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The long-eared siblings walked up a shallow hill. The time was mid-morning, about ten o'clock. They had just come from eating breakfast. Camp Connalake had two eating shifts of each type, to accommodate the early-risers and the late-risers, but it was very apparent that the late-riser's meal was primarily what was left over from the early-riser's.

Lyza had struck up a nice conversation with a couple of boys at her table. It was very fun, to talk to kids her age she didn't know, and somehow find a middle ground. Well, that middle ground was simply school. They were from a different town nearby, but they also had to take the RSBTs which were coming up still, and so the three discussed all of their grievences about it.

They also told her first-hand about some of the things there were to do. Until that point, she still didn't have a very good idea of what she wanted to get good at. On the fliers and pamphlets, the possiblilties were almost overhwhelming. It was like she was going into an ice-cream shop, she wouldn't be able to go in again for all she knew, they had almost every flavor under the sun, and she had to pick what she wanted in thirty seconds.

The boys showed off their knife-holders, having also done the leatherworking activity, and told her about some of the shooting activities. While she didn't find the guns very appealing, archery genuinely piqued her interest. Plus, the guns weren't open to everyone; you had to be at least fourteen. But archery was open to anyone, and from what the boys said it sounded more fun than making purses and shoes and little wicker baskets.

The shooting area was away from the lake, over a rise and down a shallow valley. Grass covered all, speckled with yellow sunflowers and a few other colors here and there. Masquitos were abound as well; thankfully the older brother had gone to the store and bought a nice supply of OFF! sunscreen for just that annoyance, and to keep from getting burned.

Lyza could see the shooting ranges as they trotted down the hill. They were spread out rather widely apart, like each range was shy and didn't want to be anywhere near any of the others. Popping noises, like a distant fireworks show, began to echo across the valley. There were five ranges: two archery, two rifle, and one shotgun. One rifle range was a target-style range while the other was skeet-style. The shotgun was only skeet-style. The archery ranges were identical; there were probably two of them to accommodate a larger population than the other ranges.

As they continued down the valley, which was a deceptively long walk so Lyza discovered, the popping became louder and a strange smell was added to the air. It was like the smell of a fire, smokey and spicy but not invasive. It was almost pleasant were it not for the whiffs of sulfur here and there. And it was a little weird that the temperature dropped a few degrees.

Thankfully, the resounding gunshots, which could now be felt in the smoke-smelling air like the beating of dozens of drums, was farther away from the archery range than from each other. This was done so that the archers did not have to wear sound-suppressive earphones just because of being too near the shooting.

The rabbits made their way into the archery range on the right, where there were a dozen kids or so sitting on the picnic tables set up beneath a shady tarp.

"Helloo laddies," greeted a ewe, an Irish accent at the top of her palat, "Yo'll have a seat and we'll get started."

Lyza and her brother, along with a couple more new arrivals, sat at the picnic table.

"Welcome to the Kiminy Range." The ewe stated. "I'm your host, Kiminy. That over there," she pointed to the range ten feet away, "That's the Carlyon Range. They're dumb, we're smart; any questions?"

The audiance giggled at the ewe's spunk, or maybe her accent.

"Now, raise your hands, if you've already heard me harp the introduction."

Several kids raised their hands, and she called them up one at a time, telling them to get to their stations. When all were situated, she turned to the audiance; "If you're a beginner, listen and watch carefully, cuz this is how we do our shootin' safely, got it?" The audiance nodded.

"Right, archers: put on your armguards and pick up your bows." She waited until everyone had their weapons. "Nock an arrow." The shooters spent a few moments putting their arrows on the strings; "Empty your quivers at your own pace; set your bows down when you're through. Fire when ready."

Immediately the sounds of arrows cut through the air: fwitheck

"All right, laddies," the ewe said, turning back to the audiance. "If you're a beginner, I suggest you pay close attention; if y'already heard me, feel free to fall asleep." She went to a small table beside her and picked up a black thing that looked to Lyza kind of like a weird glove. "This, is your armguard. The padding goes on the inside, like so," she demonstrated how to put it on. "Don't pull it too tight, but it can't be too loose either. Oh, and by the way, this goes on the hand," she picked up her bow, "that you use to hold the bow. The armguard prevents the string," she pulled the string back gently and demonstrated, "from catching your arm. I don't suggest trying it out to see what it feels like, that's for Carlyon Range to do."

Again, the kids chuckled.

"Now, you'll see your quiver of arrows," she pointed to the standing quiver by the table, which held only a few arrows. "The arrows have three feathers, one of them is a different color. That color goes toward the outside. If you look close," she picked up an arrow with two orange feathers and one yellow, "there's a wee notch at the end, that fits on the string, like so."

The kids murmured again at the word 'wee', but Lyza paid very close attention to the motion of the demonstration.

"This is called 'nocking' the arrow--spelled without a 'k', unless you're in Carlyon Range." Another chuckle from the crowd. "Right, so the arrow goes on the top of the handle, like so. Place your index and middle finger on either side of the arrow, and grip it. Pull back, and it's a little tougher than you might think, and then when you're ready to shoot just let go," she did so, but because she didn't pull on the string the arrow just fell a little. "Any questions?"

No one raised their hands.

"All right then. Before I can let you go out you have to state a few rules with me. I'll say it first, you repeat it back; ready? First rule: Arrows pointed down-range."

The audiance obeyed, for the most part. Lyza's voice was masked in the murmur of the others.

"Second rule: Maintain at least three feet of space between an archer and their bow. . . . Third rule: There's to be no horseplay, at all."

"No horseplay, at all," Lyza replied.

Mrs. Kiminy turned to the group that had finished firing only a few moments ago. "Archers, retrieve your arrows and replace the targets."

