The Gnome held his ramshorn bow at full draw for minutes, ages it felt like. The horned beast browsed carelessly through the brush in front of him and refused to turn in any direction, totally occupied by the lush green grass on the opposing side of the meadow.
His arm gave a feeble shake. Annoyed with himself, he straightened his back and stood up a little taller, and in a second, the Gnome knew he’d made a stupid mistake. A small branch cracked above him, and the unicorn shot its head up, nostrils flaring with grass still hanging out the sides of its mouth. The stallion smelled the Gnome and reared up on muscular hind legs, pawing the sky in annoyance.
In that moment, the Gnome honed in on the creature’s vitals and let his arrow fly. It flew, straight and true, right under the belly of the beast.
The Gnome woke up, agitated and in a cold sweat. He’d relived these seconds in time over and over again and still couldn’t wrap his head around how he missed a damn horse. Well, a mystical horse, with a horn that was more than worth its weight in gold and meat sweeter than anything you’ve ever tasted.
Still, the Gnome never missed. The fumble gnawed at him like a festering wound.
He couldn’t get back to sleep, so he got up, made himself a hot mug of bean juice, and stared out the window of his hut in discontent. When his gaze reached the stump left behind by a giant fur tree that had toppled over in a windstorm, he knew what must be done.
The Gnome pulled out axes, saws, cleavers, machetes, and all manner of sharp tools and got to carving. The wood chippings flew around him as sweat dripped down his beard in the rising sun. He was a whirlwind of blades, chopping and hacking, sawing and slashing.
The image was scorched into his memory of the stallion rearing up in defiance, and now it was coming to life in the wood. Was this a little superfluous for an archery target? Perhaps. But it also gave the Gnome time to mull over what went wrong, and it’d give him even more time to sharpen his shooting skills.
When his masterpiece was nearly complete, the Gnome dug up some bloodroot and ground the roots to a pulp. He then cracked open a can of boar’s blood he’d been saving for a special occasion and mixed the two together to form a sticky, crimson paste. He painted a circle where the beast’s vitals would be, stood back, and admired his work as the sun sank over the western horizon.
The next morning, the Gnome rose early, anticipating the archery practice that awaited him. The first shot he made was simple and struck true in the scarlet center of the target. Then he practiced holding his draw until that familiar shake began in his arms, and when he loosed the arrow, it landed with a resolute thunk.
The rest of the day and the following week, he put himself in the most uncomfortable of shooting situations. Running up the hill behind his hut and making a shot while short of breath. Crouching down. Doing pushups until his arms failed and then drawing back that ancient bow. Running obstacle courses. Shooting through brush. His imagination for thinking up tormented gauntlets was unending.
And yet, he never missed.
So he became a little crazed and tried even harder to make himself miss. He shot in the strangest and silliest of scenarios, but the arrow always struck true.
After weeks of obsessing over his archery practice, the ruby center of the target was gnawed apart where the arrows had entered over and over again. The Gnome finally took a little time for some retrospection.
Even gnomes can falter and miss in the heat of the moment, and a unicorn is a prize not easily won. Next season, he’d be prepared.
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