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Fiction

Bow and Arrow

By Marek Šindelka
Translated from Czech by Michelle Woods
Marek Šindelka shows a sporting outing turned deadly.

“Is there anything you want to say about it?” Petr breaks the ice. His sentence fogs the windshield a little. But has no other effect. The patch of condensation quickly shrinks until it’s gone. Gone, along with the meaning and purpose of his words. Silence. The soft, constant, sound of the engine, the hollow movement of the gears, the sigh of a passing car. Next to him, in his peripheral vision, his son. Leaning against the window, head flung back, twisted; lips pale, shut tight; unreachable, distant. Petr returns his eyes to the road. They’re driving through the woods. It’s raining. The wipers move at regular intervals, sweeping back and forth in a hypnotic arc. The blades squeak, the clear surface of the windshield is suddenly covered by rain.

“Well, it’s obvious they’re going to kick you out of school,” Petr says, pointlessly now. A frost wafts from the seat next to him. The blades squeak, the windshield ahead starts to fill with rain. A chill runs down Petr’s back. He downshifts with a fierceness that surprises him. Like he was dislocating a limb, breaking a living thing. He turns onto a forest road. Stones rattle against the chassis. He glances at the boy, who sits motionless, unchanging, pale, distant. What could he be thinking? He’s looking up, into the treetops. Rushing by overhead. The branches like giant nerves. Everything sliding past, slipping away. A little dizziness. And the water on the window. Drop weighing down into drop, pause, slide, leaving behind a wet trail that instantly breaks up again into individual drops. If only he knew where to start, how to approach it. Just say something, Jakub! Stop hiding from me! But Jakub is silent, the road rising ahead, the rain beating against the window. Above all, neurosis. Arc, squeak of wiper blades. A boy called Jakub. A son in his peripheral vision. Branches moving, trees moving. And, suddenly, above it all, an arc.

“Look, Kuba, a rainbow!” Petr says, pointing, but it’s useless, in vain.

“It’s not up to you anymore! Don’t you get it? It’s not up to you!” yells the petite, brittle woman. His ex-wife. Petr’s ex-wife. She’s hurling words at him, but all he says is, “Jana, please, I get it, you were right . . . We should’ve done something about it back then. But this . . . this isn’t right. You’re going to lose Jakub for good!”

But Jana insists:

“You have no right to de-cide-an-y-more!” the knife clicking against the cutting board in rhythm with her words, the onion falling apart, screeching from the next room. Jana’s other child. The one with her new husband. The new husband who stands leaning against the door. Listening. Silent. Staring into the pot, at the food.

“Jakub isn’t crazy,” Petr says shakily. “He isn’t a bully, or anything else. He’s a sensitive kid, fourteen, kids do stupid things at that age. Maybe . . . he fell in with some idiots, I don’t know . . .” He hears himself in a hiss of steam, in this kitchen that used to be his kitchen too. The fluorescent light over the counter with the small, greasy switch on the side, the cabinets with magnetic latches, the left rear burner on the stove that doesn’t work, the window that won’t close unless you force it down a bit. The wallpaper with the floral pattern they had a fight about. The stain on the wallpaper, just over the table, a chocolate fingerprint from three-year-old Jakub.

“They provoked him,” Petr says, finally, now sounding firm. “I’ll go talk to the principal, we can still sort it out . . .”

“How the hell are you going to do that?!” Jana gives him a cutting look as she slices the tops off the carrots. The blade gleams strangely with her nervous movements. “We should’ve sorted it out when he was nine . . . when he hung the neighbor’s cat . . .”

Petr thinks back to that afternoon. Summer, humid, gray skies, all of them numb from the heat, sweating. Petr, Jana, Kuba, and that battle-ax from the ground floor, Petr screaming at her for pulling Jakub home by the ear. All of them standing in front of her door, staring at the pink leaf of a tongue, the two bulging eyes, the shapeless lump that only an hour before had been called Mikeš hanging on the knocker.

“Jana, kids . . . sometimes . . . they do these things. They just . . . need to try stuff out . . .”

Jana snorts. “Are you out of your mind? So I guess he was just trying stuff out with that boy, too, huh?”

“For Christ’s sake, those’re two completely different things! That was a fight, an accident.”

“No, that was no accident. The boy has a broken jaw.”

“He was provoked.”

“That’s not true,” Jana says. Petr drums his fingers on the table and shakes his head.

“You’re going to believe those snots that say Jakub started it?”

The sound of the peeler stops. “It was in a classroom full of kids and . . . Jakub admitted it.”

“Bullshit,” Petr explodes. “That’s total crap! I don’t know why he said it, but it isn’t true. He’s doing it on purpose, I don’t know why, to get back at you and me . . .”

Jana sneers, curls her lip. She goes on slicing carrots, says nothing. Her new husband stands, staring into the pot. Petr would keep going, but there’s nowhere to go. He takes a breath, realizes something, grasps something inside of himself, then tosses it aside.

“All right then,” he says gently, “what if I take Kuba for a while, try to . . .”

Silence.

“So now all of a sudden you care?!” Jana starts screaming. “Where were you when we needed you? You left us, don’t you remember? You! You left us for that bitch! How was I supposed to cope on my own? You ruined everything! You know how much Jakub loved you. How much he missed you . . . You’re such a bastard! They should never have let you see him again!”

“Jana, I . . .”

“Get out,” Jana says softly, coldly.

Petr looks at Jana. The new husband keeps his eyes on the pots. Gentle bubbling and hissing steam. Pointless.

“I told you, get out. Go away! You hear me?”

“Jana, look, I’m not here because of you, I’m here for Kuba. Please calm down. We can’t go on like this. What do you think . . .”

“Get out of here,” Jana yells, cutting her finger. A drop of blood falls, soaking into the white of the chopped celery. “Go away!” Tears, jacket, shoes, door. It’s cool in the corridor, a damp basement smell.

They drive out of the forest. Wide pastures spread out to either side. Open country. Just a meadow with a stand of trees here and there.

Petr brakes, turns the key, the noise stops. Jakub doesn’t move. They sit a moment in silence, staring at the windshield. Both of them feel, somewhere in their spines, in their bones, the tingling of the engine. Calm. Quiet. Pastures.

“Let’s go,” Petr breaks the silence.

They go.

