The Archers Tranquility

THE ARCHERS TRANQUILITY.

A Short Story By SAGI.

Samson took the arrow out of the quiver. His curly hair shone with sweat in the hot 30 degree sun. There was hush on the field as three thousand eyes concentrated on him. He was the last archer on the shooting line on his last shot. He required at least a nine on the target. It wasn’t that he had not qualified, it was more then that. He was here to beat himself, not the rest of the field. He had out shot his personal best but this last arrow would mean the difference between getting 1399 points or getting 1400 points. This would place him among the top twenty archers in the world, and what a place to do it in, right next to the field in which he had grazed his father’s cows as a young boy looking into the field beyond the mesh fence at the archers shooting their bows. He had been mesmerized by the tranquility in one archer, particularly by his movements; he had noted that this archer was different to the others. There was something about him and each and every day Samson had watched him shoot.

There were forty five seconds left. He looked at the huge digital stop watch ticking down 43, 42, 41, 40…. He placed the nock of the arrow carefully into the string just under the brass nocking point and gently rested the carbon shaft of the arrow on the arrow rest. 36, 35, 34, 33,… He was under pressure and yet …he felt none. His heart was peacefully beating without a pause at a slow rhythm. Gently he placed his bow hand into the riser of the bow, and using his right hand with his tab in place, he placed his lower two fingers underneath the nocking point while placing his index finger above. Smoothly he brought up the bow.

The African continental qualifying round had once more come to Kenya for the 2008 Beijing Olympics. Four years previously it had been a resounding success and the Federation of International Archery and the International Olympic Committee had made Kenya the host country once more. High cross winds and baking temperatures had made it difficult for the favorite’s South Africa and Egypt, and their respective coaches had not minced their words when they bitterly complained about the wind. In the words of one judge had shut them up. ‘If it rains we shoot. If it snows we shoot. If it’s windy we shoot. So put up with it or take your team home.’ The two coaches put up and the teams shot. That round the Egyptians took home all the African slots except for one going to South Africa and the other to Mauritius.  High cross winds and unpredictability of the climate at 6000 feet above sea level made Nairobi an interesting venue. The Egyptians and the South Africans had once more complained about the venue but to no avail. Some members  on the committee had a warped sense of humor.

The judges were watching gleefully as country after country and archer after archer fell on the wayside, victims to high temperatures and heavy cross winds, eliminated as they failed to achieve the minimum number of points required to qualify and move into the elimination round.

Samson continued to persist and stride on steadily through the competition. Nothing seemed to affect him. The devastation was such that no single country had more than two archers left shooting the elimination round. This would mean that it was a possibility that four different nations would have one archer each. Samson had competed with one of the Egyptian archer’s and had eliminated him from the sixteen. He was through to the final eight. He had waited for the judges’ decision as the other competitors came through. He had shot all his arrows in the final and was sure that he had qualified and was elated when the judges came up with his score of 1390 out of a possible 1440. However they paused there and stated that one of Samson’s arrows at the 90 meter distance had been a pass thru and that it was impossible to state if it had been an eight, nine or a ten. In such circumstances the archer is given forty five seconds to shoot the arrow again. A hush went around the field of spectators as the magnitude of what depended on this last arrow sank in. If Samson hit a ten he would be the first African to surpass the 1400 mark in Africa and it would place him in the top twenty shooters of the world.  There were two other archers who were beating him with accumulated points of 1395 and 1397. Both were ranked among the best in the world.

Breathing deeply he let out the air slowly as he had been taught three times. The wind seemed to stop. He blocked out the noise and concentrated from within. Every thing came to almost a standstill for him.

He was completely focused, and in the zone where nothing mattered, just him, the bow, and the target sitting 90 meters away. He drew the bow, smoothly, keeping his concentration on the target. Both eyes open but  right eye seeing through the sight pin, placing it six inches above the ‘X’ in the middle of the yellow center. Relaxing completely, letting his bow hand fingers loosely hang on the side so that the bow was simply resting against his palm, held there by the tension of the drawing back of the string. The string pulled back the limbs of the forty five pound draw weight of the bow to breaking point as the arrow was drawn back.

His form was perfect, his draw hand bent at an acute angle inward towards his face aligning both his shoulders in a single straight line with the bow arm. The sight gently floated down into the yellow ring of the bulls and finally ever so slowly came to a standstill in the center of the yellow ring.  Every other ring was insignificant to the point of being non existent for Samson. The sight stopped. 13, 12, 11, 10, 9,….

