Written to the prompt A is for Apple
A Hundred Paces
I try to keep my hand still, the apple resting on my palm, so I try not to think of how I loathe him, because the loathing and the anger make my hand shake.
Oh, everybody in the village thinks the sun shines out of him, this slab of beef they’ve hired to defend their homesteads. Larger and louder than life, he hails every man as his friend and every woman his true love.
‘Mountain-strider’ they call him, as he roams the hillsides, supposing to search for their enemies. They pour gold upon him, and he pours it back into their tavern, carousing with all until he is the last man standing.
And then he comes home to me and our children, to the home I have to set up each time we move villages. And move we have, and move we will, until one day someone will be a better shot than him.
It always starts the same way. Some would-be village hero will ask, ‘Is it true what is said of you? Is the aim of your swift arrow really so sure that you can split an apple at a hundred paces?’
And he will always reply, ‘I’ll wager I can do it with the apple on my son’s head!’
And when the bets have been laid, and the people of the village assembled, I am the one who has to face them and say, ‘My son is unwell. I will hold the apple.’
Because I will not – not for worlds – I will not let him harm my children. They were not born of love for him, but they have my heart and soul completely, and I will keep them safe from his vanity.
So I stand next to the tree and hold out my hand, balancing the apple, trying not to shake. And the people of the village may or may not notice that of my four fingers, only one remains.
© Carol Carman 2024
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