Sounds. The two clicks of the doors. The squeak of shoes in wet grass. Kuba sneezes. Petr opens the trunk. “Can you give me some help?” They take out a square. A target. A wooden frame with strips of carpeting, felt, glass wool. The surface hard and solid to the touch, but an arrow easily slides in and can easily be removed. They walk through the meadow, carrying it. About sixty meters from the car they stop, unfold the wooden legs, and stand the target on the ground. They cover it with a new target face. Petr glances around. It’s perfectly flat in every direction. The evening sun shines over the treeline. They can see a piece of the rainbow again. There is a smell of drenched meadow grass.

“So, have you been practicing?” Petr asks.

Jakub shakes his head. He stands over a large open black laminate case. Inside it is a bow. Two plastic limbs that look like skis screwed into a handle of solid beech wood. He hooks the lower limb behind his left calf, bracing the body of the bow against his other leg, so it crosses his thigh diagonally with its back to his right arm. He cocks his arm, twists his torso, flexes the body of the bow, and draws the bowstring. All of sudden he’s holding a weapon. He tests the tension of the bow, stretching the string to his face, pauses a moment, takes aim, slowly releases the string. He’s gotten strong. He’s grown into a man, Petr thinks. A year ago, Petr still had to brace the bow for him. Now he can handle it easily. He’s been using an adult weapon for some time now. A heavy one, like Petr’s, accurate at a distance of eighty meters, a bow of the most difficult category that can be tightened for more power, without pulleys.

It only takes Petr a moment to ready his weapon. Then the two of them sling on their quivers, attach guards to their left forearms, and slip on leather finger tabs to protect their right index and middle fingers, which draw the string to fire. They screw metal sights onto the handles of their bows. Nock the first aluminum arrow. Adopt a sideways stance, spreading their legs. Petr draws back the string, takes aim, shoots. Jakub shoots. They take turns. Silence, taking aim, squinting. Peace and quiet. Only the hollow pluck of the string. The hiss of the arrow in flight and then, almost immediately, the muffled thud in the target. Speed. The fresh, raw air; the cold, weak sun; shreds of clouds; a bird in the forest. It calls out; silence; you hear nothing more.

They each take ten shots. Walk to the target. Count as they pull out the cold metal arrows. Petr points to something, gesturing, explaining. Jakub nods. Perhaps even says something, too. They walk back to the car. And do it all over again.

After a few rounds, Petr glances over the pasture, Jakub braces the arrow, ready to draw back the string, when Petr puts his hand lightly on Jakub’s shoulder, stops him, nods his head: “Look,” he whispers, trying not to startle or alarm him. Jakub turns his head, not understanding, then suddenly sees. By the woods, to the left of them, a large herd of deer, maybe twenty altogether.

Neither of them says a word as they watch. The deer graze calmly, far away, two hundred fifty, three hundred meters. It seems they haven’t noticed Petr and Jakub; the breeze is blowing toward them, carrying their scent away from the animals. Suddenly Kuba whispers, “Let’s shoot one of them.” Petr is rattled. Maybe too rattled. Kuba notices and . . . smiles! Slightly, but still. Petr stands in shock.

“C’mon!” Jakub needles.

Petr glances at Jakub uncertainly, then finally, hesitating, says, “We can’t do that, Kuba . . .”

“Why not?”

“They’re too far away . . . and . . . you might not kill it. If you shoot one and it runs away, we’d have to go look for it in the woods . . . finish it off . . .”

“So we’ll look for it.”

Petr bites his lower lip. Peels a thin hair off its cracked skin. Spits.

“Would you know how to do that . . . kill it?” he asks Jakub.

“I don’t know.” Kuba shrugs. “Maybe. We do have a knife.”

Petr nods. Yes. They have a knife. Petr has a switchblade in his car.

“It’s not that easy . . . and besides, they’re too far off. You wouldn’t be able to hit them from here . . .”

Jakub fires a shot. Everything stops. The meadow, the forest, the eyes of the deer, Petr’s heart. Jakub stands watching the arrow’s arc. It’s a smart shot, angled upward correctly. The arrow arcs, climbs to the highest point, and starts to fall, starts to gain a terrible, monstrous speed, starts to find its target.

It strikes the ground maybe fifty meters from the herd. The deer take a hop or two to the side. Petr lets out a breath.

Jakub lowers his bow.

“You see, they’re too far,” Petr says.

They stand watching the herd. The deer return to grazing calmly. Now and then, one of them lifts its head and sniffs. Pointlessly. The wind is blowing in the wrong direction.

“Now you try, Dad,” Jakub whispers. He gives a little smile again. Petr suddenly feels him close, right up on him. They stand together. You try, Dad. A wind blows through the meadow; it delicately combs through the grass. It brings with it the smell of something resinous, moist, sickly. Acrid. A gamey smell. Some dung, some tree bark. The wind dies down. The smell disappears.

Petr shoots. The arrow lands some thirty meters from the nearest deer. The herd jumps, trots, stops. The animals turn their heads in confusion, sniffing, then drop their heads to graze again.

“They don’t know what’s happening!” Jakub whispers with excitement.

“We need to get closer,” Petr says. He goes back to the car, takes the knife from the glovebox. Pushes the switch and the blade snaps up with a click. Fifteen centimeters of metal. How tough are deer tendons? Where do you cut? Across the neck? Through the spine? All right, Jakub. Count me in. I’ll do this with you. Let’s go for it. But only if you’re sure you know what you’re getting into. Only if you’re ready. Can you imagine it? Petr tries to imagine it. A shot on target. Chaos in the body of a small animal in a meadow. Hooves pounding. Nailed to the ground by an arrow—from a closer distance, you could even take down a cow . . . and a deer is small, fragile as a whippet. Petr sees it. Sees the horror in the deep dark beads of its eyes. Petr and Jakub come running as the animal lifts itself from the ground, tries to wrench itself free (better to expect the worst), flees, limping, falling, picks itself back up again, spread-eagled and stumbling like a newborn foal. It escapes. Disappears into the woods. The flash of an aluminum arrow between the trees. It’s gone. Petr drops his bow and runs with all his strength, runs as hard as he can. Through dead brambles. Stumbling over roots and mossy boulders. But the animal is gone. Lost deep in the forest, alone with its injuries. How long can it survive? Its muzzle reaching for a foreign thing stuck in its body. Turning in circles. Like a dog chasing its tail . . . I’ll do it, Jakub. What do I care about some deer? What do I care about anything? I’ll do it, because maybe that’s the way . . . The way for us to find each other.

He closes the knife, puts in in his pocket.

They’re on the move.