He was now only eight years old. He watched the archer through the mesh fence, look at the target. For him it was so far that even if he threw a stone from where he stood it would not reach the brightly colored yellow, red, blue and black concentric circle target. He continued to watch the archer, totally immersed in looking at the target. What was he looking at? Samson could only guess that he was contemplating whether his
“mshalle” or arrow would reach the concentric circles. Ever so slowly the archer drew his bow and with infinite care and almost, ‘what appeared to Samson’, as a caress he released the string, the arrow flew straight and true. Samson’s eyes went straight to the target and there in the middle of the center rested the arrow embedded half of it its length in the sisal butt. The archer looked his way, and noticed the little boy for the first time.
‘Hey motto (Child) would you like to try? Are you willing to learn?’..
Samson nodded with a great deal of enthusiasm.


The draw arm continued to pull back on its own accord as Samson completely concentrated on the dead center of the yellow ring.  This was the point of no return.

The sight now began to float slightly with the tension of holding the bow, but Samson trusted his form and his subconscious, now he could do nothing but take the shot.

The drawing of the bow continued backwards, the clicker holding the arrow snapped just as Samson’s fingers released the string of their own accord a fraction of a second later, releasing the arrow, flying across the length of the field, silently on its way to its final destination.

The bow kicked forward in protest, its energy spent, as the string returned back to its resting place and then tilted forward, pivoting on his finger sling which kept the bow from falling out of his hand 2, 1, ….ENNNH. The alarm for ‘time out’, rang.

Samson stood in the same position as when the arrow had left. His draw hand had moved back a few inches after the release of the string but every other part of his body was still. There was a misty look in his eyes, he was still in the zone watching the arrow though at this distance it was impossible to tell if it had hit the target or not.  Slowly he began to come out of the trance and; looked around as he watched spectators running to the target regardless of the protests by the officials. After placing his bow on its stand he slowly made his way to the target for the outcome. He could see the crowd had completely engulfed it.

They parted in two waves like the red sea before Moses. He could see the judges looking at the arrow, and as he came nearer they moved out of the way. There the arrow sat deeply embedded in the target butt, it had completely obliterated the X in the center.  He felt peaceful and content.

His mind once more returned to the present and he began to search out a figure in the crowd. A little apprehensive at first he finally saw the wheels of the wheel chair and ran to the figure sitting in it. People were thumping him on his back passing their congratulations but he ignored them all. The frail figure in the wheel chair was simply a reminiscent of that figure that Samson had seen those many years ago shooting in this very field completely oblivious of every body around him, content and at peace with himself. That same figure now sat in the wheelchair. Those lapis blue eyes shining in happiness at Samson’s achievement.
‘Baba, I did it, I did it!’

The Old man nodded in agreement.
‘Ah but what have you learnt Samson?’
Samson bent down at his knees so that he could be at the same eye level as the old archer.

‘Baba your first lesson, that it is not the end that gives the satisfaction but the process of achieving that end, and in the process of this Baba, I learnt a lot more!  To focus, to concentrate, to listen, and to understand, to be patient, humility and to have clarity and finally,  Baba, to be at peace with my self.’

The old man continued to smile and nod as if in agreement.

‘Then Samson, my son, my years have not been wasted on you. You truly are a champion.’
The frail figure in the wheelchair put out his arms and hugged Samson with a fierceness that only a father could for his son.

It was only a few days after the first time that Samson had noticed the Archer that his father had passed away succumbing to injuries from a hit and run. The Archer had noticed Samson once more across the fence mimicking his every move and he saw in him something that he wanted his son to be. Being a bachelor, he had no commitments, and when he heard Samson’s story he sat out to place another Arrow in the X.

Samson’s mobile rang. He picked it up and spoke tersely into it. A moment later he stood up with a purpose.
‘Baba I have to go, my hands are urgently required for another challenge. The hospital has another hit and run case, and the patient cannot wait, they are preparing him for surgery. Martha please take care that the equipment is not touched until my return.’

With that he was off on the run heading for the car park.

The frail man smiled. Yes his arrow had certainly hit the X.

Martha turned the wheel chair around and steadily pushed it back to the shooting line. There certainly was a life time’s worth of knowledge in an archer’s life. It seemed to her that they shot on the range in the same way as they progressed through life with infinite care and wisdom. 


This story is dedicated to my fellow archers (friends) and my coach. Thank you. Aim high and hit the target. 

SAGI

SAGI is a member of the Kenya Archery Association, and writes short stories as a hobby. He is presently ranked in the top ten archers in Kenya.