It was a bird, just a bird, thought the boy. And father said it was my duty.

Shren was 10-years-old. He was the son of Shrell, warrior of the Tellamark, a tribe that had established a home, a life in the highlands of Strongham.

Winter was beginning to break. Small patches of earth dotted the hills as March’s warm temperatures gnawed at the snow. Shren wore a deer hide shirt and pants and a wool blanket fastened about his neck like a cloak. It kept him warm enough, too warm at times, for today the sun was bright.

Usually, Shren and his father hunted in the morning, tracking deer, boar, bears; however, this morning, Shrell knelt before his son, look proudly into his eyes and deemed that today his son would hunt alone.

“I do not expect you the slay anything bigger than you are, Shren, but I need to know that you have the courage to kill. Therefore, dear boy, I wish that today you kill a bird, only a bird, a robin. Bring its red breast home today and tonight we shall celebrate.”

Shren’s father handed him a slingshot, a pouch heavy with small stones, and pushed him out of their small home, into the bright morning sun.

Today, thought Shren, as he stepped into the trees surrounding the village, today I’ll become a man.

To be continued…(Stop back soon.)

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