James Hardin's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Morning came gray and cool. James walked to the small garden behind his cabin, where a wooden fence held neat rows of tomatoes, carrots, and squash. He picked the brightest of each and laid them in a woven basket. The elk had given him back thirty yards. He would not chase. He would bring a gift instead. He carried the basket across the meadow with both hands. The handle creaked under the weight. He kept his steps even, his breath slow. No agenda, only an offering. The elk lay under a tall willow at the edge of the clearing, its long branches brushing the grass around the beast like a green curtain. At seventy yards, James stopped. He set the basket in the dirt. He did not kneel. He did not speak. The elk lifted its huge head. Its ears swung forward, not back. It looked at the basket, then at James, then at the basket again. Its nose worked the air. For the first time in three weeks, the ears stayed forward. James took three slow steps back from the basket and stopped. He waited. The elk rose, joint by joint, and walked. Not toward him. Toward the basket. It lowered its great antlered head and took a single carrot between its teeth. It chewed. It watched him chew it. Then it turned and carried the basket's handle in its mouth back under the willow, and lay down again with the gift between its forelegs. James stood empty-handed in the grass. He had given something away, and the elk had accepted. The distance had not changed. Everything else had.