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Artemis always loves the first few miles of a hike into the forest, the green, and the shadows, and the sunlight, the sweet fresh air. There’s the feel of the earth beneath her boots, the sweat on the back of her neck, the birdsong and the smell of leaves or pine needles being scuffed under her feet. Being in the forest is where she belongs.
She rolls her eyes. It’s slightly LESS magical when you are the leader of a troop of teenage girl scouts taking selfies at every rest stop. Fortunately this particular bunch is considerably less self involved and more cooperative than many groups she’s taken out for hikes and overnights. These girls volunteer to build the fires, to set up camp, to take those stupid army surplus collapsible canvas buckets out to the creek for water, to do the purification testing. Smugly, she thinks, these are some girls who are going to survive the zombie apocalypse, should it ever come to pass. These girls can use shovels to dig latrines or break up dead wood in the forest; they can sharpen buck knives and have learned how to fish and to clean and cook the fish over a fire they have built themselves… These girls are ready to be competent, to take care of themselves and to protect others. Time for them to learn what only she can teach them.
The cache is just where she left it, dry and secure even after a season spent wrapped in oilcloth in a hollow tree. She brings out an (a) hefty armload from the tree, mindful of the packets in the thigh pocket of her cargo pants. The girls are chattering amongst themselves, pleased to have a few hours of, as they see it, free time before dinner and campfire and bed.
They are incorrect, as it will not be “free” time, it will be time dedicated to learning a new craft. A skill that could possibly keep them alive if everything else were to go wrong.
Her lips quirked, amused at her own overly dramatic thoughts. Darling, she said silently to herself, teach them archery because archery is COOL.
She rolls her eyes. It’s slightly LESS magical when you are the leader of a troop of teenage girl scouts taking selfies at every rest stop. Fortunately this particular bunch is considerably less self involved and more cooperative than many groups she’s taken out for hikes and overnights. These girls volunteer to build the fires, to set up camp, to take those stupid army surplus collapsible canvas buckets out to the creek for water, to do the purification testing. Smugly, she thinks, these are some girls who are going to survive the zombie apocalypse, should it ever come to pass. These girls can use shovels to dig latrines or break up dead wood in the forest; they can sharpen buck knives and have learned how to fish and to clean and cook the fish over a fire they have built themselves… These girls are ready to be competent, to take care of themselves and to protect others. Time for them to learn what only she can teach them.
The cache is just where she left it, dry and secure even after a season spent wrapped in oilcloth in a hollow tree. She brings out an (a) hefty armload from the tree, mindful of the packets in the thigh pocket of her cargo pants. The girls are chattering amongst themselves, pleased to have a few hours of, as they see it, free time before dinner and campfire and bed.
They are incorrect, as it will not be “free” time, it will be time dedicated to learning a new craft. A skill that could possibly keep them alive if everything else were to go wrong.
Her lips quirked, amused at her own overly dramatic thoughts. Darling, she said silently to herself, teach them archery because archery is COOL.
