The sadness that had trailed J?kob up the cliff like a stray dog began to dissipate the moment the Great Sycamore’s shadow fell over him. There was an ancient, rooted peace in this place that seemed to absorb his grief. By the time the sun had climbed toward its midday peak, the stinging behind his eyes had faded, replaced by the hollow, gnawing reminder that his meager breakfast was long gone.
He knew of a stubborn berry bush nestled in a crook of stone not far from the trunk. Even this late in the season, when the frost began to threaten the valley, the bush remained defiant. Its branches were perpetually heavy with dark, tart fruit. J?kob couldn't recall a time when it had failed him. He sat upon a moss-slicked rock and ate until his fingers were stained a deep, bruised purple, watching the mist dance over the lip of the falls.
As the mountain air turned brittle and sharp, J?kob gathered a few armfuls of fallen limbs to coax a small fire into life. He sat by the flickering heat, the silence of the heights beginning to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a cage. He wasn't in the mood for the grand theater of knights and dragons today. The weight of being twelve and "useless" felt too heavy for make-believe. He simply wanted to be alone, yet he soon discovered that solitude was a dull blade that grew more blunt with every passing chime of the village bell below.
He looked for chores: a loose stone to set, a weed to pull, but he had tended his secret kingdom too well on his last visit. Then, a flash of brown movement caught his eye near the berry bush. A rabbit, fat and complacent, was nibbling at the fruit. J?kob wasn't truly hungry yet, but the prospect of a roasted kill felt like a way to prove he belonged to a family of hunters.
He retreated into the hollow of the tree to retrieve his bow. It was a beginner’s tool, fashioned from supple ash with Matáo’s guidance back when J?kob’s hands were small and his strength was a flickering candle. He had grown since then, even if his lungs hadn't kept pace with his height, and the bow felt increasingly like a toy in his grip. He was out of practice, his aim rusted by months of inactivity, but he clutched a handful of fletched arrows and crept back toward the bush.
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The rabbit remained, emboldened by the silence. J?kob took aim, but the ghost of his brother’s perfection hovered over his shoulder, making his hands shake. He rushed the shot. The arrow whined high, thudding into the dirt far beyond the target. He reached for another, his body shivering with anticipation like a child's pin-wheel caught in high winds. The second shaft struck the ground just inches from the rabbit’s paws, sending the creature bolting into the brush.
J?kob scrambled after it, the thin air stinging his throat. He cornered the beast near a limestone shelf and loosed a third arrow, missing again. He was down to his final shaft. He knew he had to make this count; he needed to bring something home besides a bruised ego. He had to prove himself to himself.
He took a jagged breath, drawing the string back with every ounce of frustration he had bottled up since dawn. He gave a final, desperate tug of reassurance, pulling with a strength he didn't know his thin arms possessed.
The bow did not launch the arrow. Instead, the aged ash gave a sickening, violent crack.
The weapon shattered into useless kindling, the snapped string lashing back to bite into the skin of his forearm. The rabbit vanished into the shadows of the rocks, leaving J?kob standing in a cloud of splinters.
The pain of the cut was nothing compared to the hollow ache in his chest. He looked down at the ruined pieces of the only thing that connected him to Matáo’s world of hunters and men. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, began to track through the berry juice on his cheeks. Still sniffling, he gathered the jagged shards of wood with a trembling hand and retreated to the dying embers of his fire.
He sat in the dirt, trying with pathetic futility to reassemble the pieces, knowing full well that no amount of prayer or glue could mend a heartwood that had reached its breaking point. He could almost see the look of disappointment in Matáo’s eyes: the sigh of a "Golden Son" who realized his brother was exactly as fragile as everyone feared.