Arrows notched. Muffled breath and footsteps. Crouching, they creep through the grass. The grass is wet, it doesn’t whisper. All of the animals freeze when any of them senses something. They stop. Wait. Go back to what they were doing. Jakub is on edge. Petr can see it. And he can see it in himself. The excitement, the thrill. There’s something atavistic, ancient in it. An ancient formula. Archetype. Father, son, the hunt. The kill. Petr can feel his pulse. In his wrist, throat, temples, on the left side of his chest. Licks his lips. Another few steps. He measures, weighs, executes each movement. The closer the herd, the cleaner and emptier he feels. Clearing everything superfluous out. Stripping himself of reason, gathering his thoughts from the dregs. He feels lightheaded. His tendons, nerves, bones are thinking for him now. He halts Jakub with a wave. They’ve covered a good fifty meters. Jakub throws him a questioning glance. Petr nods. They shoot. Both at once. Jakub immediately loads another arrow and shoots again. Petr shoots one more too.

The arrows land.

A ripple of fright moves through the herd, they dash frantically for the forest. Hovering over the meadow’s surface, flowing. They seep through, in between the trees. Hoofbeats thud like hailstones. Slowly fade. Disappear.

Again quiet.

They didn’t get even one. Their arrows landed right in the middle of the herd, but didn’t hit a single deer. They can clearly see the white feathers of the four arrows jutting up from the meadow. They didn’t hit even one. Something heavy and black from the empty pasture starts to leak into Petr’s crystal-clear thoughts. As if they had missed much more than that. Something more elemental. It was in range. In reach. They had grasped at it, even held it in the palm of their hands, but it had slipped their fingers. Jakub glances at the four spent, deaf, impotent arrows buried in the meadow. And the moment turns bitter. Curdles. Petr says something, he isn’t sure what. He should be slowly walking. They need to gather the arrows, it’s getting dark, they should be leaving now. They should go, but they don’t, they just stand and wait.

Jakub raises the bow, bends it back with all his strength, and shoots straight up in the air. Directly over their heads. It goes black before Petr’s eyes. What the hell are you doing, Jakub?

The arrow sinks into the dirt about four meters to the left of Jakub.

The two of them stand there. Breathing. Petr’s heart is beating so hard he feels his body sway. His heart muscle balances in the middle of the meadow. Jakub just stands there, terrified too. He looks drunk. Looks at Petr through empty eyes. Looks through him. Now what? Fever. Black spots. Swarming. It’s like something comes rolling over them. Sliding and dipping. The black trees at the edge of the meadow are moving. The wind. Sweeps across, disappears. Bare treetops, sprawling like nerves. It slips, taking on weight, gathering speed and direction. Petr’s head is spinning. He is standing in the middle of a continent. On the top of a tectonic plate. Jakub waits. Terrified, drunk with horror and god knows what. And Petr has to. He has to, because maybe this is the thing . . .

He draws the string and releases it. It whirs, hisses. The arrow goes straight up. Petr closes his eyes, firmly pressing down his lids. So tightly it hurts, setting off a humming in his head. The whole world is ending, forever losing its shape, its meaning.

Petr stands still.

And waits.

From the short story collection Zůstaňte s námi © 2011 by Marek Šindelka. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Michelle Woods. All rights reserved.

English Czech (Original)

“Is there anything you want to say about it?” Petr breaks the ice. His sentence fogs the windshield a little. But has no other effect. The patch of condensation quickly shrinks until it’s gone. Gone, along with the meaning and purpose of his words. Silence. The soft, constant, sound of the engine, the hollow movement of the gears, the sigh of a passing car. Next to him, in his peripheral vision, his son. Leaning against the window, head flung back, twisted; lips pale, shut tight; unreachable, distant. Petr returns his eyes to the road. They’re driving through the woods. It’s raining. The wipers move at regular intervals, sweeping back and forth in a hypnotic arc. The blades squeak, the clear surface of the windshield is suddenly covered by rain.

“Well, it’s obvious they’re going to kick you out of school,” Petr says, pointlessly now. A frost wafts from the seat next to him. The blades squeak, the windshield ahead starts to fill with rain. A chill runs down Petr’s back. He downshifts with a fierceness that surprises him. Like he was dislocating a limb, breaking a living thing. He turns onto a forest road. Stones rattle against the chassis. He glances at the boy, who sits motionless, unchanging, pale, distant. What could he be thinking? He’s looking up, into the treetops. Rushing by overhead. The branches like giant nerves. Everything sliding past, slipping away. A little dizziness. And the water on the window. Drop weighing down into drop, pause, slide, leaving behind a wet trail that instantly breaks up again into individual drops. If only he knew where to start, how to approach it. Just say something, Jakub! Stop hiding from me! But Jakub is silent, the road rising ahead, the rain beating against the window. Above all, neurosis. Arc, squeak of wiper blades. A boy called Jakub. A son in his peripheral vision. Branches moving, trees moving. And, suddenly, above it all, an arc.

“Look, Kuba, a rainbow!” Petr says, pointing, but it’s useless, in vain.

“It’s not up to you anymore! Don’t you get it? It’s not up to you!” yells the petite, brittle woman. His ex-wife. Petr’s ex-wife. She’s hurling words at him, but all he says is, “Jana, please, I get it, you were right . . . We should’ve done something about it back then. But this . . . this isn’t right. You’re going to lose Jakub for good!”

But Jana insists:

“You have no right to de-cide-an-y-more!” the knife clicking against the cutting board in rhythm with her words, the onion falling apart, screeching from the next room. Jana’s other child. The one with her new husband. The new husband who stands leaning against the door. Listening. Silent. Staring into the pot, at the food.

“Jakub isn’t crazy,” Petr says shakily. “He isn’t a bully, or anything else. He’s a sensitive kid, fourteen, kids do stupid things at that age. Maybe . . . he fell in with some idiots, I don’t know . . .” He hears himself in a hiss of steam, in this kitchen that used to be his kitchen too. The fluorescent light over the counter with the small, greasy switch on the side, the cabinets with magnetic latches, the left rear burner on the stove that doesn’t work, the window that won’t close unless you force it down a bit. The wallpaper with the floral pattern they had a fight about. The stain on the wallpaper, just over the table, a chocolate fingerprint from three-year-old Jakub.

“They provoked him,” Petr says, finally, now sounding firm. “I’ll go talk to the principal, we can still sort it out . . .”

“How the hell are you going to do that?!” Jana gives him a cutting look as she slices the tops off the carrots. The blade gleams strangely with her nervous movements. “We should’ve sorted it out when he was nine . . . when he hung the neighbor’s cat . . .”

