The memory begins. The recollection of bright morning, sun shines through the tall pine trees that the stone's author finds themselves in, the light reflects of the white unspoiled snow. Those viewing the stone would feel the weight of a bow in their hand and the thought comes unbidden that the bow is made of yew, not pine although why this is important has been lost to time. The world is quiet, cold crisp and new. Only bird song intruding on the silence of the forest they are in. A hand brushes a lock of red hair from the field of the viewers vision. They trudge on through the trees.
Looking down they see something. Tracks deer by the look of it. A warm sense of satisfaction spreads through the viewers mind, and something else, rapt anticipation. They follow them away, and then they are gone. The viewer looks on, there are broken branches ahead. A good sign, the viewer drops into a crouch, as they see ahead what they are looking for. A young dark grey buck half obscured by the bushes. The bow is drawn and an arrow knocked. The viewer feels their arms pull the string they tense and shake, the muscles begin to ache, but not yet. The shot is not clear yet.
Seconds pass. They feel like hours. Pain in the arms impatience in the mind and the burning hunger in the hunter's stomach. All these things tell them to shoot. But there is a sweetness to the agony. The anticipation the waiting the three or four seconds before. These are the best moments right before the....
The train of thought stops. The buck comes into view and instinct overrides thought and reflection. The arrow flies.
It is a kill.
Exaltation and the promise of a full stomach follow. So does a feeling of simple happiness. This is all life needs to be, why would anyone ever want to complicate things.
A more recent thought intrudes on the scene, an older one a more jaded one, perhaps thought at the time of the stone's recording.
"So naive then."
The memory fades.
An Unmarked Sensate Stone
