InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Straight as an Arrow ❯ Straight as an Arrow ( Chapter 1 )

Everyone searches for inner peace--a perfect balance of the heart, mind, body and soul. Out of the few who find it, fewer still own the strength to keep it. It's more common to get just a taste, a sample, a small bite, but only enough to lure you back for more. Some people look for it through meditation, some through nature, and some through sports. The peacefulness comes from feeling that you are the only person for miles, or watching from a mountaintop as the sunrise slowly bleeds across the sky, or the feeling of whirling, dancing and twirling the ball around obstacles. The tranquility is in the moment, but moments fade faster than rainbows. Occasionally, Lady Luck's favorites receive more than one moment of inner balance and serenity. Some moments are vibrant, utterly destroying a dam and letting all the world's knowledge cascade as a roaring waterfall into your soul. But some moments are quietly fulfilling, watching as a bobcat silently regards, and then approves you. But the hope of finding another beautiful moment never dies.

It seemed to me as though I shot arrow after arrow after arrow, year after year after year. I shot because I enjoyed the thrill of success. I shot because, for many years, it was the quietest and calmest part of my day. I shot because it slowed the hectic pace of life.

Then one day I realized that archery had become yet another item on my list of things to do. No longer did it give me that sense of balance and peace. As I stood forty yards from the target, I found that focusing long enough to shoot a full round of arrows proved next to impossible. When the first arrow hit off-center, I buckled down to shoot the second, but then forgot to focus on the third arrow. The troubles of the day intruded on my time at the range, and not even a small measure of peace resided anywhere within me. It was as if the arrows sensed my distraction with my attempts to set my life in order, and in response threw themselves as far away from the target as possible. I had the distinct feeling that if I could get one in order, the other would fall neatly in line behind it.

Perhaps other aspects of life induced my poor shooting. That summer, my closest cousin had died in a car crash involving a drunk driver, and then I moved across the country, leaving me with no friends close enough to confide in. The move involved a job offer with a larger paycheck and a chance to widen my horizons. Unfortunately, taking the offer quickly revealed itself to be pure stupidity on my part. My boss turned out to be a short-tempered jerk who reveled in making me feel incompetent. Whenever I spoke at meetings, he was quick to shoot down my ideas. His booming voice made me want to cover my ears and cringe. Halfway through each day I wanted to run home, crawl under the covers and hide from the evils of the adult world. Most days left me bone-weary, physically and emotionally. With all the stress, I doubt anyone was further from being a medallist. By that time, I had nearly given up on myself and my abilities.

After the move, it was pure luck that I found another suitable shooting range. It was indoors and accommodated twenty archers at a time. The rush had ended and there were only two of us shooting. A man, a stranger, shot two lanes down. His long, white hair brought out the crisp amber of his eyes. Unfortunately, the thought of a complete stranger witnessing my pathetic blunders proved to be both unnerving and disturbing, making it even harder to concentrate. The man may have been tall, but not at all intimidating. In contrast, he radiated an unnamable thing—could it be life? Hope? Faith? My nerves were so shot that I may as well have been speaking in front of a crowd of a thousand booing, hissing people. Instead of holding the string back to demonstrate good form, I pulled it back and released prematurely. When I remembered to hold my stance, my arms shook from the effort and my sight blurred, making it impossible to aim.

After almost half an hour of that folly, I sat down on a nearby bench and sighed, exhaling despair like a poisonous fog. I cradled my head in my hands. The hard wood welcomed me in a way I hadn't thought possible, though it did nothing to calm me. I can't do this anymore, I thought miserably. What happened? Why can't I shoot straight? Maybe I should go back to the basics.

“Hey,” a gravelly, yet gentle voice interrupted my pity party. “Are you all right?”

I looked up, trying to smile, polite but insincere. My brow furrowed, and my eyes watered. I refused to open my mouth, knowing that the tears always came when I felt like this.

Great, I thought. Now he's going to think I'm some kind of basket case, crying and smiling at the same time. Wonderful job, darling girl. Simply marvelous.

He didn't give any clear sign that he noticed my distress, but how could he not notice? “I've seen you shoot before,” he said. “You're usually really good.” He hesitated. “And confident.”

My pathetic smile dropped like an anvil on Wiley E. Coyote, and my face crumpled. I leaned over to hide my face and the tears that threatened to fall. A few escaped, trickling down my palms to wet the tips of my sleeves. “Life sucks,” I told him in a muffled, watery voice. “That's all.”

There came a rustling of clothing, and the old, cream painted wood creaked as he took a seat beside me. He exhaled slowly, and for a long, impenetrable moment we sat in silence.

