Providing

A young boy, bright and lively with the spirit of his youth stood impatiently while his father, strong and tired in his age, stooped to examine the tracks left by their quarry. He wandered about while Father looked for… whatever he was looking for. His eyes were drawn, as they ever were, towards the trees. The canopy was bright with the soul of autumn; the evergreen needles a stark contrast to the fiery hued leaves. The ashes and the oaks and the yews reached towards Heaven, towards God, as if to say “See me, Lord! See how I have grown by Your blessings!”. He touched the wood grain of his bow and of his arrows, thinking of how Father shaped them with his own hands from the very trees that tower overhead. He continued to wander, mindful enough to not stray too far when-

Crack!

“Madoc!” Father whispered sternly through his teeth.

Madoc looked sheepishly at him, then down at the broken branch at his feet. Father’s eyes were iron, piercing him with a chastising look. Then his features softened, the message conveyed.

“Come here, son. Come and see.”

The boy obeyed and carefully traced his way to his father’s side.

*

They trudged through the woods for what seemed like hours, looking for signs of the whitetail Dad saw on his game camera earlier this week. The red maples and Kentucky coffeetrees were in full fall regalia, the crimsons and golds and browns of the season captivating the eyes. Camouflaged and reeking of doe piss, the boy was tasked with carrying all of their equipment, including the rifle. It was almost ceremonial, carrying the old gun. The way Dad tells it, this was the same rifle that his great grandfather carried in World War II. He brought it home with him from the European theater and used it to feed his children and his children’s children, before finally giving up the ghost back in ‘05.

The things this old rifle has seen… How it must have felt in Granddad’s hands!

He aimed the rifle at nothing, imagining fighting off Germans in the forests of Hürtgen.

“James!” came a whispered shout.

Dad’s hand grabbed the barrel of the gun, forcing it down. James looked wide-eyed at Dad, not realizing he had done anything wrong. Dad looked angry, but in the kind of way James had learned came from a place of love, and of wanting him to be better. Dad came close, gently taking the relic from the boy’s hands, kneeling to meet him at his level.

“James… Never, and I mean never, aim a gun unless you’re prepared to take the life of one of God’s creatures. And that means Man, too.”

The last sentence was a little scary.

“Sorry, Dad… it won’t happen again, promise.”

“Good.” Dad tousled his son’s dark, curly hair and handed the rifle back to him carefully, standing as he did so. James saw his father’s eyes spot something over his shoulder, his face lighting up.

“Now look here, boy! Poop!”

*

Madoc and Father followed the tracks diligently, more than once finding trees with the bark stripped bare and bits of bloody velvet hanging from lower branches. They were getting close.

“Father,” Madoc whispered, “why do they do that?” He pointed to the bits.

A ponderous “Hmm…” emanated from the man’s breast, and the steady crunch of leaves punctuated the silent moment.

“Think of this time of year, son, as a time of a certain sort of death. Not the needless sort sent down from the rulers of this earth, but the kind of death that is impermanent, that promises life will come again in the morning.” He looked back at his boy, whose lack of understanding was writ plainly on his freckled face.

“The deer do this to shed the sheaths of their weapons, that they may better fend off the other males and secure a mate. Many of these battles end in the death of one or both of the males, but the strong survive, and go on to sire much progeny. The fruits of God's blessings come forth in the springtime.” He paused, and saw that Madoc’s eyes were fixed on him, his son hanging on every word.

Father continued, “In much the same way, I shape and sharp those very arrows in your hand, that I may kill in the harvest season and secure for your mother, your siblings, and you another spring. Someday, this will be your burden and your blessing.”

Satisfied with his sudden onset of philosophical musings, he turned back to the trail, leaving Madoc to sit with his words. He knew the words that floated meaninglessly in his boy’s mind now would one day mean much more to him, someday. Madoc stared at Father’s back as they walked on.

Father has a strange shape to him, thought Madoc. Though not unlike some of the other men I’ve seen that fought with Father.

Like them, Father’s right shoulder was significantly larger than the left, giving him the appearance of a hunchback. Madoc knew that one day his own body would take the same shape. Every Sunday after Holy Mass, he and Father would spend hours loosing arrows into the stump behind their home, and Madoc could feel the string on his bow become easier and easier to draw every week.

One day I will be able to use Father’s old bow. I cannot even string the old thing now!

