Archbishop v. Archer

A powerful yelp echos from the forest to the east. The Archbishop turns his head slowly, raising his brow.

Suddenly a wave of partridge, grouse, fox, stag, squirrel, bear, boar, field mice, quail, skunk, raccoon, beaver, weasel, rabbit, duck - and one very dislocated-looking marmot - bursts from the glade. A roar of activity. They fly, scurry, dart west across the field. The Archbishop stands unmoved as this fantastic melange rushes up, circling past - carving a gracious three foot perimeter around his stooped figure - and darts away. Gone as quickly as they came. The Archbishop slowly turns to face the direction of their charge, then turns back to the wood.

A proud, red-faced young girl steps from the forest. She carries a fine compound bow, a quiver of arrows against her thigh. A healthy gray hound emerges soon after, stepping from the undergrowth. She vaults the timber fence, claps her right hand against her trousered thigh, and walks up to the Archbishop. The hound squeezes under the fence close behind.

Hallo old man, she says, smiling brightly. Her hound jogs past, sniffing the scalps beside the oak.

She looks him over. He looks her over. He mutters something.

Speak up please, she says. Nothing worse than a grown man muttering.

The Archbishop crooks his brow. He huffs.

I'd pursue the quarry but I'm here for an appointment, the Archer says. I'm here to send a man to his death.

There's no guarantee, the Archbishop says.

Agreed, she says, hands on her ample hips, but chances favor me.

I am the opponent, he says. We stand opposite.

Well! - all the better, she cries. She looks around her. What a filthy place this is, she says, wrinkling her nose, laughing. She throws back her head. To the field! she says, dropping her bow.

They choose their pistols and take their places on the field, fifteen paces apart.

The Archer's hound lopes past them, head high, tail dancing, gently gripping Arborist's soiled scalp.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.