Petr thinks back to that afternoon. Summer, humid, gray skies, all of them numb from the heat, sweating. Petr, Jana, Kuba, and that battle-ax from the ground floor, Petr screaming at her for pulling Jakub home by the ear. All of them standing in front of her door, staring at the pink leaf of a tongue, the two bulging eyes, the shapeless lump that only an hour before had been called Mikeš hanging on the knocker.

“Jana, kids . . . sometimes . . . they do these things. They just . . . need to try stuff out . . .”

Jana snorts. “Are you out of your mind? So I guess he was just trying stuff out with that boy, too, huh?”

“For Christ’s sake, those’re two completely different things! That was a fight, an accident.”

“No, that was no accident. The boy has a broken jaw.”

“He was provoked.”

“That’s not true,” Jana says. Petr drums his fingers on the table and shakes his head.

“You’re going to believe those snots that say Jakub started it?”

The sound of the peeler stops. “It was in a classroom full of kids and . . . Jakub admitted it.”

“Bullshit,” Petr explodes. “That’s total crap! I don’t know why he said it, but it isn’t true. He’s doing it on purpose, I don’t know why, to get back at you and me . . .”

Jana sneers, curls her lip. She goes on slicing carrots, says nothing. Her new husband stands, staring into the pot. Petr would keep going, but there’s nowhere to go. He takes a breath, realizes something, grasps something inside of himself, then tosses it aside.

“All right then,” he says gently, “what if I take Kuba for a while, try to . . .”

Silence.

“So now all of a sudden you care?!” Jana starts screaming. “Where were you when we needed you? You left us, don’t you remember? You! You left us for that bitch! How was I supposed to cope on my own? You ruined everything! You know how much Jakub loved you. How much he missed you . . . You’re such a bastard! They should never have let you see him again!”

“Jana, I . . .”

“Get out,” Jana says softly, coldly.

Petr looks at Jana. The new husband keeps his eyes on the pots. Gentle bubbling and hissing steam. Pointless.

“I told you, get out. Go away! You hear me?”

“Jana, look, I’m not here because of you, I’m here for Kuba. Please calm down. We can’t go on like this. What do you think . . .”

“Get out of here,” Jana yells, cutting her finger. A drop of blood falls, soaking into the white of the chopped celery. “Go away!” Tears, jacket, shoes, door. It’s cool in the corridor, a damp basement smell.

They drive out of the forest. Wide pastures spread out to either side. Open country. Just a meadow with a stand of trees here and there.

Petr brakes, turns the key, the noise stops. Jakub doesn’t move. They sit a moment in silence, staring at the windshield. Both of them feel, somewhere in their spines, in their bones, the tingling of the engine. Calm. Quiet. Pastures.

“Let’s go,” Petr breaks the silence.

They go.

Sounds. The two clicks of the doors. The squeak of shoes in wet grass. Kuba sneezes. Petr opens the trunk. “Can you give me some help?” They take out a square. A target. A wooden frame with strips of carpeting, felt, glass wool. The surface hard and solid to the touch, but an arrow easily slides in and can easily be removed. They walk through the meadow, carrying it. About sixty meters from the car they stop, unfold the wooden legs, and stand the target on the ground. They cover it with a new target face. Petr glances around. It’s perfectly flat in every direction. The evening sun shines over the treeline. They can see a piece of the rainbow again. There is a smell of drenched meadow grass.

“So, have you been practicing?” Petr asks.

Jakub shakes his head. He stands over a large open black laminate case. Inside it is a bow. Two plastic limbs that look like skis screwed into a handle of solid beech wood. He hooks the lower limb behind his left calf, bracing the body of the bow against his other leg, so it crosses his thigh diagonally with its back to his right arm. He cocks his arm, twists his torso, flexes the body of the bow, and draws the bowstring. All of sudden he’s holding a weapon. He tests the tension of the bow, stretching the string to his face, pauses a moment, takes aim, slowly releases the string. He’s gotten strong. He’s grown into a man, Petr thinks. A year ago, Petr still had to brace the bow for him. Now he can handle it easily. He’s been using an adult weapon for some time now. A heavy one, like Petr’s, accurate at a distance of eighty meters, a bow of the most difficult category that can be tightened for more power, without pulleys.

It only takes Petr a moment to ready his weapon. Then the two of them sling on their quivers, attach guards to their left forearms, and slip on leather finger tabs to protect their right index and middle fingers, which draw the string to fire. They screw metal sights onto the handles of their bows. Nock the first aluminum arrow. Adopt a sideways stance, spreading their legs. Petr draws back the string, takes aim, shoots. Jakub shoots. They take turns. Silence, taking aim, squinting. Peace and quiet. Only the hollow pluck of the string. The hiss of the arrow in flight and then, almost immediately, the muffled thud in the target. Speed. The fresh, raw air; the cold, weak sun; shreds of clouds; a bird in the forest. It calls out; silence; you hear nothing more.

They each take ten shots. Walk to the target. Count as they pull out the cold metal arrows. Petr points to something, gesturing, explaining. Jakub nods. Perhaps even says something, too. They walk back to the car. And do it all over again.

After a few rounds, Petr glances over the pasture, Jakub braces the arrow, ready to draw back the string, when Petr puts his hand lightly on Jakub’s shoulder, stops him, nods his head: “Look,” he whispers, trying not to startle or alarm him. Jakub turns his head, not understanding, then suddenly sees. By the woods, to the left of them, a large herd of deer, maybe twenty altogether.

Neither of them says a word as they watch. The deer graze calmly, far away, two hundred fifty, three hundred meters. It seems they haven’t noticed Petr and Jakub; the breeze is blowing toward them, carrying their scent away from the animals. Suddenly Kuba whispers, “Let’s shoot one of them.” Petr is rattled. Maybe too rattled. Kuba notices and . . . smiles! Slightly, but still. Petr stands in shock.

“C’mon!” Jakub needles.

Petr glances at Jakub uncertainly, then finally, hesitating, says, “We can’t do that, Kuba . . .”

“Why not?”

“They’re too far away . . . and . . . you might not kill it. If you shoot one and it runs away, we’d have to go look for it in the woods . . . finish it off . . .”

“So we’ll look for it.”

Petr bites his lower lip. Peels a thin hair off its cracked skin. Spits.

“Would you know how to do that . . . kill it?” he asks Jakub.

“I don’t know.” Kuba shrugs. “Maybe. We do have a knife.”

Petr nods. Yes. They have a knife. Petr has a switchblade in his car.

“It’s not that easy . . . and besides, they’re too far off. You wouldn’t be able to hit them from here . . .”