Lyza watched as all of the archers went down the range. The targets were affixed to bails of hay. Some of the arrows had apparently flown way away, because some kids went past the hay to the grass beyond to find them.

"Please," the ewe continued, "don't lose any arrows and don't break any. If you do, you're responsible for fletchin' a new one. Now," the last of the archers came past the line of caution-tape laid out on the ground, "If you've heard the introduction raise your hand."

Lyza raised her hand. She was the fourth one to get called upon, her brother being called just before her. She walked across the yellow tape lazily placed on the grass along with the nine others that were called. She stopped at the third station and her brother took the one to her immediate right.

"If you need help, just ask," he said, picking up the armguard and putting on his forearm.

Lyza nodded, reaching for her own armguard. It was kind of gross, as it was a little damp. Nevertheless she bound it against her arm, wondering what was 'too tight' and what was 'too loose'. It seemed like it was never really tight and always really loose, but she decided it was the best she could do and left it.

"Archers, put on your armguards and ready your bows."

Lyza checked the armguard once more just to be certain and picked up the bow. It was heavier than she thought. It looked like it was made out of light plastic but it was deceptively strong and very long. It was nearly too large for her to even hold properly, but she was eleven and not ten, and she could manage this. She gripped the rubber handle, getting accustomed to the feel of the weapon in her grasp.

"Nock an arrow."

She pulled at one of the arrows in the standing quiver. There were a dozen, all of them different colors and with different colored feathers. Some were bronze, some were red, some were green, some were yellow. Some feathers were blue and green, some yellow and orange, some red and white. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to any of them. She picked the red-and-white feathered arrow with a black notch, and made sure the white feather--the odd-colored one--was on the outside. The string almost clicked into the notch of the heel, caused by the little tiny nubs on the inside of the notch.

She found it was kind of difficult to keep the arrow on top of the rubber handle. She almost had to concsiously press it in that direction with her fingers so oddly gripped around the arrow's heel. It didn't help that if she squeezed too hard the arrow had the tendency to go in the opposite direction that she wanted. In fact, the arrow fell out, and it was only then she realized there was a solid piece of plastic on the string that the arrow was supposed to be resting on the whole time. She replaced the arrow, and readied herself.

"Empty your quivers at your own pace; set your bows down when you're through. Fire when ready."

Lyza took in a breath. She pulled back on the string, and it didn't budge. She blinked; the ewe was right, it was tougher than it looked. She pulled again, harder this time, and the string moved, but it resisted her in every way and it snapped from her grip and the arrow thumped to the ground.

She returned the arrow to the string and pulled back again; this time it was even harder to keep the arrow on the rubber handle. As she pulled back it forced her grip to tighten, which forced the arrow to pull away from the body of the bow. But she managed to pull it back far enough, and then she let the arrow go--but her index finger got caught on the string a little.

The arrow flew anyway, but it did not make it to the target. With a huff, she pulled another arrow from the quiver and nocked it. This time, she stood sideways to the bow, whereas before she did not have a stance at all. She balanced the arrow, pulled back slowly, kept it better behaved this time. She let go, and the string snapped with a healthy bwim; fwithek. The arrow hit the haystack, but was low of the target, almost on the ground.

"Nice shot," her brother said.

She glanced to him, having almost completely forgotten he was there. He had fired four arrows already, his taget attesting three in the black rings and one way off to the left in white-land.

"Just a tip," he said, nocking an arrow and pulling back. "If you aim up," he said, his voice a little tense as he pulled the string; he let go, "the arrow tends to travel down, so you get a better shot." His statement was almost proven as he got the arrow closest to the yellow circle than the others.

Taking his advice to heart, Lyza nocked her third arrow and pulled back on the string, still not quite used to the feel. She did as he said, and pointed the tip of her arrow upward. The sun caught the tip, made of brass or something like it, and as she let the string go it sailed through the air like a fiery bolt of light--and sank right into the red of the bull's-eye.

"Wow!" The kid to her right said, a boy that was younger than she was. "That was one lucky shot."

Lyza stared at her target sheet. A bull's-eye, and she hadn't even started yet. She smiled, and thanked the little kit, but deep inside he was right. That was just a shot of luck, it didn't mean anything. She would prove it. She nocked her fourth arrow, and pulled back, then let the arrow fly. It sank into the outermost black circle. She realized she forgot to really aim it.

Now that she was more used to the feel of the process, her fifth arrow practically whistled into the target. Again she hit the black, but it was a good spot. The sixth didn't make black, nor did the eighth or the ninth. The tenth didn't make the target at all. The eleventh finally made it back to the black, but the tweilth hit the yellow, right on the outer line.

When she was done, she realized she was the last one, and set her bow down, a little embarrassed.

"Archers: retrieve your arrows and replace the targets."

Lyza walked down the range, picking up the arrow that had misfired along the way. All the other arrows were in the hay, so retrieving them was not so bad. The target sheet was clothes-pinned onto the hay bail's binding ropes, and replacing it was a little bit of a chore because of the gentle wind. When she arrived back at the table, she sat with Kval, and they exchanged targets.

He had done fairly well. All of his shots were within the black, except for that one stray one from the beginning, and a few were in the yellow ring. The black ring was four circles big, and the yellow ring was three circles big. The next ring was blue, and it was only two circles big. The bull's-eye was one circle. Each ring had a number on it, worth a certain amount of points. Kval had a score of twenty-eight.

"You have... twenty-nine," he said. "Not bad, ya beat me."

Lyza shook her head. "By one point," she stated. "That one doesn't count. I had beginner's luck."

Her brother handed back her target. "Tell that to this piece of paper," he retorted, almost as a taunt. "Besides," he rested his hands on his knees, watching the other archers begin their set. "Sometimes, one point is all it takes to be the best."