Atlas grinned and trotted toward her son, then, side by side, they entered the forest. Big and small, with the littleboy’s shoulders thrown back just like his stepfather’s, the little boy’s legs striding forward in a marching cadence just like his stepfather’s. Their arms swinging with a similar beat.
“Coming, Clara?” Atlas called.
She scurried after them, catching up.
“Look!” Alfie cried, his voice echoing between the trees as he pointed a finger toward the treetops. “Is that it?” A quick, shy look at Atlas.
Her husband tilted his head back, shielded his eyes from the pale sun filtering through the branches above. “Yes. Excellent job.” He clapped Alfie on the shoulder, and Alfie beamed as if he had been told that he might have biscuits for every single meal for the rest of his life.
“Can I go get it?” he asked, running toward the tree and its lowest hanging branch.
“Hold up.” Atlas’s hand clapped down on Alfie’s shoulder and pulled him back gently. “Not yet. It’s much too high. You might fall.”
Alfie snorted. “I climb higher than that all the time.”
Atlas glanced between Clara and Alfie and then bent to one knee in front of her son. “I have a better idea. I need your help.”
Alfie tilted his head to the side, darting a quick glance at the tree, its low branch, before giving his whole attention to Atlas. “What with?”
“It’s going to take more than one shot to get the mistletoe down.”
“Shot?” Alfie eyed the rifle. “With that? You shoot it down?”
Atlas nodded. “I'll let you have first crack.”
Alfie’s grin split his face wide. “My grandfather taught me how to shoot.” He puffed his chest out.
“Well, let me see what you know,” Atlas said.
Clara’s knees almost gave way. “Your grandfather taught you how to shoot? I… I did not know.” Her voice drifted off with thelast word, became small enough mice likely could not even hear it. She glanced to Atlas. “Is it safe? Could he have been hurt?”
Atlas shifted from foot to foot. When he peeked at her, her knees melted even more. Useless things. Felled by a sheepish gentleman giant with soulful blue eyes.
“It can be,” he admitted. “But it is better he be taught properly than never learn at all.”
“I’ll be careful, Mama.” Alfie’s bottom lip stuck out just a bit below the biggest, roundest eyes she’d ever seen.
She huffed. “Very well.” How could she say no?
Boy and man grinned.
“But,” she said, “you will let Atlas go first. And you will watch every step of the process.” She knew better how to work a lathe and adze, how to wield a hammer and nails or curve a bit of wood just so than she knew how to shoot a gun.
“Yes, Mama.” Alfie tamed his grin and offered a solemn nod.Look,it said,see how serious a fellow I am?
“I’ll double-check every step.” Atlas chucked her chin with his knuckles and kissed her cheek. His kiss earlier had opened up the floodgates. He seemed to have taken her singular permission as an unlocked door. He’d already waltzed in, and now he meant to make himself at home. “I’ll ensure his safety, Clara.”
Of course he would. He was Atlas.
She clutched her hands tight inside her muff, biting her lips to keep from yellingnoloud enough to scare the birds from their perches. When Atlas slung the gun off his back, she started pacing. He cast her a glance, eyebrows raised to his hairline before returning his attention to Alfie and pulling two bags out of his pocket. Made of fine, worn leather and tied with strings seemingly stripped from the same material, they looked small in Atlas’s hands. And large in Alfie’s.
Atlas explained the items and moved slowly, preparing and loading the gun with careful precision. Alfie took his own job seriously, relearning each step with a serious eye, asking questions, and, occasionally, glancing up at Atlas as if the man truly did hold the world on his shoulders.
Clara supposed he did. For them.
When he finished loading the gun, he positioned Alfie just so before the tree.
“But the gun is so big,” Clara breathed, her voice so quiet, so quickly whipped away in the wind that she was surprised when Atlas turned to look at her.
