Breathe with the Arrow

Chapter 6

  The morning rose sluggishly over the Oklahoma fields, the sun already beating down with a stubborn intensity that made the dust float like tiny motes of gold. Shirley awoke to the familiar hum of the windmill, the creak of its blades in the early light, and the faint murmur of her grandparents moving about the farmhouse. The warmth pressed against the walls, carrying the scent of hay, wheat, and the lingering sweetness of Jolene’s bread.

  In the kitchen, Jolene’s hands moved quickly, setting a plate of eggs and biscuits before Shirley. “Morning, darling,” she said softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Shirley’s face. “Eat well. The sun will not wait, and neither will the day.” Her eyes held concern as they flicked toward the doorway, where Cecil would soon appear.

  Grandfather sat at the table, coffee steaming in his hands, posture rigid, eyes precise. “Late again, Shirley?” he said, voice calm yet sharp, like the edge of a blade. “Hours lost are wasted hours, and wasted hours have consequences.” Shirley felt the weight of his gaze pressing against her chest, a tangible measure of discipline and expectation. She lowered her eyes and ate quietly, Jolene’s warmth the only buffer against his stern presence.

  Outside, Cecil waited beneath the windmill, his movements slow, deliberate. His pale face and slight tremor in his hands drew Shirley’s eyes immediately. “Morning, Shirley,” he said softly, forcing a small smile. “Ready for practice?”

  Shirley nodded, taking up her bow. The tension of the string against her fingers felt heavier today, not just from the heat but from the subtle worry that pressed at her chest. They began their practice, each arrow striking the tin cans with soft clatters, each shot a quiet rhythm that carried them through the long morning.

  Yet Shirley could not ignore the small signs that something was wrong. Cecil paused more often than usual, leaning on the windmill post for support, his breath short and shallow. He brushed it off with quiet words, but Shirley caught the tremor, the faint weakness in his movements that was never there before.

  By midday, Grandfather appeared in the barnyard, his boots kicking up clouds of dust. His gaze fell on Cecil immediately, sharp and unrelenting. “Idleness and weakness will not be tolerated!” he barked. “The heat is no excuse. Discipline is earned, not begged for.”

  Cecil straightened as best he could, swallowing the fatigue pressing against him. “Yes, sir,” he said, voice calm but strained. Shirley’s stomach twisted with a mix of fear and frustration—fear for Cecil, frustration at the relentless authority pressing down on every motion, every breath.

  The day continued under the blazing sun. Despite the tension, Cecil tried to teach Shirley small lessons—how to track the flight of a hawk, how to watch the deer tracks near the creek, how to notice the subtle shifts in the wind that carried whispers of rain. His voice remained steady, his patience unwavering, but Shirley could see the cost in the pale lines of his face, the shallow breaths, the tremor that refused to vanish.

  By late afternoon, Jolene called them in, her voice carrying through the heat like a balm. Shirley helped Cecil as he moved slowly, the weight of exhaustion evident in each careful step. Inside, the farmhouse welcomed them with cool air and the familiar scent of bread and preserves. Grandfather observed silently, his presence a shadow that stretched across the room, measuring them without a word.

  That night, Shirley lay in bed, the events of the day replaying with stubborn clarity: the sun pressing down on the fields, the soft rhythm of arrows clattering against tin, Cecil’s quiet endurance, and Grandfather’s unyielding scrutiny. A subtle alarm twisted in her chest—an unease she could not yet name. Cecil’s illness, the relentless heat, the strictness that never wavered—it all seemed to press against her, a weight she could not set aside.

  And yet, beneath it all, a fragile hope persisted. She had learned to find calm in the midst of discipline, to see patience in quiet gestures, to recognize courage in small, everyday acts. The summer still stretched ahead, full of warmth, dust, and lessons in resilience, and Shirley knew that whatever lay in the days to come, she would face it—bow in hand, heart open, eyes attentive to the fragile truths of the world around her.