My Own Folk Tale
I noticed him beginning to rouse, in the last days of summer, when the warmth still radiated from the concrete after the sun went down, and the hills were still glowing with that vibrant green only the Pacific Northwest seems capable of. As the sun set, I saw him peek his eyes open, and look about a bit, before wandering back to bed. Spring and summer brought about his hibernation, you see, and it took a couple months for him to begin to become active in the evening.
In the fall, he became a little more awake at the end of each day, and even began pacing the grounds as if practicing his route before his time of sentry began. His bow at the ready at all times, he still retained that air of nonchalance. At first, he did not stay the whole night, but reassured himself that all was as it should be a little after the sun left the sky, before wandering back to his tent, his hearth. He made sure he had enough arrowheads for the coming season, and enough shafts to carry them. He hunted for the sinew to bind them together, and fresh, dried reeds to weave into quivers.
Without a word, and so subtly that you only noticed it after time, he began to wander the entire night, keeping watch over the lands. He pursued the creatures he was to kill, and protected his people with a single-minded intention that required no acknowledgement and no reward. Now in the height of winter, on those clear, crisp, coldest nights, you can see him, and those companions he sees in his travels. His path is well worn, and now with practiced precision, he prowls the night, his sheathed dagger in his worn leather belt resting against one thigh. And ever is his bow raised, his arrow seated, ready for the slightest clue of prey or enemy.
Later this season, he will begin to prowl later, by some unseen sign that tells him that dangers lurk closer to sunrise now than to the sunset before. He will make sure the morning comes without hinderance. He clears its way, then, allowing the daystar to continue along its path.
As the earth warms and becomes greener and more alive, he will begin to take his leave. Perhaps a bit worn by his travels, he sleeps until quite late in the evening, and sneaks to sleep a bit early, as the sun makes all much easier to hunt, and to be hunted. We do not require his assistance, now, and depend on his protection less, until we are weaned from the assurance of his presence. He will still be there late into the morning, where we can see him, those of us who rise when the sun does.
The hunter of the night begins to wander off. Who can say how empty his quiver is now, how lax his bow must be, as he makes his tired way into the daytime, back to his tent, his hearth. His stores are surely full to the brim with cured meats, hides, and other spoils of his lean hunting season. It must be so, for he disappears altogether to another place, where he adopts a different life for the daytime. Perhaps he sleeps. Perhaps he flits about in another role we could never have guessed. At any rate, the night sky is much changed and much different without his presence.
But surely, we shall see him again when the winds turn colder, the leaves turn yellow, and the world grows darker. The hunter will be there, without having been asked or invited, a fresh store of arrows, and he will again patrol the night while we rest by our own hearths, secure and safe.
This is what I have thought each time I see one of the most recognizable constellations in the sky at night.
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Challenge yourself to Holidailies 2009 by writing one entry each day in December.
