returned the tackle to its carry bag. He picked up everything, turned towards the target, and bowed slightly. Then he just walked away. After about two minutes I had to run to the target and see where the arrow had hit. It was not the arrow that I noticed, however, but a note tacked to the corner of the target. The note read:
Dear Spectator,
When you participate in any act in your lifetime, ensure that you carry out that act to the best of your ability. Prepare yourself and do not settle for the idea that you can make up for imperfect work later. Attempt to achieve the best all the time.
P.S. Return tomorrow and we can begin your lessons. The arrow is yours whether you come or not.
