The Arrowhead
By: V. Plut
Tags: The Junction, Short Story, Flash Fiction, Fiction, Lit

The sun was a flat disc against the sky — orange, sharp at the edges, without dimension. It took on a glow only as the earth moved forward and dipped into the light of morning. He pulled down the bill of his camouflage hat and scanned the furrows between the rows of harvested corn more intently, as the smallest of rocks and balls of dirt cast shadows. There was a particular shadow he was looking for, one cast by a finely chiseled point jutting from beneath the earth.

In another world, golden light shone upon a lone fawn emerging from a dark forest and into a small field of ripe squash. She was hit cleanly and swiftly with the arrow and fell without sound.

He stopped when his eyes caught a shadow that came to a point. Wind blew through tree boughs somewhere beyond him as he stood still to focus on the object. He bent over and brushed the dirt lightly away until the earth revealed the entirety of its form. He could feel his eyes light as his face formed the beginnings of an expression of joy and elation. His smile was fully formed by the time he reached into the earth and picked up his find.

It was the finest arrowhead he had ever found, completely intact and perfectly crafted from chert, a sedimentary rock made up of silicon dioxide in mineral form, strong crystal quartz, ideal for fashioning a sharp point for hunting. He created an image in his mind of that moment long ago when a native hunter quietly, without a breath, pulled the string on his bow, letting go and felling his prey. He pocketed his find, pulled his rifle from his shoulder, and continued down the rows of freshly harvested corn.

Another gust of wind blew over the treetops in the woods nearby as group of turkeys emerged in full view, crossing the corner of the field and pecking at what remained of the harvest. He raised his rifle and aimed, letting off two shots, dropping two birds immediately as the others scattered into the woods, flapping a flurry of feathered wings.

Back in time, a young man walked through the squash and approached the fallen fawn. He raised his arms to the sky and sang a song of thanks to the young spirit left wandering above the bright red and yellow treetops after the fatal blow brought down its abode. When he finished his song, the women came forward and began the work of butchering the fawn.

They worked swiftly, with the skill of hands designed for the work of preparing a livelihood. By the time they finished, the arrow had been pulled out with some resistance, leaving the arrowhead in the heart of the animal — when the women removed the heart, it fell onto the earth where it would remain for two centuries.

There were many rains after the arrowhead fell, decades of snow and drought, wind-blown leaves in hundreds of autumns. Years of crops grew and died into an earth soaked with blood of battles, and the natives were pushed west to hunt and survive. It lay entombed in the dirt for ages until a farmer plowed his field, releasing it from the dark, into the light, where it cast the shadow of time onto the earth.

Thank you for your precious time!

©V.Plut

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