A sudden rustle came from somewhere off in the brush, and the pair stooped low, Father signaling Madoc to be quiet and to ready an arrow. It was time.

*

How much longer? How can he keep going like this, especially with that limp of his? Didn’t Mom just get grocery money for the week from Grandma? Maybe he’s just tired of fried bologna and rice. I know I am.

“Dad,” James started quietly, “I’m tired. I’m hungry. My legs hurt and I wanna go home, and it’s fixin’ to start gettin’ dark here soon.”

“Boy, I know you ain’t complainin’ to me right now. Your legs hurt? You’re a buck five soakin’ wet! Wait ‘til you get some more meat on them bones to carry ‘round then tell me about your poor legs.”

Dad was teasing, he knew, but it still upset him. Dad looked back and saw the pout on James’s face. The boy was a sensitive sort, like his mother. He looked a lot like her, come to think of it. Had her eyes, her nose, her laugh. Hell, the only thing of himself the boy had was his hair. And now he wore his mother’s famous pouty lips.

“Come here, son,” he said, reaching out to him. James caught sight of the tattoo on Dad’s forearm as he did so; an eagle with a banner in its mouth, perched on the Earth, with an anchor in the background. The banner read SEMPER FIDELIS.

“I know you’re tired, but this,” he gestured to the woods around them, “is important.”

A moment. Dad was thinking about what to say next, weighing his next words carefully. When he opened his mouth to speak, his tone was serious, instructive, and ever so gentle.

“Don’t tell your mother I told you this, but James, times ain’t easy right now. Bills are always due and money ain’t always easy to come by. Make no mistake, son, God will provide, but in the meantime, I gotta put food on the table. This is how I - we,” he corrected, “put food on the table.”

“But you said God will provide.”

“He will provide. He has provided! He has blessed us with the opportunity to hunt and so keep our family fed for another year. One day, James, you’re gonna have a wife and kids of your own, and no doubt doing well by ‘em. But when the times get tough, you’ll know that you can always come out here into God’s country with nothin’ but this old gun and a prayer and provide. Understand, son?”

“I think so,” he nodded.

“Great, now let’s get movin’ while we still got a little day-”

Snap!

The pair looked slowly towards the source of the sound, and there, about forty yards out, stood the whitetail.

*

Madoc was in awe of its majesty. The stag stood proudly on a jutting outcrop of stone amidst the trees, like a king surveying his demesne. The crown of bone that adorned his head was more glorious than gold, still bloody with the stripping of its velvet. The red of the king’s coat was not unlike the leaves that fluttered soundlessly around him, and the beams of sunset that shot through the canopy set the forest floor alight with wondrous color. Madoc looked to Father for reassurance.

Can I do this?

Father nodded slowly.

It took a lifetime to nock the arrow. Madoc had loosed arrows at targets countless times. He was good: very good. Every bit of it was second nature; automatic, like breathing, like existing. But this was oh, so different. He struggled to breathe, and his chest hurt, struggling to contain his wildly beating heart. He was trembling, and the tips of his fingers were numb, as if he had plunged them into snow. He had never felt anything like this. He doubted his skills, but there was nothing to be done for it. He had the bow, Father did not. He breathed deeply and drew back the sinew string, taking aim in the same fluid movement. The wood of the bow creaked, and the king’s head snapped toward him. The moment the bow was at full draw, Madoc released, sending the arrow whistling ahead.

*

The pictures from Dad’s game camera did not do this buck justice. It was huge! It stood in a clearing roughly forty yards away, but even from here, it was clear that this old man had been around a long, long time. It grazed, seemingly unaware of their presence, but Dad had told him before they had come out that bucks this old were smart. Real smart. This was it, then. The opportunity; and James held the rifle.

Dad leaned in real close, whispering as quietly as he could manage. James could tell that he could barely contain his excitement.

“Remember, breathe in, aim right between its shoulders, where the heart is. Breathe out slowly, and squeeze - don’t pull - squeeeeze the trigger.”

Dad’s hands were on his boy’s shoulders. James wasn’t sure if they were there to help steady him or Dad. He scoped in, finding the buck in his crosshairs. He and Dad had been out to the range countless times. Turns out, James was a natural – a crack shot, Dad said! But now it was hard to see, his vision a little blurry, and he shook so hard he worried the old buck might hear his bones rattle. What was this? It was exhilarating, almost euphoric; James knew he would be chasing this moment for the rest of his life. His old man had told him what this was…

Buck fever! That’s what Dad called it! Can’t stop shaking… need to focus.