Jakub fires a shot. Everything stops. The meadow, the forest, the eyes of the deer, Petr’s heart. Jakub stands watching the arrow’s arc. It’s a smart shot, angled upward correctly. The arrow arcs, climbs to the highest point, and starts to fall, starts to gain a terrible, monstrous speed, starts to find its target.

It strikes the ground maybe fifty meters from the herd. The deer take a hop or two to the side. Petr lets out a breath.

Jakub lowers his bow.

“You see, they’re too far,” Petr says.

They stand watching the herd. The deer return to grazing calmly. Now and then, one of them lifts its head and sniffs. Pointlessly. The wind is blowing in the wrong direction.

“Now you try, Dad,” Jakub whispers. He gives a little smile again. Petr suddenly feels him close, right up on him. They stand together. You try, Dad. A wind blows through the meadow; it delicately combs through the grass. It brings with it the smell of something resinous, moist, sickly. Acrid. A gamey smell. Some dung, some tree bark. The wind dies down. The smell disappears.

Petr shoots. The arrow lands some thirty meters from the nearest deer. The herd jumps, trots, stops. The animals turn their heads in confusion, sniffing, then drop their heads to graze again.

“They don’t know what’s happening!” Jakub whispers with excitement.

“We need to get closer,” Petr says. He goes back to the car, takes the knife from the glovebox. Pushes the switch and the blade snaps up with a click. Fifteen centimeters of metal. How tough are deer tendons? Where do you cut? Across the neck? Through the spine? All right, Jakub. Count me in. I’ll do this with you. Let’s go for it. But only if you’re sure you know what you’re getting into. Only if you’re ready. Can you imagine it? Petr tries to imagine it. A shot on target. Chaos in the body of a small animal in a meadow. Hooves pounding. Nailed to the ground by an arrow—from a closer distance, you could even take down a cow . . . and a deer is small, fragile as a whippet. Petr sees it. Sees the horror in the deep dark beads of its eyes. Petr and Jakub come running as the animal lifts itself from the ground, tries to wrench itself free (better to expect the worst), flees, limping, falling, picks itself back up again, spread-eagled and stumbling like a newborn foal. It escapes. Disappears into the woods. The flash of an aluminum arrow between the trees. It’s gone. Petr drops his bow and runs with all his strength, runs as hard as he can. Through dead brambles. Stumbling over roots and mossy boulders. But the animal is gone. Lost deep in the forest, alone with its injuries. How long can it survive? Its muzzle reaching for a foreign thing stuck in its body. Turning in circles. Like a dog chasing its tail . . . I’ll do it, Jakub. What do I care about some deer? What do I care about anything? I’ll do it, because maybe that’s the way . . . The way for us to find each other.

He closes the knife, puts in in his pocket.

They’re on the move.

Arrows notched. Muffled breath and footsteps. Crouching, they creep through the grass. The grass is wet, it doesn’t whisper. All of the animals freeze when any of them senses something. They stop. Wait. Go back to what they were doing. Jakub is on edge. Petr can see it. And he can see it in himself. The excitement, the thrill. There’s something atavistic, ancient in it. An ancient formula. Archetype. Father, son, the hunt. The kill. Petr can feel his pulse. In his wrist, throat, temples, on the left side of his chest. Licks his lips. Another few steps. He measures, weighs, executes each movement. The closer the herd, the cleaner and emptier he feels. Clearing everything superfluous out. Stripping himself of reason, gathering his thoughts from the dregs. He feels lightheaded. His tendons, nerves, bones are thinking for him now. He halts Jakub with a wave. They’ve covered a good fifty meters. Jakub throws him a questioning glance. Petr nods. They shoot. Both at once. Jakub immediately loads another arrow and shoots again. Petr shoots one more too.

The arrows land.

A ripple of fright moves through the herd, they dash frantically for the forest. Hovering over the meadow’s surface, flowing. They seep through, in between the trees. Hoofbeats thud like hailstones. Slowly fade. Disappear.

Again quiet.

They didn’t get even one. Their arrows landed right in the middle of the herd, but didn’t hit a single deer. They can clearly see the white feathers of the four arrows jutting up from the meadow. They didn’t hit even one. Something heavy and black from the empty pasture starts to leak into Petr’s crystal-clear thoughts. As if they had missed much more than that. Something more elemental. It was in range. In reach. They had grasped at it, even held it in the palm of their hands, but it had slipped their fingers. Jakub glances at the four spent, deaf, impotent arrows buried in the meadow. And the moment turns bitter. Curdles. Petr says something, he isn’t sure what. He should be slowly walking. They need to gather the arrows, it’s getting dark, they should be leaving now. They should go, but they don’t, they just stand and wait.

Jakub raises the bow, bends it back with all his strength, and shoots straight up in the air. Directly over their heads. It goes black before Petr’s eyes. What the hell are you doing, Jakub?

The arrow sinks into the dirt about four meters to the left of Jakub.

The two of them stand there. Breathing. Petr’s heart is beating so hard he feels his body sway. His heart muscle balances in the middle of the meadow. Jakub just stands there, terrified too. He looks drunk. Looks at Petr through empty eyes. Looks through him. Now what? Fever. Black spots. Swarming. It’s like something comes rolling over them. Sliding and dipping. The black trees at the edge of the meadow are moving. The wind. Sweeps across, disappears. Bare treetops, sprawling like nerves. It slips, taking on weight, gathering speed and direction. Petr’s head is spinning. He is standing in the middle of a continent. On the top of a tectonic plate. Jakub waits. Terrified, drunk with horror and god knows what. And Petr has to. He has to, because maybe this is the thing . . .

He draws the string and releases it. It whirs, hisses. The arrow goes straight up. Petr closes his eyes, firmly pressing down his lids. So tightly it hurts, setting off a humming in his head. The whole world is ending, forever losing its shape, its meaning.

Petr stands still.

And waits.

From the short story collection Zůstaňte s námi © 2011 by Marek Šindelka. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Michelle Woods. All rights reserved.

Luk

„Nechtěl bys mi k tomu něco říct?“ zkusil to Petr. Trochu se od té marné věty zamlžilo čelní sklo. Jinak nic. Vlhkost se zmenšuje a ztrácí. Ztrácí se i význam, důvod těch slov. Ticho. Jemné konstantní otáčky motoru, dutý pohyb řadící páky, vzdychnutí projíždějícího vozu. Vedle něj v periferním vidění syn. Opřený o sklo, hlavu zakloněnou, zvrácenou, rty bledé, sevřené, nepřístupný, cizí. Petr se pohledem vrátil na silnici. Jedou lesem. Prší. Stěrače se v pravidelném intervalu pohnou. Opíšou oblouk, skřípne guma, čistá plocha se okamžitě začne plnit deštěm.

