Nordoux travels along the edge of the great wood, on a path carved into the earth from his own trek, spanning almost a year. Now, from summer of last, it is mid spring. He stops along a river that channels the melting snow from the cloud brimmed caps of the monument peaks that tower over the great wood like gods standing over their creations.
He begins to gather reeds from the edge of the water to replenish his stock of arrows. He is very selective and deliberate. For he knows only the true will assure the meat harvest. As he collects one, he culls the distorted. He caresses the young, like a gardener tending his vegetation, to promise the next venture. Through the therapy of his little garden of reeds he finds a calm. A calm that does not share the state of the warrior sparked at the hand hewn cabin. A calm that is married to what must now be the hunter.