James closed his eyes for the briefest moment.

Lord, if you can hear me, please help me to provide.

Eyes open – everything is clear. Every color, leaf, and hair in ridiculously sharp detail.

Squeeze…

CRACK!

The shot echoed through the woods for an eternity.

*

It was perfect. The Red King leapt impossibly high at the impact of the arrow, then stumbled several yards away before finally coming to rest underneath a massive English elm. It lay for several moments, breathing rapidly at first, though slowing with every respiration. Then, with a haunting finality the old monarch commended his spirit, as if to say “It is done.”

An overwhelming sadness welled up from within Madoc’s being, and he began to weep. Father placed his hand on the young man’s back, ushering him forward. He bid his son to make the sign of the cross, then led him in prayer, Father and Son laying hands on the stag’s body as they did so.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Father, we thank You today for Your everlasting love and Grace, and for this life which You have allowed us to take, that we may continue to live and to work for Your Glory and the Glory of Your Son, Christ Jesus…”

Madoc repeated Father’s words quietly, though found it difficult to actually hear them. Father continued with steadfast reverence, but Madoc was lost in the depths of the rushing river in his soul. His heart was abounding with a multitude of emotions: gratitude, sadness, pride, joy, exhilaration, anxiety, and awe.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen,” they finished, making the sign of the cross again. Father turned to his son, full of pride for the young man’s accomplishment, yet heartbroken for him, for he knew how he felt.

“Madoc, son,” he embraced him, then held him at arm’s length, his hands on both the youth’s shoulders.

“What you are feeling is good and right. That you weep is a sign of your love and awe of God’s creation. Hold onto it, and your love of Him shall never falter, as mine for you never will.”

Madoc nodded, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Father, was it always this way for people? For you?”

“Yes.”

“Will it always be so?”

“Forever, until He comes again.”

Madoc nodded, this time in full understanding. He looked towards the setting sun, his eyes distant and unfocused, as though he were gazing across time.

*

The blue smoke of the rifle hung listlessly in the air, and the Old Man dropped where he stood. The shot couldn’t have been better, and within the minute, the massive buck’s soul painlessly drifted away. Dad leapt up, whooping and hollering, shaking James to and fro, then embraced his son.

“You did it, boy!” Dad’s voice shook. “I’m so proud of you!”

Dad’s voice broke that time.

The young man shook, too, and tried to hide his face.

Am I crying? Why am I crying? Why is Dad shaking so much?

He looked at Dad and saw his father’s facial camo streaked with tears.

“Why the hell are you crying?”

“You kiddin’, boy? I always cry when I bag one.”

He took his son to where the deer lay, then clasped his hands and led them in prayer. Together they thanked Jesus like they were thanking an old friend for a favor. James struggled to finish the prayer without his voice cracking, and he was wracked with sobs. Dad placed two fingers on the bloody hide of the deer, then smeared a streak across James’s forehead. The young man recoiled, half laughing, half still crying.

“Ew! Why?”

“It’s tradition,” Dad retorted, his voice much the same as his son’s. “Your first deer!”

“Gross tradition…” A moment, then the tears started again.

“Sorry I’m bein’ such a sissy,” James sniffled, wiping his runny nose.

“James, you ain’t a sissy. Look at me: I’m cryin’. You think I’m a sissy?”

He shook his head.

“I meant it when I said I cry every time. Hell, I’d be worried if you weren't cryin’!”

James laughed a little at that.

“It’s good you’re cryin’, son. Means you got a lotta love in that heart of yours,” he said, touching James’s chest as he did so. “Don’t you ever let me catch you apologizin’ for that. Hell, my daddy used to cry when we went out. I’m sure his daddy did too!”

“Grandad used to cry?”

“No doubt about it. Nobody’s perfect, boy, but even the One who is perfect wept. Ain’t no shame in it, and when you’re out with your own son, you’ll both cry then, too!”

“You think it was always like that? Even way back when, to caveman times?”

Dad answered immediately, with a resounding confidence that left no uncertainty in the young man’s heart. “Always was. Always will be.”

James looked through the clearing, towards the last beautiful light of the day. He sent his mind through the centuries, knowing that somewhere, somewhen, there was a young boy, now a man like him looking back. And they were the same.