He sighed, but I noticed his sighs were different from mine. His drew in breath like dawn on the first day of spring. When his lungs refused to breathe in any more, he let it out in a whoosh of air.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

I looked up, startled out of my thoughts. His eyes shone through my despair like the beacon of a lighthouse, calling me to safety. The fog that had been hovering for the last few months dissipated. It was as though the sun came out after months of pouring rain. The corner of my mouth curved up almost indistinguishably, but this time I smiled all the way to my eyes.

“Maybe later. But thanks.”

He nodded, realizing how his comfort strengthened me. To be honest, just knowing that he cared enough to ask strengthened me.

I stood and stretched, then hesitantly turned to face him. “But—could you do me a favor?”

He shrugged and stood as well. “Sure.”

I looked at him expectantly, barely remembering not to nervously chew my lip. “Would you help me go over the basics? Please?”

He looked back at me strangely, perplexed by the absurdity of my request. “But you're at such a high level. You already know the basics!”

“It couldn't hurt,” I offered in response, trying not to plead with my eyes. I buckled the quiver around my waist and pulled on my armguard. “If there's something wrong with where your arrows are going, go back to the basics. That's what I've been told since I started, ten or so years ago.”

He sighed but gave in. I pulled my finger tab on, caressing the smooth black leather for the barest of moments, and we approached the red line where archers stood while shooting. Despite the peeling and fading, the paint, a vibrant red, still shown

brilliantly. The cement underneath was wrought with hairline fractures.

I stood over the line, with one foot in front and one behind it. I looked down, hardly remembering to breathe, and gently scuffed the ground with my worn out sneaker.

My thoughts halted abruptly as my companion came to stand behind me and softly commanded, “Stance.”

I don't even know his name, I realized, as I straightened my posture and aligned my feet so they stood perpendicular to the target. I looked up and stared the length of the range, absorbing the yellow center of the target into my bloodstream, and held my bow so the sight lined up with the very center.

Another soft command came. “Draw.” It very nearly startled me, being so unused to anything but shouting from an instructor.

I leisurely pulled the string back so it came to rest right in front of my chin, but as soon as my arm stopped its movement, I began to shake uncontrollably. With an internal shake of my head, I thought, I need to let the string go. I can't hold it this long; I can't do this—

“Don't release,” the stranger behind me commanded. His voice seemed stronger than before, as if the embers of determination suddenly decided to burst into flame. Did he really want me to succeed that badly? “You can do this. I believe in you.”

His words startled me so much I nearly dropped my bow. He believed in me? A complete stranger believed in me? Heck, I didn't even believe in myself!

I blinked in surprise. I didn't believe in myself? How long had that been going on?

I frowned. No, I told myself. I do believe.

The faith I previously held in my abilities slowly sparked, bringing themselves back to life. The layer of sand blew away from the ashes of determination as quickly as if it had never been. A fire kindled itself; a fire of determination, self-confidence, faith, and hope. The heat inside warmed me all the way to my toes, and my eyes sparkled even as they narrowed, almost dangerously. I felt the life return to my limbs and flow through them confidently as a river flows downstream. The shaking in my arms ceased, and I pulled the string back another inch or two, back to where it belonged.

“Good girl,” he said. Despite the pet name, I glowed with pride. My demons lay slain all around us, invisible to the naked eye. “Now aim.” He saw my chin lift determinedly and the glow of my eyes increase to a roaring, blazing wildfire. He saw me harness the power of my inner wildfire and take careful aim. Even without turning around, I felt his pride. “Release,” he commanded, sounding for all the world like the general of an invincible army.

My arm twitched back as my training reasserted itself, and my fingers confidently slipped from their hold. A blast of color rushed past my face as the fletching let fly.

I watched, heart in my throat, as the arrow blazed a trail through the air and embedded itself into the center of the target.

My instructor laughed out loud and clapped me on the back. His laugh started deep within him, and by the time it reached the outside world grew into a tsunami of pride and exaltation. “Well done! I knew you had it in you!”

I turned and looked up at him. All I could do was grin. A rainbow of joy and laughter was bubbling up from the depths of my soul and demanded release. “Thank you,” I said.

“I didn't do anything,” he said, shrugging it off.

I shook my head slightly. The smile had disappeared from my lips, but not from my life. “You believed in me,” I told him. “That's more than I've been doing.”

“But not anymore, right?” He cocked an eyebrow at me, silently demanding a promise.

A gentle smile appeared, magnified by my eyes. “Right. No more doubting.”

I looked out over the practice grounds. My gaze came to rest on my arrow. The ability to come out on top still resided within my soul—all it needed was a bit of faith, determination, and hope. And if I could slay my archery demons to allow my arrow a clean shot at the center of the target, perhaps I could slay the ones that haunted the rest of my life.

Mack 7