1.
“Nock!”
The ten men along the line put an arrow against the string. Dogon the Saracen walked along the line, looking down, making sure each man had done what he told them.
“Mark!”
All the men looked up at their targets.
“Draw!”
The men struggled to pull the longbow taut and held the arrow to their cheek, or where the corner of their lips ended, or against a hole in their teeth from a loose tooth. One man let go and his arrow went deep into the ground.
“Loose!”
They all let go at the same time, while the Saracen stomped up to the man who had let go and yanked him out of line by the scruff of his neck. He pulled him out and tossed him aside. “Give me that.”
The man fearfully handed the bow to the Saracen.
“Maybe you should learn to use the bow for the children?” yelled the Saracen, his English perfect but accented strangely.
“I’ll do it.”
“You have until next Sunday to do it.” He threw the bow back at the man. “Get out of my sight.” He turned to the next group. “Ready.”
Group one turned around and went back to the rear.
A man with chains of office stepped forward. He held a bow loosely in his hand. “Dogon, may I have a word?”
The Saracen went to the officer.
“I…it seems that I had no time to practice–”
The Saracen pointed to the line.
“You don’t seem to under–”
“Your English law says all men fifteen to sixty are to practice with the bow on Sundays. I am here to make sure this practice is done. Now, go to the line.”
The officer went to the line, and made a half-hearted attempt. The Saracen shook his head. How many hundreds – thousands! – of men had he trained in the use of the bow? It never failed. A goodly amount of them didn’t like to do it, and were average, or below average. He went through all of the men and got to the second to the last set, when he saw the light in this group.
The young man was handsome, with dark reddish-brown hair. He was broader in the shoulders than the men he was with. His arms were large and his biceps big, just as he bent his arm. He wore a yeoman’s clothes, simple shirt, pants, soft shoes. He stepped to the line without talking to anyone, his mind and his eye entirely on the mark.
The Saracen was also broad-shouldered and wide in the chest, but his entire body was a study in perfection of the male form. If he was made in God’s image – and he knew he wasn’t – then God was broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, and thick-legged with a third leg of perfect proportion. He announced the orders, and the young man followed them to the letter. When he shot, the Saracen saw his arrow go right into the center.
He walked up to the man and clapped him on the shoulder, hard. The man staggered. “Good. Very good.”
“Thank ye.”
“What is your name?”
“Daw the Lesser, from Yorkshire, Dogon.”
“Lesser?”
“There’re three Daws in my shire.”
“Daw the Archer you are now.”
He laughed, and looked a bit ashamed. “I better tell me mother.”
“I’ll be calling you that,” said Dogon, “And you better answer to it.” He looked at the final group. “Next!”
He watched that group, but he especially watched Daw Archer. Dogon was being drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. He hadn’t been this attracted since…he couldn’t remember when.
After the target shot, they retrieved arrows. Dogon reached down at the line and took out the one from the young man he had yelled at before. He looked out at the men as they searched for arrows. For the last 2500 years, he had travelled the world and brought the bow. It was what he lived for. Hunting, tracking, and teaching.
He was the last original brother left, that he could tell, after the last time they had met. Even Aries, who had sworn to be the first and the last, had succumbed to love and been placed among the stars. Dogon, like all his brothers, could see them in the sky, yellow points of light.
He was going to put the men through their paces today for speed, but he didn’t want to put himself through hell again. He told the men they could leave.
Daw the Archer stayed. So did a few others, these were having trouble. Dogon patiently stood with them, gave them pointers, told them to practice holding the bow. Daw even asked for advice, so Dogon gave it, miniscule things about his stance and his form.
Dark came. Dogon lived in a small hut at the Butts so that people could practice every day. He did go to the tavern to eat, however.
“I will walk with you home,” Dogon said.
“Thank ye,” Daw said.
“You like the bow?”
He laughed, “My wife said I like the bow more than her.”
“Is she right?”
He laughed again. “She is.”
Dogon laughed, again clapped the man on the shoulder. He kept his hand there. “That is the mark of a professional archer, Daw.”
“I just do as the king commands. But – I do like this.”
“Come back to the Butts tomorrow.”
He shook his head, “I can only go on Sundays. My wife has things for me to do.”
“To the devil with your wife. Who rules the house?”
He spat out a laugh, this time uncomfortable. “Truly?”
“No, not truly. You rule the house, and to the devil with her.”
“I’ll see.”
Dogon frowned in the darkness. He was at the tavern, so he bid goodbye to Daw.
2.
Dogon entered the smoke-filled tavern, filled also with all kinds of men of ill repute. He put a hand on his dagger hilt and walked into the place.