Melons

Before the archer became a famous marksman, he drove heavy wooden stakes into the ground for the utility of his growing melons. He would wrap their vines around the stakes in order to support their weight. Over time, the vines became thick indeed, the fibers becoming useful materials in the making of his bowstrings.

A lady entered his garden one afternoon. "You are the marksman, yes?"
He replied: "Yes. May I ask your business?"
"I was merely passing your garden and I noticed your melons, which are of particular repute, and I decided to declare myself to you." She tossed her hair testily with one hand.
"I see. Forgive me, I meant to be more kind than how I likely had seemed presently."
"Indeed, I was for a moment rather cross," she admitted.
He shuffled his feet, unsure of what he ought to indicate.
She pecked at the ground with the toe of one shoe.
They exchanged pleasant smiles as they parted ways.

The archer went indoors and worked on his spindle for some hours, sucking on hunks of chilled melon in the meantime. His distraction caused him to drip some juice onto the line he was spinning, which frayed slightly. As he was finely braiding the bowstring, he failed to notice the tiny flaw in the line. He strung his bow with that particular bowstring, tugging it to test its tensile properties. It seemed to withstand the normal amount of tension, which resulted in his inability to see the imperfection.
He placed his bow onto its hook and sat at his table, where bread and olive oil were placed prominently. He tore a chunk from the bread with his bare hands (red from the spindle work) and he poured a relatively small portion of oil into a dish. He chewed, musing, and produced pen and paper. He wrote the following poem.

If you were indeed a star
I would test by pulling on your thread
to see if you were robust enough
for my hands, for my hands so red.

My hands are red from the spindle.
My hands are red from the earth.
My hands are red from the mother's mark
which was given to me upon birth.

The light was failing, and he extinguished his candle, retiring to bed.

The following morning, he woke and walked into town, carrying his bow. It was the day of a competition, and he imagined that he would see her there, the woman from just the day before. He attempted to maintain his usual focus, but was moderately unsuccessful.

Arriving at the competition grounds, he found his nerves a bit jangled. So he asked a man sitting at a table beneath a tent for a draught of something a bit harried. Having drunk it, the archer felt quite at ease.
A horn sounded, and it was time to begin. He hoisted his bow and strode to his place, marked with a "V" for his first name.

He placed his feet a shoulderwidth apart and arranged the bow properly in his hands, pulling from the quiver that he had set on the ground. He aimed, sensing his heartbeat. Between beats, he shot a very straight arrow into the center of the target and received an expected and welcome round of applause. The apples of his cheeks reddened a bit in pride.
Another archer with a yellow hat achieved a similar level of applause tempered with surprise, for no one had thought that the marksman and his melonstrung bow would be bested by a dandy in a yellow hat.
After two or so occasions of similar description, the archer finally noticed the fault in his bowstring. He worried, as the man in the yellow hat was decidedly close to his record. He was worried, but he stilled his heart.

In a moment of brashness, the man in the yellow hat aimed too hastily and missed the target completely. The arrow stuck itself deeply into the earth, standing and quivering slightly. The man in the yellow hat cursed significantly and scoffed at the target and the crowd, who stood aghast.
The archer took aim and felt the creaking bowstring fraying within. The condition of his bowstring was deteriorating rapidly and he sought to end the match as soon as he could so that he could return home to his small house and his melons. He thought of his garden, which also contained various hydrangeas and peonies, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He relaxed his bowstring. Something inside the string snapped, but the string retained its tensity. The crowd grew abnormally silent. He breathed deeply and took aim once again. He did so without opening his eyes. He opened his eyes and saw the target, which loomed. He waited for his heart to calm, stretched his bowstring, and (upon the heartbeat) let an arrow fly. It sailed deep into the target, just to the right of the center. The crowd was excited.
The bowstring snapped, lashing his eye. Silently, the archer returned home. He slept.
Several days later, a trophy arrived at his home, engraved with a feminine hand. He placed the trophy in his garden, filling it with earth and planting a thistle in the center of its cup.

Once, he tasted the thistle's milk. It tasted of rose and honey.