MCU : Child Of Winter

Two weeks had passed since my first hunt. In that time, something inside me had shifted. I found myself waking before the sun, listening to the stillness, noticing the sound of birds with a sharper ear. I had started watching how the wind moved the grass, how the trees whispered warnings in their sway. My body still bore the soreness from that day in the woods, but it had become a kind of reminder—proof that I was growing into something new.

Father noticed. He didn't say much, as always, but he watched me longer, offered small nods, slight smiles, and once even let me check the traps alone before dusk. It was quiet trust, the kind that meant more than praise.

This morning, the air carried the scent of damp leaves and woodsmoke. When I stepped outside, bow over my shoulder, Father was already waiting by the edge of the yard. He handed me a new leather quiver, smaller than his, but crafted well.

"Today, we go further," he said.

I nodded. "I'm ready."

We moved into the woods with practiced silence. The forest no longer felt like a mystery; it felt like a living companion. We crossed a small stream, passed the crooked birch with the hollow knot, and climbed into terrain where even I had never been.

Father taught without words. A hand gesture meant pause. A raised eyebrow meant listen. When we saw deer tracks, he let me lead. I crouched, felt the ground. The mud was soft, fresh. They weren't far.

We moved slowly, every footstep deliberate. At one point, a twig cracked beneath me, and I winced, but Father didn't correct me. Instead, he simply adjusted our path, circling with a hunter's patience.

Near a rocky ridge, we spotted movement—a small buck grazing near a thicket. I felt the pulse in my fingers, the familiar nervous heat. I drew the bow slowly, steadying my breath.

Then I hesitated.

It wasn't right. The angle, the wind—I felt it.

I lowered the bow.

Father looked at me. I met his eyes.

"Not clean," I whispered.

He nodded once. No more words needed.

We waited. The buck moved deeper into the trees. Minutes passed. Then, another—slimmer, unaware—stepped into view. This time, I drew again, watched its movement, and when it paused, I released.

The arrow struck true.

Not perfect. But clean.

Father stepped forward, checked the deer, then looked back at me. "Good," he said. That single word held a world inside it.

The rest of the day was work. He taught me how to carry weight properly, how to clean the wound, how to wrap the meat in leaves and keep it cool. We sat under an old ash tree, eating dried apples and oatcakes Mother had packed. He pointed to the tracks of a boar near the river and told me stories of a hunt from years ago when a beast had nearly gored him.

"I was careless," he said. "Arrogant."

I studied his face. "You never seem careless now."

"I learned. Pain teaches fast."

We moved on after the rest. The woods grew denser, shadows thicker. Birds returned to the canopy, filling the forest with song again. We stopped near an outcrop overlooking a wide patch of clearing, a place rich with movement. I could see fox prints, rabbit droppings, claw marks on bark.

"Tomorrow, you'll scout this alone," he said.

I turned to him. "Alone?"

He nodded. "Just watch. No shooting. Learn the rhythm."

Something about his tone made me realize this was more than instruction. It was a test. A threshold.

We returned before dusk, but the walk home felt different. I wasn't just a boy trailing behind his father. I felt like a companion. A partner in silence.

Back at the cottage, Mother was baking. The scent of herbs and roasted roots filled the air. She greeted us with a smile and warm bowls of stew. As we sat, Father told her only the basics: that the shot was clean, that I had waited. That I had chosen right.

Later, as the fire crackled, he handed me a sharpening stone. "For your knife. From now on, you keep it ready."

I nodded, accepting the gift with quiet pride.

That night, in bed, I ran a finger along the bowstring, thinking of the deer's last breath, the way the forest had stilled in that moment. I was no master yet. But I had begun.

The next morning came gray and cool. Mist curled between trees like spirits of the earth. I packed my satchel, took the bow, and looked back at the cottage. Mother stood by the door.

"Be safe," she said. "And come back before full dark."

"I will."

The forest greeted me like an old friend. Birds quieted as I passed, then resumed their chatter once I was gone. I walked slowly, tracing the route Father had shown me, watching everything. A squirrel darted across a branch. A pair of pheasants startled at my movement.

Near the clearing, I crouched low in the brush. I stayed there for what felt like hours, just watching. A fox emerged, sleek and quick. Rabbits sniffed the wind. Even a lone badger waddled past.

No arrows loosed. No footsteps loud. Just breath and awareness.

I returned home in silence. Father waited by the door. "What did you see?" he asked.

I told him everything.

He listened, then placed a hand on my shoulder. "Then you're ready for more."

In the following days, we hunted together again. This time, I made my first clean kill alone. A rabbit, quick but careless. I tracked it through thicket and moss. One arrow. No suffering.

That night, we roasted it over the hearth. I didn't boast. I didn't need to. The pride was in the doing.

Later, as I lay under the stars outside, I thought of my life before this—of rooftops I barely remembered, of the voice of the Man of the Moon. I wondered if he still watched me.

"I'm becoming someone," I whispered.

And the stars shimmered in reply.

I closed my eyes. And dreamed of antlers in the mist, of footfalls soft as snow, and of my own hands, steady and sure, guiding the arrow home.