Breathe with the Arrow

Chapter 5

  The sun climbed relentlessly that morning, dragging heat and dust across the fields like an invisible weight pressing against Shirley’s shoulders. She woke to the low hum of the windmill and the faint scent of hay that had seeped through the open window overnight. Somewhere behind her, the farmhouse breathed with quiet life—the soft clatter of breakfast being prepared, Jolene humming low and steady, Grandfather’s measured steps crossing the floor.

  Downstairs, Jolene’s warmth filled the kitchen as she set a plate of eggs and fried bread before Shirley. “Good morning, dear,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from Shirley’s face. “Eat up. The day will not wait, and the sun does not forgive empty stomachs.” Her eyes held a softness that made the heat outside seem lighter, the discipline inside less oppressive.

  Grandfather sat at the table, his posture sharp, coffee in hand. “Late again, Shirley?” he asked, voice calm but edged with a hardness that made the air itself seem rigid. “The day does not pause for dawdlers. You must learn to meet it with purpose.”

  Shirley lowered her eyes, cheeks flushing. She nodded quickly, spooning eggs onto her plate, the warmth of Jolene’s hand on her shoulder a silent reminder that care existed even beneath the weight of strictness.

  After breakfast, Shirley made her way to the barn, where Cecil was already crouched beneath the windmill, arranging his arrows. The bow rested across his knees, but his movements were slower than usual, deliberate, a faint tremor in his hands that Shirley noticed with a quiet concern.

  “Morning, Shirley,” Cecil said softly, glancing up. His voice was calm, though his eyes held a hint of fatigue. “Ready to practice?”

  Shirley nodded, taking the bow in her hands. The heat pressed down on her, the tension of the string against her fingertips heavy with anticipation. They moved through stance and aim, arrow after arrow, the soft clatter of tin cans marking progress. Yet Shirley’s gaze kept drifting to Cecil—his slight paleness, the tremor in his grip, the way he paused for long moments beneath the sun.

  At one point, Cecil let out a quiet laugh, pointing to a rabbit darting through the wheat. “Look at that one—bold as the day itself,” he said, his smile fleeting but bright. Shirley laughed too, the sound light against the oppressive heat. For a brief moment, the world felt easier, freer, filled with playful motion instead of lessons and discipline.

  The reprieve ended abruptly when Grandfather’s sharp voice cut across the barnyard. “What is all this idle laughter?” He strode forward, boots kicking up dust, eyes narrowing on Cecil. “This heat is no excuse for sloth or folly!”

  Cecil straightened, masking the fatigue pressing against him. “Yes, sir,” he replied, voice steady though a tremor lingered.

  Shirley lowered her bow, heart pounding. Grandfather’s gaze swept over her as well, sharp and measuring. “Learn to meet your responsibilities. The world does not wait for curiosity or whimsy.” His words carried the weight of wars survived, of years carved into discipline and order, and Shirley felt the press of it against her chest.

  Despite the tension, the afternoon continued with small, quiet joys. Cecil showed Shirley how to trace the paths of dragonflies, their wings catching the sunlight in tiny flashes of brilliance. They listened to the distant rumble of a tractor, watched the dust swirl above the fields, and spoke in soft, measured tones about the careful balance of farm life.

  But Shirley could not ignore the shadow beneath it all. Cecil’s face was pale, his energy more fragile than she had ever seen. The boy who had become her anchor, her teacher, seemed fragile in a way that could not be ignored, and the playful moments were always tinged with a subtle unease.

  As the sun dipped lower, the farmhouse welcomed them with its cool, dim rooms, filled with the comforting scent of bread, preserves, and fried vegetables. Jolene’s eyes lingered on Cecil for a heartbeat longer than necessary, her gentle concern unspoken but heavy in the air. Grandfather remained silent, watching, waiting, his authority a quiet pressure in every corner of the room.

  That night, Shirley lay in her bed, listening to the world outside settle into dusk. The cicadas hummed, the wheat whispered in the dark, and she thought of the heat, the laughter, the arrows, and the subtle tremor she could not shake from her mind. Somewhere beneath it all, she felt a quiet alarm forming—a realization that the world, with all its sun and warmth, could still carry shadows she might not yet understand.

  And deep inside her chest, a small, stubborn hope persisted. That summer, with its heat, dust, lessons, and quiet moments, would shape her, and she would stand ready, bow in hand, to face whatever came with courage, attention, and care.