Short Story The Giver

It had been a cruel winter, with the crops withered into dust and any money dwindled, Aleksandr’s family had cowered into itself with chill and gnawing hunger. One grey day as his mother laid shivering in her bed, Aleksandr knelt by her side, her grey hand clasped in his.

“Mother, we are all dying. There is something I must do.” The woman’s sallow face frowned. “There is nothing out in this storm to help us anymore, my son.”

Aleksandr shook his head firmly, “There has to be a way. I shall learn to hunt, and find and slay a beast and we will have fur and meat. I have already asked the huntsman from the village, and when I return once more we will suffer no more.”

“Nothing in this world is free, do not waste life so frivolously.” The
mother did not weep nor did she protest when her son let her hand go. She sighed and once more, closed her eyes to rest.

“If you must, then do so. It will help you father.”

The next day he left for the woods to meet the huntsman, a calloused man with cold eyes covered in furs and standing tall amongst the howling winds. He handed the boy a weathered bow and beckoned him to follow. They walked for hours, no rustle of leaves or shuffle of shoes left in their wake and Aleksandr watched the older man, who told of the prints of hooves and stripped bark and branches of animals.

They came upon a clearing surrounded in gorse, where they heard the clack-clack of hooves and the crunch of soft snow. The two men quickly dropped behind the bushes and watched as a lone buck emerged.

“Raise your bow, boy. Notch an arrow and make it swift.” Aleksandr brought an arrow to his bow and aimed, the steely tip pointed to its neck.
His hand quivered, the string pulled taut and tense, listening to the sound of his breath and the soft rustle of the wind. As quiet as it became, he felt an unease roiling in his chest as he watched the animal be so unaware and at peace. How young was this creature? How many years had it graced the forests and ran freely? To kill this animal, to watch it bleed a red that was so similar to his gnawed uneasily at his
fingers. Thinking quickly, he purposely shifted his foot about into a bed of rocks and watched the buck dash away, its dull hide into the shadows.
The huntsman sighed.

“Do not hesitate like a coward, boy. We will continue tomorrow..”

Aleksandr returned home. His mother’s face was like the snow, his fingers were blue and of ice and his broken father was withering away in a hunger of ribs. I was a coward, he thought, I could not even achieve something so simple.

The next morning came in a wash of grey and Aleksandr and the huntsman were once more among the trees and snow. The walked for hours until the sun had risen in the sky, and they came upon a den of a vixen and her pups, grey and curled into themselves.

“Take only the mother. Her pups are useless, small with no meat and no fur.” ordered the hunter.

Aleksandr raised his bow and brought an arrow forth. He felt the familiar tide of unease. How could he kill a mother when his own lay dying at home? The pups would grow cold and have nothing to eat, a chance of living unreached.

He let his arrow go and watched it hit the trunk of a tree, the sound making the foxes flee. When Aleksandr returned home, the red welt on his face still stung. The man’s blow had caused him to topple and his hands had become
grazed.

The third day Aleksandr went into the woods alone, a last attempt at another week, another tomorrow for him and his family. He trekked through the woods for hours on end, no creatures were in sight and the day was still and silent with the grip of the winter.