„Ze školy tě vyhoděj, to je myslím jasný,“ říká Petr teď už úplně zbytečně. Z vedlejšího sedadla jakoby zavanul chlad. Skřípne guma, plocha se začne plnit deštěm. Petrovi z toho po zádech přejede mráz. S razancí, která ho samotného překvapila, podřadil. Jakoby něco vykloubil, jakoby lámal něco živého. Odbočil na lesní cestu. Do podvozku zacvakaly kamínky. Podíval se na kluka. Seděl bez hnutí, beze změny, bledý, cizí. Na co myslí? Dívá se nahoru, do korun stromů. Ubíhá to nad ním. Větví se to jak nějaké obrovské nervy. Všechno klouže, ujíždí pryč. Trochu závrať. A na okně voda. Kapka předá váhu kapce, ztěžkne, sklouzne, nechá mokrou stopu, ta se po chvíli samovolně rozpadne zpět do jednotlivých kapek. Kdyby tak věděl kde začít, kudy se přiblížit. Aspoň mluv Jakube! Neschovávej se mi! Jenže Jakub mlčí, cesta stoupá, o sklo se rozbíjí déšť. A nad vším neuróza. Oblouk, vrznutí gumy. Kluk jménem Jakub. Syn v periferním vidění. Pohyb větví, pohyb stromů. A nad vším najednou oblouk.

„Hele Kubo, duha!“ říká Petr, ukazuje, ale je to marné, zbytečné.

 

„O tomhle ty už nerozhoduješ! Je ti to doufám jasný, ty už ne!“ rozčiluje se ta drobná, křehká žena. Bývalá žena. Bývalá Petrova žena. A Petra napadají zlá slova, ale nahlas radši říká: „Jano, prosimtě, já ti rozumim, mělas pravdu, tenkrát… Měli jsme s tím něco dělat. Ale takhle… To nejde. Přece Jakuba nechceš úplně ztratit!“

Jenže Jana trvá na svém:

„O tomhle ty už ne–roz–ho–du–ješ!“ a do rytmu zacvaká nožem o prkénko, cibule se rozpadne, z vedlejšího pokoje se ozve skřípot. Janino druhé dítě. Druhé s novým mužem. Nový muž stojí opřený o futra. Poslouchá. Mlčí. Zírá do hrnce, v kterém vzniká potrava.

„Jakub není blázen,“ vypraví ze sebe Petr nejistě, „ani násilník, ani nic jinýho. Je citlivej, je mu čtrnáct, to je blbej věk. Období… Narazil na nějaký idioty, já nevim…“ Slyší sám sebe v sykotu páry, v kuchyni, která kdysi byla i jeho kuchyní. Zářivka nad linkou s malým mastným vypínačem na straně, dvířka na magnet, levý zadní hořák sporáku nefunguje, okno se špatně zavírá – člověk ho musí dole trochu přitlačit. Tapeta s květinovým vzorem, kvůli kterému se pohádali. Flek na tapetě kousek nad stolem, čokoládový otisk prstu třiletého Jakuba.

„Vyprovokovali ho,“ řekne nakonec Petr a zní to rozhodně. „Zajdu za ředitelem, ještě se to dá řešit…“

„Co bys na tom sakra chtěl řešit?!“ sekne po něm Jana pohledem. Odřízne z mrkve nať. Pod nervózním pohybem škrabky vysvitne jiný odstín. „Řešit se to mělo, když mu bylo devět… když sousedce oběsil kočku…“

Petrovi se okamžitě vybaví to odpoledne. Léto, dusno, inverze, šedé nebe, všichni otupělí horkem, zpocení. Petr, Jana, Kuba a ta semetrika z přízemí, na kterou se Petr ve dveřích rozeřval, protože Jakuba přitáhla domů za ucho. Všichhni stojí za domem, zírají na růžový lístek jazyka, na dvě vypoulené rybí oči, na neforemný chuchvalec pověšený na klepadle, který se ještě před hodinou jmenoval Mikeš.

„Jano, tohle… občas… děti udělaj. Prostě… si to potřebujou vyzkoušet…“

Jana se uchehtne. „Ty ses asi zbláznil. Takže s tím klukem, to si taky jenom něco potřeboval vyzkoušet.“

„Kristepane, to jsou dvě úplně jiný věci! Tohle byla rvačka, nehoda.“

„Ne, to nebyla nehoda. Ten kluk má zlomenou čelist.“

„Vyprovokovali ho.“

„To není pravda,“ řekne Jana, Petr zabubnuje prsty o stůl a zavrtí hlavou.

„To, že si začal Jakub, je verze nějakejch smradů, to věříš víc jim?“

Zvuk škrabky utichne. „Bylo to ve třídě plné dětí a…. Jakub to přiznal.“

„Blbost,“ vyrazí ze sebe Petr. „To je úplná hovadina! Nevím, proč to říká, ale není to pravda. Dělá to naschvál, nevím, říká to natruc, mně i tobě…“

Jana se ušklíbne, skřiví ret. Krájí mrkev a mlčí. Nový muž stojí, civí do hrnce jako do propasti. Petr by pokračoval, ale nejde to. Nadechne se, něco si uvědomí, něco v sobě uchopí, ale pak to zahodí pryč.

„No, podívej,“ řekne nakonec opatrně, „co kdybych si Kubu místo toho na chvíli vzal k sobě, zkusil to…“

Ticho.

„Co se najednou tak staráš?!“ rozkřičí se Jana nečekaně, „kdes byl, když jsme tě potřebovali? To tys od nás odešel, jestli si nevzpomínáš! Ty! Za tou mrchou! Jak jsem to asi měla sama zvládat? Všechno jsi zkazil! Víš, jak tě měl Jakub rád? Jak se pořád ptal… Ty si takovej parchant! Vůbec ti neměli dovolit ho ještě vídat!“

„Jano, já…“

„Vypadni,“ řekne Jana tiše, chladně.

Petr kouká na Janu. Nový muž do kastrolů. Jemné bublání a sykot páry. Marnost.

