James Hardin's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The elk stood at forty yards, and James did not breathe. His hand had lifted halfway, then frozen. The animal's ears swung forward, then back. One hoof scraped the dirt. James felt the moment turn sour in the air between them. He lowered his eyes, not his hand. He let the half-raised palm hang there like a branch. Behind him, the wildflower meadow swayed where the elk had crossed it, a wide bright path of bent stems marking the line the beast had chosen to break. Minutes stretched. The elk's head stayed high. James could see its breath moving the long hairs at its throat. He thought of the small cabin behind him, the cold cauldron, the woodpile he had stacked while waiting for exactly this. None of it had taught him what to do now. So he did nothing new. He lowered his hand the same slow way he lowered it every morning. No apology. No reach. He let his arm rest at his side and kept his weight even on both feet, as if the last minute had never happened. The elk watched him a long time. Then it took one step back. Not a charge. Not a flight. A step. It turned its great antlered head toward the bush where it used to stop, and walked there, and stood. Forty yards became seventy again. Three weeks of ground, given back in twelve quiet strides. James stayed until the elk lay down in the grass. He had never seen it do that. Its legs folded. Its eyes stayed on him, calm now, waiting. He walked back to the cabin slowly, past the tall shape he had built without meaning to — sticks and fallen logs he had gathered each evening, leaned and lashed until they had taken the rough form of an elk at the edge of his fire pit. He had lost the distance. He had won something he could not yet name.