The sharp snap of the bowstring against his forearm stung like a slap. Evan hissed through his teeth, shaking out his arm as he glared at the weapon in his hand.
"Alright, maybe I suck at this."
The bow was an unforgiving teacher. For the past two hours, he had been attempting to hit a target, a crude circle carved into a tree trunk. His arrows, however, seemed to have an entirely different destination in mind. Some flew too high, others buried themselves uselessly into the undergrowth. One even rebounded off a low branch and nearly skewered his foot.
Hunyak and Binalig had long since stopped watching him, their initial amusement wearing off after the first day. Now, they only occasionally glanced his way, shaking their heads before continuing with their daily routines. Evan, however, was nothing if not stubborn. He had never been the athletic type back in his old life, but he had watched enough survivalist YouTube videos to know that ranged weapons were key to not dying in pre-colonial Philippines. Especially since he had zero plans of getting close enough to anything that wanted to eat him.
Unfortunately, the bow and arrow were proving to be more of a pain than a tool.
He rolled his shoulder, adjusting his stance before nocking another arrow. Pull, aim, release
THWACK!
"Son of a–!" Evan hissed, clutching his forearm where the bowstring had snapped against his skin again, leaving a fresh welt. He quickly checked his arm, scanning for an actual wound. A single infected cut in this era could be a death sentence.
From a few feet away, Binalig snorted in amusement, barely pausing in her work as she dragged her digging stick through the soil.
This wasn't working. If only the crossbow had worked.
He had tried tinkering with it last night after first showing it to Binalig and Hunyak, but he was starting to think the design needed metal. The bow itself had snapped right in the middle while he was working on it with Hunyak. She had attempted to secure it to the shaft by wrapping fibers around it, but it wasn't enough. What he really needed were nails, maybe even a metal-reinforced bow.
This morning, he had planned to keep working on it, but the shaft was missing. And when Binalig found out he had broken the bow she made? She simply made a new one, handed it to him, and ordered him to train all day.
He had managed to avoid injury for most of the morning, but now that the bowstring had finally welted his arm, his motivation to keep training was rapidly disappearing.
He needed protection. He'd seen modern archers wear those sleek black arm bracers, maybe he could make one out of abaca fibers?
Glancing at Binalig, still struggling with her digging stick in the dirt, he took the opportunity to slip inside the hut.
Their supplies pile had a few woven mats, but they were far too large. He needed something smaller, something that would fit snugly around his forearm without getting in the way. He scratched his head, scanning the pile, when a voice startled him.
"Hi e-e-eban, iban? What do you need?"
Hunyak.
Evan sighed, accepting his new name, and letting go of his old butchered name. "It's fine. Just call me Aso." He mimed wrapping something around his arm. "I need something to cover my forearm, do you have a knife so I can cut those woven mats?"
Hunyak looked shocked, maybe even offended.
"Cu-cut? The mats made by the elders? Don't do it, Aso! Let me get some fibers and make what you need." She glanced toward the entrance, lowering her voice. "Please don't cut the mats. If Timbina sees that, she'll skin you alive."
A small chill runs down his spine as he recalls the strict old weaver. Shaking off the thought, he calls after the departing Hunyak, "Good call, Hunyak. Thanks!"
Turning his attention to the bundle of dried fish wrapped in banana leaves, he carefully unwraps them, setting the fish aside in a neat pile. The leaves, though, he keeps. Guess these will have to do for now.
A while later, Hunyak returns, only to freeze at the sight of the banana leaves wrapped around his arm. Her eyes widen in alarm.
"Oh no, where did you put the fish?"
"Just on top of the supplies," he answers casually.
Without another word, Hunyak dashes into the hut, panic in her movements. Moments later, he hears her shouting.
"No! Get out! Get out!!"
Curious, he steps forward and peeks inside, just in time to see a cat.
Except, it's not a cat. Not the kind he's used to, anyway.
This creature is lean and wiry, its limbs unusually long and thin. Its coat is short but rough, patterned with faded rosettes and spots, like a tiny jungle predator. Unlike the lazy, pampered house cats he once knew, this thing carries itself with a raw, untamed energy. Its slitted yellow eyes aren't playful or curious, they are sharp, calculating, assessing whether to flee or fight.