„Říkám ti vypadni. Běž pryč! Rozuměls?“

„Jano podívej, já tu nejsem kvůli tobě, ale kvůli Kubovi. Laskavě se uklidni. Takhle to nejde. Co si vůbec myslíš…“

„Vypadni odsud!“ zařve Jana a řízne se přitom do prstu. Do bílého kruhu překrojeného celeru se vsakuje kapka krve. „Běž pryč!“ Slzy, bunda, boty, dveře, na chodbě je chladno, vlhký smrad sklepů.

Vyjeli z lesa. Kolem se teď doširoka rozvírají pastviny. Volné prostranství. Jen občas někde u krajů louky posed. Petr zabrzdil, otočil klíčem, zvuk zmizel. Jakub se ani nehnul. Chvíli oba tiše sedí, setrvačně zírají do čelního skla. Je ticho. Oba ještě někde v páteři, v kostech cítí brnění motoru. Klid. Hlucho. Pastviny.

„Tak jdem,“ přesekne to Petr.

Jdou.

Všechno je slyšet. Dvě klapnutí dveří. Skřípnutí podrážky o mokrou trávu. Kuba smrká. Petr otvírá kufr. „Pomůžeš mi?“ Vytáhnou čtverec. Terčovnici. V dřevěném rámu jsou pomocí šroubů stlačené pásy jakési hmoty. Kobercovina, filc, skelná vata. Na dotek tvrdá a pevná plocha, ale šíp do ní snadno vklouzne a dá se pak bez obtíží vytáhnout. Jdou loukou. Nesou. Asi šedesát metrů od auta se zastaví, vyklopí dřevěné nohy a terčovnici postaví. Napnou na ní nový papírový terč. Petr se rozhlédne. Kolem dokonalá rovina. V trhlině nad lesem svítí podvečerní slunce. Opět je vidět kus duhy. Voní zmoklé luční trávy.

„Tak co, byls trénovat?“ ptá se Petr.

Jakub zavrtí hlavou. Stojí nad velkým otevřeným pouzdrem z černého laminátu. Skládá luk. K rukojeti z pevného bukového dřeva přišroubuje dvě plastová ramena podobná lyžím. Spodní rameno zezadu zahákne o levé lýtko, tělo luku zapře o druhou nohu tak, že vede šikmo vzhůru přes stehno a záda k pravé paži. Zapře se rukou, otočí trupem, celým tělem luk ohne a nasadí tětivu. Najednou drží v ruce zbraň. Zkušebně luk napne, tětivu přitiskne k líci, chvíli drží, cílí, pomalu zase povolí. Jak zesílil. Jak vyrostl a zmužněl, napadne Petra. Před rokem mu ještě musel tětivu nasazovat sám. S jakou lehkostí to teď zvládl. Už dávno přešel na dospělou zbraň. Stejně jako Petr používá těžký, na přímou střelbu do osmdesáti metrů naprosto přesný luk nejtvrdší kategorie, který lze ještě napnout vlastní silou, bez kladkostroje.

Svou zbraň má Petr složenou za chvilku. Oba si připnou toulce, chrániče na levé předloktí, navléknou prstýnek s koženou ploškou chránící bříška ukazováčku a prostředníčku pravé ruky, která napíná tětivu, před pořezáním. K rukojeti přišroubují kovové zaměřovače. Oba nasadí první duralový šíp. Oba se postaví bokem, rozkročí se. Petr napne tětivu, krátce míří, střílí. Střílí Jakub. Střídají se. Mlčí, míří, mhouří oči. Klid. Jen duté drnčení tětiv. Letky šípu syknou a téměř okamžitě se ozve tlumené ťuknutí do terčovnice. Rychlost. Ve vzduchu čerstvo, syrovo, slabé studené slunce, cáry mraků, v lese pták. Zařve, ztichne a už ho slyšet není.

Každý vystřelí desetkrát. Jdou k terčovnici. Počítají, z terče vytahují studené kovové šípy, Petr něco ukazuje, naznačuje, vysvětluje. Jakub kýve hlavou. Snad dokonce sám něco říká. Jdou zpět k autu. Vše se opakuje.

Po několika kolech se Petr zahledí přes pastviny, Jakub zrovna nasazuje šíp, už skoro napíná tětivu, Petr mu zlehka položí ruku na rameno, zastaví ho, kývne hlavou, „hele!“ zašeptá, jakoby nechtěl vyplašit, polekat, Jakub otáčí hlavu, chvíli nerozumí, ale pak už vidí. U lesa nalevo od nich veliké, snad dvacetičlenné srnčí stádo.

Oba mlčí, tiše je pozorují. Srny se klidně pasou, jsou daleko, takových dvěstěpadesát, třista metrů, snad o nich vůbec neví, slabý vítr vane směrem k Petrovi s Jakubem, nemůžou je cítit. Neví o nich. A najednou Kuba šeptne: „Pojďme jednu střelit…“ A v Petrovi hrkne. Snad až příliš. Snad si toho i Kuba všiml a… Usměje se! Lehce, ale přece… Petr stojí jako opařený.

„Pojďme!“ naléhá Jakub.

Petr si Jakuba dál nejistě prohlíží a nakonec váhavě řekne „To nejde Kubo…“

„Proč?“

„Jsou daleko… A… Nemusíš ji zabít. Postřelíš jí, ona uteče… Museli bysme jí pak hledat v lese… Dorazit ji…“

„Tak jí budem hledat.“

Petr skousne spodní ret. Sloupne z něj tenký vlásek prasklé kůže. Vyplivne.

„Ty bys jí uměl… Zabít?“ podívá se na Jakuba.

„Já nevím.“ pokrčí Kuba rameny „Možná… Máme přece nůž…“

Petr kývne. Ano. Mají nůž. Petr má v autě vystřelovací nůž.

„Kubo, to není jen tak… A navíc, jsou daleko. Nedostřelíš na ně…“

V tu ránu Jakub vystřelil. Všechno se zastavilo. Louka, les, oči srn, Petrovo srdce. Jakub stojí. Sleduje dráhu střely. Vystřelil chytře, pod správným úhlem šikmo vzhůru. Šíp opsal oblouk, vystoupal do nejvyššího bodu a začal padat, začal nabírat strašnou, děsivou rychlost, začal těžknout.

Zaryl se do země asi padesát metrů od stáda. Srny poskočily. Petr vydechl.

Jakub spustil luk.

„Vidíš, jsou daleko…“ řekl Petr.

Opět pozorují stádo. Srny se dál klidně pasou. Občas některá zvedne hlavu a zavětří. Bezvýsledně. Vzduch proudí špatným směrem.

