The Hunter and Doves
The forest was still, save for the rustling of leaves stirred by the soft autumn breeze. The trees, old as time, stood like silent sentinels, their branches bare but for the occasional bird that flitted past. In the clearing, hidden in the shadows, a hunter knelt by the tall grass. His bow was taut, his eyes trained on a flock of doves in the distance. They were beautiful creatures—fragile, peaceful, the very picture of freedom as they cooed among the trees, unaware of the danger just beyond their reach.
Eamon had been a hunter for most of his life, raised by his father to be as silent as the wind, as deadly as the strike of a lightning bolt. His days had always been defined by the chase—the thrill of the hunt, the smell of the forest, and the sharp release of the bowstring. To him, it was a simple matter: the hunter must kill, and the prey must fall. It had never been more complicated than that.
But today, something was different.
The doves fluttered in the sky above him, their wings fluttering like the softest whispers. Eamon tightened his grip on his bow but did not release the arrow. There was a hesitation in him, an unfamiliar weight that made his fingers tremble.
He had seen doves countless times before—often a fleeting presence in the trees, a few moments of peace before the kill. But these doves seemed different. They moved with a grace that unsettled him. It was not their beauty that made him hesitate—it was the silence in their flight, the way they seemed to soar not from fear but from a desire to be free, to be alive. The longer he watched them, the harder it became to follow through with the task before him.
Eamon exhaled slowly, his breath catching in his throat. He had taken lives before, with little remorse. Yet, the thought of bringing his arrow down on these birds felt like an unforgivable act. Was it that they were simply too beautiful? Or was there something more—something that called to a part of him he had long buried?
The doves settled onto a nearby branch, their feathers glowing with the last rays of the sun. It was almost as if they were inviting him into their world—a world where the only sound was the gentle hum of the earth and the song of the wind. Eamon felt a strange pull within him, a pull that tugged him toward the birds, toward the quiet, delicate beauty of the moment.
He lowered his bow, feeling the tension in his body release. It was the first time in years that he had felt the weight of peace instead of the sharp sting of violence. He wanted to approach the doves, to sit among them, to understand what they knew that he didn’t. But before he could move, he heard a rustle behind him. It was the sound of another hunter.
“Are you going to stand there all day, Eamon, or are you going to make your shot?” a voice called from the woods.
Eamon turned to see Brannick, a fellow hunter, stepping from the shadows. His eyes were cold, as always, and his hand gripped a bow similar to Eamon’s. Unlike Eamon, Brannick had no hesitation when it came to the hunt. His world was one of arrows and blood, where the only law was the kill.
“I’m waiting for the right moment,” Eamon replied, his voice steady but laced with uncertainty.
Brannick chuckled. “The right moment? There is no such thing. You take your shot when you have it. Doves are easy prey. What are you waiting for?”
Eamon glanced back at the birds, who had now begun to preen themselves in the fading light. They seemed at ease, unaware of the two men watching them. The contrast between the doves’ peaceful existence and Brannick’s relentless hunger was jarring. Eamon felt a pang of something—regret, perhaps, or guilt—that had no place in his world.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I can do it.”
Brannick’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “You’re serious, aren’t you? It’s just a bird. You’ve killed countless creatures in the forest, Eamon. Why should this one be any different?”
Eamon didn’t answer immediately. He wanted to explain, to tell Brannick that this wasn’t about the bird. This was about something deeper—something he had been pushing away for years. But the words didn’t come. Instead, he looked up at the doves, watching as they fluttered their wings and prepared to take flight once more.
Without a word, Eamon slowly stepped back, his bow still in his hand. The temptation to let the arrow fly was strong, but something within him was stronger. For the first time in his life, he realized he was not defined by the hunt, by the arrow, by the kill. He could choose not to take the life of these creatures.
“I’m not going to do it,” he said, his voice firm. “Not today.”
Brannick stared at him for a long moment, the silence between them thick with tension. Then, with a snort, Brannick turned on his heel and walked off, muttering under his breath. “A fool’s choice,” he called over his shoulder.
Eamon didn’t care. His heart was still racing, but not with the adrenaline of the hunt. It was the kind of racing he only felt when he was close to something he couldn’t explain, something that felt like the truth.
The doves took flight, soaring higher into the sky, their wings beating in unison, as if carrying the weight of Eamon’s decision with them. They flew far into the horizon, leaving Eamon standing in the clearing, the setting sun casting long shadows across the earth.
As the last of the light faded and night descended, Eamon stood there, watching the stars begin to appear one by one. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring or whether he would ever be able to let go of the hunter’s instincts that had defined him for so long. But for tonight, he was free from the need to hunt. For tonight, he could simply be.
And in the quiet, as the wind whispered through the trees, he understood. Some moments, some creatures, were meant to be left untouched.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.