Archer v. Archeologist

In the semi-darkness of early morning, bright crescent moon above, the Archer readies her bow. She pulls the string to her lip - the string pressed against the tip of her nose, her lip. She holds, releases. A hollow thump. The arrow flies silently - striking the buck at the shoulder. It winces, staggers, then darts to the eastern fence. The Archer's hound springs from her side, sprints the field.

The stag leaps, catching its back hooves on the fence, falling nose-first in the tall grass before the grove. As it struggles to right itself, shaft digging in its flesh, the Archer's hound lunges under the fence. It grabs the stag by the throat, throwing its weight over the animal, jaws tightening.

The Archer jogs lightly across the field, head high, smiling.

She flays the stag with the Ambassador's silver pen knife. She casts the meat to the crows, who hop from the desiccated corpses, survey the venison with discerning eye, then eat.

The Archeologist arrives. He's dressed in a collared shirt, thin burgundy sweater and a beige tweed jacket. His predominant feature is a particularly sharp-looking mustache, of the Western calvary officer variety. Apart from this he looks fairly average, he walks average - an average gate for his height, itself average - and, when he waits the average time before speaking, speaks in an average tone of voice.

Hello, he says. Nice weather today, isn't it?

The Archer and the Archer's hound look at him. She looks amused. The hound looks amused and perplexed.

What would you say if I told you that I personally dug up the earth we're both standing on now? he asks. For science? A long time ago?

I'd say well done, says the Archer.

Before it was disputed it was an old Puritan settlement, he says. But now it's disputed; we can't touch the place. Not without consent. The Archeologist strokes his mustache. You can't do much these days without consent, he says.

No? asks the Archer. She turns away and begins restringing her bow.

The Archeologist strokes his mustache. He sees the well-crafted basket lying at the base of the oak. The hound catches the direction of his gaze and walks to the basket. The hound nudges the basket with his muzzle, then lies beside it, between the Archer and the Archeologist.

Not that it matters, says the Archeologist. Of all the archeological sites, this was the only one that turned up nothing. Just bones. Everywhere we dug: bones and skulls. Which, I guess, was a profound discovery in itself. It's how I got tenure. Still, I was hoping for some pottery shards.

The Archer finishes restringing her bow. She lays it beside her hound.

Let's choose pistols, she says. So they choose pistols. They take to the field, fifteen paces apart.

I'd like you to realize that if I kill you you'll die, she says. But if you kill me I'll carry on.

How's that? he asks.

I hold dominion over crows, she says.

I thought that was your uncle, he says.

Is it? she asks.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.