„Zkus to ty, tati,“ šeptl Jakub. Znovu se trochu usmál. A Petr najednou ucítil, že Jakub je blízko. Je tady, je skoro u něj. Jsou spolu. Zkus to, tati. Loukou projel vítr. Jemně pročesal trávu. Spolu s její vůní k nim donesl i něco dřevnatého, vlhkého, nasládlého. Čpavého. Dusný pach zvěře. Trochu hnůj, trochu stromová kůra. Vítr utichnul. Pach zmizel.

Petr vystřelil. Šíp dopadl zhruba třicet metrů od prvních zvířat. Stádo poskočilo, popoběhlo, zastavilo. Hlavy zmateně pátrají, čenichají, po chvíli opět klesají k zemi. Opět klid. Srny žerou ostřici.

„Vůbec nevědí, co se děje!“ šeptá Jakub nadšeně.

„Musíme blíž,“ řekne Petr. Dojde k autu, z vyklápěcí přihrádky u sedadla spolujezdce vyndá nůž. Zmáčkne pojistku, ostří s cvaknutím vyskočí. Patnáct centimetrů kovu. Jak tvrdé asi jsou srnčí šlachy? Kudy vést řez? Přes krk? Porušit páteř? Dobře Jakube, půjdu do toho s tebou. Půjdu. Se vším všudy. Jen jestli ty víš, jaké to bude. Jen jestli ty budeš připravený. Umíš si to představit? Petr si zkusí představit. Dobrou ránu. Uprostřed louky chaos v těle malého zvířete. Buší kolem sebe kopyty. Šípem přibité k zemi – protože až sníží vzdálenost, přibili by tou střelou k zemi krávu… a srna je malá, křehká jak ohař. Petr to vidí. Vidí hrůzu v korálech. V hlubokých černých očích. Petr i Jakub běží. Zvíře se zvedne, stihne se vysvobodit (radši myslet na nejhorší), utíká, kulhá, padá, opět vstává, rozkročené, jako se zvedá právě narozený kůň. Utíká. Mizí v lese. Mezi stromy svitne odlesk duralové tyče. Je pryč. Petr zahodí luk a běží ze všech sil, běží, co mu síly stačí. Dere se mrtvým ostružiním. Klopýtá přes kořeny a mechové balvany. Ale zvíře je pryč. Ztracené hluboko v lese, samo se svým zraněním. Jak dlouho bude dodělávat? Tlamou se natahovat po cizí věci zaražené v těle. Motat se v kruhu. Jako pes za ocasem… Půjdu do toho Jakube. Co je mi po zvířeti? Co je mi po všem? Půjdu, protože možná právě tohle je naše cesta… Naše cesta k sobě.

Nůž zavře, schová do kapsy.

Jdou.

Šíp na tětivě. Tlumí dech a kroky. Přikrčení se plíží trávou. Tráva je mokrá, nesyčí. Když některé ze zvířat zpozorní, strnou. Vyčkávají. Jakmile se situace uklidní, pokračují dál. Jakub je úplně bez sebe, Petr to vidí. A vidí to na sobě. Vzrušení. Je v tom něco dávného, zašlého. Prastarý vzorec. Archetyp. Otec, syn, lov. Zabíjení. Petr cítí tep. V dlaních, v hrdle, ve spáncích, na levé straně hrudi. Olízne rty. Ještě pár kroků. Každý pohyb odměřit, zvážit, vykonat. Čím blíž stádu jsou, tím čistší a prázdnější si Petr připadá. Odhazuje vše nepotřebné. Svléká se z rozumu, z usazenin a nánosů myšlenek. Připadá si lehký. Myslí za něj šlachy, nervy a kosti. Gestem zastavil Jakuba. Přiblížili se o dobrých padesát metrů. Jakub se tázavě podíval. Petr kývl. Střílejí. Oba naráz. Jakub okamžitě nasadí další šíp a střílí znovu. Petr tedy taky vystřelí ještě jednou. Střely dopadnou.

Stádo se polekaně zavlní, zběsile se rozběhne k lesu. Klouže po povrchu pastvin, teče. Vsakuje se mezi stromy. Dusot jako když padají kroupy. Pomalu doznívá. Mizí.

Je ticho.

Netrefili ani jedinou. Střely dopadly přímo doprostřed stáda, ale nezasáhly jediné zvíře. Jasně je vidět bílé letky čtyř šípů trčících z louky. Nezasáhli ani jedinou. Do Petrovy průzračně čiré mysli se odněkud z těch prázdných pastvin začíná lít něco těžkého a černého. Jakoby minuli daleko víc. Něco mnohem podstatnějšího. Bylo to nadostřel. Na dosah. Už potom sahali, už to drželi v dlani a stejně to proklouzlo, proteklo mezi prsty. Pusto. Jakub kouká na ty čtyři prázdné, hluché, plané střely zabořené v louce. A ta chvíle hořkne. Kazí se. Petr něco řekne, ale sám neví co. Už by pomalu šel. Je třeba posbírat šípy, pomalu se stmívá, je třeba jet odsud pryč. Už by šel, ale nejde to, oba stojí a čekají.

Jakub zvedne luk, vší silou jej napne a vystřelí kolmo vzhůru. Přímo nad jejich hlavy. Petrovi se zatmí před očima. Adrenalin. Co to sakra děláš Jakube?

Šíp vjede do hlíny asi čtyři metry nalevo od Jakuba.

Oba stojí. Oddechují. Petrovi tluče srdce tak, až to s ním trochu kýve. Srdeční sval jej vyvažuje uprostřed louky. Jakub taky vyděšený, taky stojí. Vypadá jako opilý. Prázdnýma očima se dívá na Petra. Dívá se skrz. Co teď? Horečka. Mžitky. Roj. A jakoby se něco převážilo. Jakoby něco začalo ujíždět a klesat. Na kraji louky se hýbou černé stromy. Vítr. Projede, zmizí. Koruny holé, rozlezlé jak nervy. Klouže to, předává si to váhu, nabírá rychlost, směr. Petrovi se točí hlava. Stojí uprostřed kontinentu. Uprostřed litosférické desky. Jakub čeká. Vyděšený, opilý hrůzou a bůhví čím. A Petr musí. Musí, protože možná právě tohle…

Napne tětivu a pustí. Zadrnčí to, letky syknou. Šíp vyjede kolmo vzhůru. Petr zavře oči, pevně stiskne víčka. Tak pevně, až to bolí, až mu z toho začne hučet v hlavě. Celý svět skončil, nadobro ztratil tvar, ztratil význam.

Petr stojí.

A čeká.

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