Breathe with the Arrow

Chapter 3

  The morning stretched long and golden, the sun climbing higher with a stubborn insistence that made the air shimmer above the fields. Shirley woke to the soft creak of the windmill and the distant call of a meadowlark, and for a moment she lay still, feeling the heat pressing against her thin sheets. The world outside her window was already alive, moving with a slow, steady rhythm she had only begun to understand.

  Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of fresh bread and hot coffee. Jolene moved between stove and counter, humming softly as she prepared breakfast. “Morning, darling,” she said, glancing up with a smile that seemed to make the warm air itself gentler. “Eat while it’s hot, the day will be long.”

  Grandfather sat at the table, arms crossed over his chest, a stiff posture that reminded Shirley of the stern men she had seen in old photographs—soldiers with eyes that missed nothing. “The morning waits for no one,” he said, voice calm but edged with the certainty of a man who had seen the world break and rebuild itself in his time. “Punctuality is not merely courtesy; it is respect for the hours themselves.”

  Shirley lowered her eyes and ate quickly, feeling Jolene’s warmth in the brush of her hand on her shoulder. Breakfast passed in the usual quiet rhythm, the smell of frying corn cakes and the soft hum of conversation filling the kitchen while Grandfather’s gaze seemed to weigh on everything in the room.

  By mid-morning, Shirley found Cecil behind the barn, crouched beneath the windmill as usual. But today there was a small change—he had set up a battered phonograph, a record spinning lazily, the scratchy chords of rock music filling the dusty morning air.

  “Cecil?” Shirley said, startled. “Isn’t that… loud?”

  He shrugged, smiling faintly. “It’s a little something I found in town. Thought we could have some music while we practice.”

  Shirley frowned, sensing the unusual lightness in him, a playful defiance she hadn’t noticed before. As she lifted her bow, the music seemed to energize the air, vibrating against the warm field and the shadow of the windmill.

  Grandfather’s voice cut across the barnyard suddenly, sharp and unforgiving. “What in God’s name is that noise?” He strode out, boots kicking up small clouds of dust, eyes narrowing on the phonograph. “You will not disrespect this farm with such… nonsense!”

  Cecil flinched slightly but didn’t stop the record. “It’s just music, sir. I thought—”

  “Music? Music!” Grandfather barked, stepping closer, his hand reaching down with sudden fury. The phonograph flew from its stand, hitting the ground with a crash that echoed across the barnyard. The record broke in two, jagged lines splitting the black vinyl like shattered glass. Cecil’s jaw tightened, but he remained still, as if holding something back.

  Shirley felt a pang of sympathy for him. She had never seen anyone withstand Grandfather’s anger without flinching or pleading. “It’s okay,” she said softly, though her voice trembled. “It was just… a record.”

  Grandfather’s eyes swept over both of them. “Discipline is not optional. Respect is not optional. The hours do not wait for folly!” His voice carried the weight of battles and hardships, and Shirley shivered, feeling the intensity of it press into her.

  After the outburst, silence settled heavily. Cecil knelt to gather the broken pieces of vinyl, his hands steady but his eyes distant. “We’ll practice without music,” he said quietly, handing Shirley a bow. His voice carried no bitterness, only a subtle resignation, as if he had learned long ago to bend without breaking entirely.

  Shirley lifted the bow again, feeling the tension in her muscles, the weight of both her own inexperience and the unspoken strain that had passed between them. She drew the string, released the arrow. It struck the can on the fence, rattling it to the ground. Cecil’s faint nod was the only acknowledgment, but Shirley felt the small triumph like a spark against the heat and tension of the morning.

  Hours passed in quiet practice, the sun relentless, the field filled with the soft rhythm of bowstrings and falling arrows. Cecil spoke in short bursts of stories, tales of storms that had torn through the fields the year before, of deer tracks along the creek, of the careful flight of hawks overhead. Each story carried a lesson, a quiet reverence for the world around them. Shirley listened, understanding that even small acts and details were weighty with meaning.

  By late afternoon, Shirley noticed something subtle: Cecil’s face pale beneath the sun, a faint tremor in his hands when he lifted the arrows. She felt a quiet alarm, a shadow of unease she couldn’t yet name. He brushed it off with a small, tired smile, but Shirley caught it—a flicker of fragility beneath the steady composure.

  As the sun dipped toward evening, they returned to the farmhouse. Jolene welcomed them with a plate of fresh bread and preserves, her eyes soft with concern as she noted Cecil’s pale face. Grandfather offered no comment, only a steady gaze, the weight of his attention following them like a shadow.

  That night, Shirley lay in bed, the day replaying in her mind: the flash of anger, the crash of the phonograph, Cecil’s quiet endurance, the heat pressing against the world outside her window. She thought of the summer stretching before her, of lessons not just in archery but in patience, courage, and resilience. And somewhere deep in her chest, she felt a small, unsettling worry—a sense that the world, with all its warmth and light, could still carry shadows she had yet to understand.