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Bowcaster's Journal

The Sigh

Upon first arriving at the harbor at the Isle of Trigasha I noticed no real difference from any other set of docks in any port city of middling size. With the exception of the few small groups of men and women in burnt ochre and yellow robes, there was the hustle and bustle common to all port cities. That sense of urgent energy did not seem to touch these people...so odd to see such calm acceptance on the faces of humans. Descending from the gangplank I introduced myself to the nearest of these groups and asked directions to the monastery where they studied. The young human woman with a calm smile that seemed almost grandmotherly answered, "Can you truly ever leave the classroom?" opening her hands palms upward and continued. "Come I will take you to the Master." Shrugging, I followed her. On my first trip through the city I noticed an odd sense of peace that infused every aspect of the surroundings. Merchants crying their wares sounded a trifle less strident than in other human cities I have encountered, servants hurrying to complete errands not quite as harried. This sense of calm could almost be seen to radiate outward from small groups of these robed priests and students. Leaving the city through the eastern gates we traveled a wagon-rutted dirt road toward a clay-colored group of one and two story buildings some two miles distant. I was somewhat anxious to meet the Master after spending days trapped in a small cabin on the rolling sea and found myself irritated at the less than ground eating pace set by my guide.

If there was a sense of calm surrounding the port city of Varadock, the serene, almost lethargic atmosphere of the monastery, was near overwhelming. Lethargic does not do justice to the feel of the place. There was purpose behind the calm. Everything done in it's time carefully planned and meticulously thought through. Purpose but not haste. I passed students practicing forms... some proceeding so slowly from one to the next, they seemed to be pushing through gelatin. Others were flying from stance to stance in such a whir of motion the eye could hardly follow. Over the next few months I was to learn that it was the students further advanced in the monk's arts that practiced the slower versions of the forms. "One is allowed to fully contemplate the perfect union of the mind and body in the form. A control that less enlightened students cannot grasp."

I was taken to a squat, mud-brick structure with gardens surrounding all sides and was told to wait. My guide turned to leave announcing me to no one. I stood there in front of the small building and waited half an hour, one hour, two. By this time I was a bit more than frustrated. After the first hour I circled the building and pounded at the only door and yelled till I felt a fool. The second I spent squatting in the dirt fuming. By the third I had begun to resign myself to spending the night in the garden outside until whoever lived in the hut returned to answer my questions. It never occurred to me to leave. This was my last tie to home and clan. This was where generations had journeyed to continue training along the path to becoming Bowcaster. With the training I was to receive here I would truly begin to earn the right to that title...the title I received on my nameday. Here I was to learn the Way of the bow and become an initiate. Here...if the Master would deign speak to me. As I started to open my bag of holding and rifle through the jumble I had collected for my extra cloak and bed roll the door opened. A face creased and lined with age and topped with a spattering of gray hair announced the Master was done with his evening meditation and would see me now.

Inside the Master's chambers was dim, lighted by tallow candles and scented oil lamps that released a musky, heady aroma. The Master was seated cross-legged on a cushion on the floor behind a low table where tea had been poured. He studied me as he sipped the strong herbal brew. If the others that I had seen since entering the monastery seemed calm, this man was serenity itself. If I had burst into flame before his eyes and run screaming into the night, I doubt his expression would have changed. Moments passed as he silently studied me. He could have been a statue except no artist has ever lived that could duplicate the hidden knowledge and inner strength behind those eyes. "We have not had a Bowcaster from your clan in some years. I feared we never would again. Are you alone...the last?"

"I am." I answered in a voice with a note of pride mixed with the grief that still touches my heart.

"I feared when I heard your clan was lost so would be the Elven Way of the Bowcaster line. You are young and impatient, but perhaps you can be taught. Master Skai will show you to your apartments."

This began my training at the monastery. Long days spent in meditation and contemplation. The first six weeks I was not allowed to touch a bow. I was taught how to stand how to kneel and how to breathe. I was told to think of a bow, the feel of the stress in the wood, how a taught bowstring hungered for release. Finally it was decided I knew enough to hold a bow but not to draw it. I was told to contemplate the curve. Then I was allowed to draw the bow but not to nock an arrow. Contemplate the tension, I was told. Next, I was allowed to nock but not to fire. This is the moment before the sigh, as the Master called it. Finally sweet release. The first arrow after two and a half months was a pure joy. "That," I was told, "is the first time you have ever truly released an arrow from a bow. Every arrow should be shown the same joy you shared just now. The tension in the bow is the tension the arrow feels to fly its perfect, smooth arc." Three more weeks and I was released. But not before one final meeting with the Master.

"There is one more of your clan in the world though he renounces his ties to the clan." In that moment I forgot all my training and showed my eagerness and astonishment like a common human. I was told he lives in the forest near my home and that he is the last that can, "guide my feet down the path I was born to follow. He is a hermit. You will not find him, but perhaps he will come to you if you return to your home forests and wait."