It hunches low, its long, striped tail flicking in irritation. Then, it bares its fangs, small but needle-sharp, and lets out a low, guttural growl. This is a wild animal, a hunter that slinks through the forests, preying on rodents, birds, and when given the chance, stealing from unsuspecting humans.
Like Garfield's less fortunate cousin. The one who grew up in the ghetto, fought other cats for scraps, joined a gang, became bald, and got a few questionable tattoos.
Between its teeth, a half-chewed dried fish dangles, the spoils of its bold little raid.
Let's call him Garcia.
With one last defiant growl, Garcia leapt out and scrambled into the forest, vanishing into the undergrowth like a seasoned fugitive.
Inside, Hunyak let out a relieved sigh. "Good thing it only took one."
Then, her gaze landed on his makeshift banana leaf arm bracer. She grabbed his wrist, turning his arm over with a smirk. "Just like that, huh?" she said, inspecting the wrapping. "I can do that."
Evan left her to it and went back to his archery training. Every now and then, he caught glimpses of Garcia prowling in the forest, his spotted coat blending with the underbrush.
He used to love cats back in college. His campus had tons of strays, the kind that just walked up to people and demanded food like tiny, entitled landlords. They were his natural antidepressants after a rough test, rubbing against his legs, purring like tiny motorcycles, or randomly plopping onto his table mid-study session as if they owned the place.
He had even owned two cats in his apartment once. They used to curl up beside him, nap on his chest, and paw at his face when they wanted food. But after he got bitten, something changed. They would stiffen when he entered the room, their ears flattening before they slinked away, tails low. Sometimes they'd just stare, pupils blown wide, fur bristling like he was something unnatural. Then came the hissing, sharp, warning sounds, as if they smelled something on him that wasn't human anymore.
Even when he wasn't in wolf form, they knew. Kept their distance. Watched him with wary, unblinking eyes.
It stung more than he wanted to admit.
And then, one day, they were just gone. No goodbyes, no slow fade. They just vanished. He never found any remains, so at least he was sure he hadn't eaten them or anything. But they never came back.
Now, though? Now that the werewolf inside him was gone?
Maybe he could have a cat again.
A grungy, practically bald, half-wild, probably-disease-ridden cat.
During lunch, he set aside a small piece of dried fish. Later, after eating, he casually placed it near his archery station before getting back to training.
His banana leaf arm bracer was already falling apart, split in a few places, but it had done its job, reducing the painful welts to nothing more than light flicks against his skin.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement. The cat.
It crept toward the fish, watching him intently as it ate. Its yellow eyes flicked between him and the bow in his hands, studying him as much as he was studying it. Once finished, it slunk away, disappearing into the underbrush.
By late afternoon, it seemed Binalig had taken pity on him and finally shared a crucial tip, using his finger as a stabilizer for the arrow.
Before that, he could barely hit the tree, let alone the drawn circle. But with this newfound trick, his aim improved. He still only hit the circle Binalig had drawn maybe one out of ten times, but at least he was actually landing shots on the tree now. Progress.
He still didn't dare draw the bow to its full capacity, keeping his movements controlled to avoid shredding his arm with the bowstring. But it was good exercise, a start.
He made a mental note to stretch his muscles later, this was his first time doing real training, and the last thing he needed was to wake up feeling like he got painful mangoes in his biceps.
He kept shooting. After a while, he placed the rest of the fish in the same spot and resumed his training.
By nightfall, Hunyak returned with the woven arm bracer, holding it out to him. He accepted it gratefully.
"Thank you, Hunyak," he said, accepting the woven arm bracer with a grateful nod. His gaze flicked to their dwindling food supply before he added, "If you want, you can have the last mango. I'm already full."
Hunyak blinked, looking genuinely surprised. "Aren't you going to use it to make your 'dried mango?'"
He let out a small chuckle. "One mango isn't gonna cut it. We'll need to experiment first, figure out the right way to do it. I think I know how, but honestly? I've never made it from scratch before."
Hunyak nodded like she understood, but Evan could tell she didn't fully grasp the trial-and-error nature of his so-called 'knowledge.'
He sighed internally. 'Yeah… I've got a lot more to teach these people.'