In Your Hands #2: You choose a longbow.

You reach under your pack to defend yourself with your longbow. It spins in your grip as you nock an arrow, draw it back, aim.

It’s only a deer, you realize, foraging for acorns under an aging oak. As you relax your arrow, the deer lifts its head and looks in your direction. You see a vibrant purple gash in its face, right below its eye. It’s deep, bright, its edges spread out in tendrils wavy as a canyon river. It appears dry, the fur around it unstained. The deer startles itself, hops further into the forest.

You take a half-step after it, but stop. The amethyst from the crater, now behind you, draws you in its direction. The smoke from it is dissipating. You hear a voice coming from it, a little louder with every step you take.

“time— constant— it’s time—always now—an end— time— beginning—”

The crater is hardened, charred earth. Heat radiates through you. In its center is the amethyst, its pulsing glow, no bigger than a halved apple; it would fit in the palm of your hand. 

“time— it’s time—”

You reach for the amethyst. Surprisingly, it’s cold in your hand. You feel its jagged edges across your palm.

The gem’s light pulses. As it brightens, you feel something surge through your wrist. Your veins take on a violet hue under your skin for only a second. It doesn’t hurt. The wave fades as quickly as it came.

“the bow—” The voice is all around you now. “it’s time— the bow—” Maybe it’s inside your head.

You look back at your bow, untie the lather straps of the grip, exposing a small crevice in the wood. The gem is a close fit, but needs more space. You dig out the crevice slightly, carefully, with your pocket knife.

Once you’ve removed a few slivers, you replace the amethyst in the crevice. The wood glows in the purple light and you see small purple tributaries stretch from its center. You rewrap and retie the straps of the grip.

Always the scientist, you nock an arrow to see what happens. As soon as the shaft rests on the top of the grip, the arrowhead glows. You aim toward a log a few yards away.

The arrow sinks deep into its side, a bit deeper than usual. A polypore erupts from the point of impact. The bark around it becomes brittle. Lichen drapes hang from the edge of the shelf fungus. The quickened effect only lasts a few seconds, then the log and its decomposition seemingly return to the regular flow of time.

You become restless. The clearing’s stillness feels ominous. You gather your things and figure out where you can go.

The soft roar of a river can be heard to your right, probably half a mile away. A hollowed-out log connects to a trail in that direction.

On the end of the clearing in front of you is a cluster of deer ferns, a small gap in their leaves reveals a narrow trail beyond the tree line. It seems to go back toward town.

You go toward the river.