It was almost 5 a.M. When Sarah stirred and realized that Melissa was not yet in bed. She wrapped herself in her robe and went in search of her lover.

She wasn't prepared for the tear-streaked face that turned to her when she entered the dimly lit kitchen. Melissa was smoothing a letter under one hand. Other bills and junk mail lay on the table unopened. Sarah felt a chill in her stomach and she sat down next to Melissa and took the nervously fluttering hand in her own.

"Bad news?"

Melissa shook her head. "Good news. I've been thinking. And wondering what to do. I should be jumping for joy." She wiped away a tear.

"Can I read it?" Melissa handed the letter over and Sarah quickly scanned the lines. "But this is fabulous," she said. "A grant to produce your documentary... oh." She read the final sentences again. Her heart pounded with each word.

...While we understand that your scope is to eventually be national, our funds can only be used for research, filming and for the services of crafts- people and artisans all located in the San Francisco area. Your estimate for a smaller scope production based in a single city was approximately $17,000. Our grant of $22,500 should help defray your living expenses during the five to six months you will be residing in this area. If this production meets our expectations, further funding may be available for additional work in the Bay Area.

I should have known, Sarah thought. I should have known this couldn't last. Essentially, Melissa had a job offer — a good one that could catapult her to the prominence she so assiduously sought — and that meant she had to move. The house had been so full since she had arrived. And now it would be empty again. Everything would be empty again because it would take a two-hour flight plus ground time to get to Melissa, and the same amount of time to come home again. She set the letter down carefully and turned to the kitchen window.

Mt. Snoqualmie was limned with a thin line of gold, and then the first shaft of morning light beamed into the valley.

"You should go," Sarah said. "Of course you have to take it."

"I don't want to leave you," Melissa said in a low voice. "I don't know if I can."

"You have to take it," Sarah repeated. "You have to." She flipped on the coffeemaker and then found herself padding out to the garage. The icy cement bit through her slippers, but she didn't really notice. She opened the case at the end, gathered what she needed and slipped out into the backyard. She walked over the frosted grass and unzipped the tarp covering the target.

Within a few moments she had loaded her quiver, strung her competition bow and nocked her first arrow.

Shhhhhhhwoshhhh-ipppp.

It didn't even make the distance to the target. She cursed softly and nocked again.

The sound of the arrow flying was like a balm to Sarah's shattered spirits. The next five arrows found the target in the red ring, then she planted the next two neatly in the gold. Not bad for someone as badly out of practice as she was.

Grannie MacNeil had said that when two hundred Welsh archers had let fly from the foot of Eyri, the Normans had fallen back, screaming at what they thought were the wings of demons. The air beat with the passage of thousands of arrows in a few short minutes, and the archers of Wales did not miss.

Her solitary arrow flying the length of her long backyard to thump firmly into the target was an echo of finer days, when dreams sometimes came true.

She stopped when her back shrieked for a break, recovered her arrows and slipped the waterproof tarp back over the target. Her slippers were soaking and she could hardly feel her toes.

Inside, she heard the shower running and poured herself a cup of coffee. She tried to be philosophical. You couldn't trust in anything but the sunrise, Grannie had said. The sunrise and yourself. But Sarah had also learned to trust the path of the arrow. Even though she fought them, she felt tears building. The path of the arrow had not taken her to the bulls-eye once again. With Melissa she had discovered she could be the arrow, but now the target was moving.

There was only one way to keep to the path she hoped would bring her the lasting love she longed for. She hung her bathrobe on the back of the bathroom door and joined Melissa in the steamy shower. Melissa greeted her with red-rimmed eyes and exclaimed over Sarah's cold-reddened face, hands and feet.

"Whatever were you doing?" She swung Sarah under the hot spray.

"I'm going with you," Sarah said. Melissa stared at her. "I'm going with you," she repeated, and she pulled Melissa under the hot water for a kiss of promise.

Leslie

MOTION (mo'shen) [Middle English mocioun, from Old French motion, from Latin motio, motion-, from motus, past participle of movire, to move] motion (noun); motioned, motioning, motions (verb, transitive); motion (verb)

1. The act or process of changing position or place.

2. A meaningful or expressive change in the position of the body or a part of the body; a gesture.

3. The ability or power to move.

4. A prompting from within; an impulse or inclination.

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