The End of the Magi by Patrick W. Carr

Author:Patrick W. Carr
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biblical Fiction;Magi—Fiction;Bible fiction;Christian fiction;FIC042030;FIC014010;FIC026000
ISBN: 9781493421558
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2019-09-26T00:00:00+00:00

Myrad spent his days in the company of Aban and Storana, riding close to Roshan, hoping by proximity to subdue his doubts. He occupied himself with the bow. After several weeks and much practice, he could now pull the string all the way to his cheek. The ache in his shoulders and back he thought would be permanent additions to the one in his foot had subsided at last, and Aban set him to drawing with a nocked arrow. But not firing.

“Pull the bowstring back,” Aban instructed, “until you can feel the point where the draw comes easier. Then hold the arrow steady on your target for a count of two, then release the tension.”

“When do I get to shoot?”

“When your draw becomes as fluid as wine and as quick as a hare.”

He sighed and pulled again.

“Patience,” Aban said. “You’ll shoot when I think you’re ready.” The natural tilt of his eyes, the telltale sign of his Parthian heritage, gave his gaze a permanent squint. Now it swept across the landscape. “I think this will do. Leave your bow with Storana and come with me.”

Encouraged by Aban’s strange invitation, he surrendered the weapon and followed the guard out across an empty section of desert. “If you want to master the Parthian shot, you’ll first have to learn how to ride.”

The image of Aban and Storana flying across the desert on their horses came to his mind, the horses’ manes waving in the wind, the pair shooting like earthly embodiments of Artemis and Apollo. “Shouldn’t I have my bow with me?”

Aban nodded. “Yes, if you want to fall and break your neck. That would definitely speed up your training. I told you the Parthian shot takes years to master. Nothing’s changed.”

“What do we do first?” he asked.

Aban gestured to his horse. “Your mount isn’t of Nisean stock, but it’s a good, serviceable horse. You have to learn how to guide it with just your legs. Now, let go of the reins and close your eyes.”

Myrad did so, and Areion continued to walk, guided by the horse walking next to him. “Now,” Aban continued, “with your eyes closed, I want you to concentrate on the pressure between the inside of your legs and your horse. Curl your legs so that you have as much contact as possible.”

He could feel Areion’s steady breathing through the inside of his thighs, a gentle force of the animal’s ribs pushing against Myrad’s legs with each breath it drew.

Aban’s voice mixed with the whispers of the desert. “Feel the rhythm of your horse’s stride. When I tell you, turn your shoulders to the left and let your hips follow.” Aban waited a moment, perhaps two, while Myrad rocked back and forth with his horse’s stride. “Now.”

Myrad shifted on his riding blanket and opened his eyes to find himself angling away from the caravan. Aban paralleled him, his reins loose on the back of his mount.

Though it was a small triumph, it still brought a smile to Myrad’s face.

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