Arrowhead Hunt


Look at this view.
He is there, staring out at the empty expanse with no cars, no people, no houses.
There were people once, other members of his tribe walked through this land in step with him.
They are gone now. Lost to parts unknown.
He has no horn to call them.
No smoke from a fire.
No shout loud enough to hear.
It’s just him and his
ever lengthening shadow.
Every step he takes is swallowed up by the distance and he feels as if no progress is made. It’s hopeless. He starts dropping things to lose weight.
A bag.
An axe.
A skin.
An arrowhead.
This arrowhead points towards the mountain before him and he gives it one thought before leaving it.
A walk to the mountain.
He arrives exhausted and delirious at a cave. No food no water, he slowly fades.
Last strength is used to draw one lone figurine on the side of a cave wall and claw your mark into the rock.
He slumps against the cave wall and resigns himself to his solitary rest.
His eyes close, warmth starts to fade,
Voices! Voices from the family.
Echoing down the cave corridor. He stands in amazement, There! A spark! Flickering light from a fire further into the cave, further into the tunnel, laughter, the smell of food.
He stumbles, deeper and deeper into the cave towards the flickering, welcoming light.
The warmth envelops him and he arrives.

I walk through the field hunting for arrowheads; relics of long past intrigue me and I wonder what the stories behind them are.
One lone arrowhead, pressed firmly in the dirt, lies near my feet.
The tip points to the mountain.
I look up, prompted to by some unknown force of will.
It’s gray and foreboding. The snow makes it appear chilled. Cold. It looks sad, as if an untold story sits deep inside.
I shake off the feeling and stoop to pick up the arrowhead.
I turn it over in my hands.
I wonder what its story is…



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