Imagine if you will that you must wake daily to hunt the same old boar. A curse, if you may; you must strike it once every day. You don’t know which strike will kill it. In fact, you’re not sure if it will ever die. But you’re cursed to keep chasing it, you can’t stand the idea of ignoring such a wild animal on the run. You don’t know what will happen if you don’t strike it each day, what catastrophe will unfold that is your doing- or so you believe. You don’t know, and it terrifies you to chance it.
You
wake up at the crack of dawn, wanting a nice peaceful day to yourself.
You’ve had the same wish for several months now, but it has yet to come
true. You hurry and finish breakfast, sitting next to a beautiful view
of the sun rising over a flowing meadow, but your mind is on other
things, not the scene before you.
You head down
armed with bow and arrows, your chest is heavy and your thoughts are
shards of apprehension. On the streets, the owner of the local tea
house, a lovely old lady, your friend, waves and invites you in for a
free cup and a chat. You wish you could steady yourself for long enough
to do so- what is better than light innocent conversation on a clear
day- but how could you? The boar dances circles in your mind. You
regretfully decline her friendly invitation and head down the road to
the forest, past happily chatting folks relaxing outside; you feel miles
and miles away from any of them.
The forest
looms ahead but you feel only heaviness and fear, not excitement, not
relief; you arm your bow and arrow and head into the shadows. For hours
you trace tracks old and new- snapped branches and trodden soil, until
you’re soaked in sweat and covered in dirt but you cannot stop.
Finally
after the sun has ran its fair distance in the sky already, you crouch
next to a clearing and see the blasted creature; all dark matted fur and
blazing eyes. You shudder, but you aim and watch it carefully,
unmoving. Any sign that you have hunted it before- any scar, wound, or
marking- cannot be seen. But you pay no mind to the obvious futility;
the boar is now all you can see, and the arrow you’re about to let loose
is all you can focus on doing.
You pull and
fire, it lodges in the shoulder, but like yesterday and the countless
days before, you are unable to land a second shot. It turns, beady,
bottomless eyes meeting yours, freezing you to the core with dread that
shoots through your veins like ice. You cannot move as it leaps past
you, flanking your skin raw on one side as it vanishes.
You
know it is useless to continue your search; it cannot be found again
today, and even if it can, you know it is pointless; no matter how many
arrows you put in its body today, it will still be the same tomorrow.
You
feel little relief, only a brief rush, as you head back into town,
hours now gone. You have stopped it again today- stopped what, you don’t
know- but in doing so you know you have only condemned yourself to
repeat the act indefinitely into the future.
But
how can you stop? What will happen if you do? Surely one more shot, one
more day, will be its last. You don’t know. So you only continue your
futile chase, day after day after day, to no end, and ultimately for
nothing at all.