James Hardin's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

James drove the carved oak staff into the dirt at the town square and made his promise loud enough for every doubter to hear. He would tame the storm elk, or surrender the staff and his name with it. The crowd laughed. James did not. He turned and walked back toward the trees. Three weeks later, his camp had settled into something lived-in. Small cabins ringed a fire pit. A cauldron hung above slow coals. Stacked wood leaned against the stones. He slept little and watched much. Each dawn he walked to the same small field and stopped at the wide, low bush where the elk always halted to judge him. Seventy yards. Ears flat. Head high. James kept his hands still and his breathing slow. He carried no fear, and he carried no plan beyond waiting. On the twenty-second morning, the elk did not stop at the bush. It stepped past it. One slow hoof, then another, closing the gap to forty yards before lowering its great head. James did not move. He had won the wager he made in town. He had also lost every map he owned for what came next.