By Johnny Snyman

An unknown author once said: “If you want to have an adventure, you must put yourself where it can happen.”

I think one of the sweetest adventures of life starts with the journey of traditional archery – shooting the longbow or recurve, or making your own gear, be it a bow, leather quiver or your own wooden arrows, and of course, making them fly! No matter how you look at it (or dream about it) – every facet of traditional archery is a journey that often leads to an adventure.

Yes, journeys and adventures; and so it is that each man is on his own journey, not of his making, but one of his own choice. Each man at some stage is also seemingly his own hero in his own time.

At some point, however, man grows old and his chosen journey dawns and silently comes to an end. It is only then when the pilgrimage is over that the wisdom gained on his travels, and how others may benefit from it, will determine the value and depth of the legacy he leaves behind.

Perhaps it will be worth its weight in gold to share a story in memory of a special friend, a journeyman who was content with the choice of his pilgrimage.

I know little more of Marcello Biancheli’s background than what I have recollected in this writing, but for as long as I can draw a longbow, I will never forget that sunny autumn afternoon of 1999.

The air inside the workshop was crisp and enriched with the aroma of a freshly roughed-out bow stave. As I looked up from contemplating the beautiful grain, and blew away a little sawdust from the stave’s surface, the fragile frame of an elderly gentleman stood silhouetted in the workshop door. At first I had been unaware of his arrival and presence, for the beauty and magic of the wood within the stave had swept away, afar.

With a smile as big as the horizon over a calm sea, he stepped inside and announced in a gentle voice: “My name is Marcello Biancheli, and I also shoot the longbow.” This was how this strange old man introduced himself. He had a burdened Italian accent. He wore his spectacles on the edge of his nose, and they threatened to fall off at the next twinkle in his faded brown eyes, shaded by thick bushy eyebrows. His smile radiated the youthfulness and beauty of a free-spirited mind. He had lines on his face, which only a long and full life could have sculptured so delicately. When he moved closer to firmly shake my hand, his stride carried his wiry frame with strength, pride and dignity.

Have you ever been out at sea and happened to observe a lighthouse on a faraway distant shore? Or have you ever perhaps sat close by one, watching the sun sink slowly away into the sea as the cry of the gulls fade with a golden sunset?

Lighthouses are the lonely pillars of hope, guidance and strength to those who venture out to sea. They stand strong and upright throughout time’s towering storms and crashing waves, only to remain silent in days of sunshine and the fairest of weather. It is then that nobody really seems to notice them.

Thus it came to pass that in the short space of little more than a week, I got to know Marcello as one of life’s lighthouses. Save for all the storms and tides that had passed in his lifetime, there remained one magical thing that cast a beaming light in abundance over the calm waters of his soul: the lure of archery.

Marcello lived downtown, alone in a humble little home, shaded by a few weathered gum trees, and painted by a colourful little garden. His companions were a bird in a little cage, an old takedown metal longbow, his Cedar arrows and some archery books. I closely watched him as he eagerly fished out his longbow from the leather-covered tube that he had been caressing ever since he had entered the workshop. The old English-made, steel-limbed bow resting in his frail hands had limbs covered in plastic veneers that resembled wood grain. It had a draw weight of 36 pounds at 28 inches. It was an antique collector’s item and he had been shooting it for many years.

Like an old friend, Marcello shared with me how he had found the bow, and all the joy it brought him in his latter years. He freely spoke of the love he had for painstakingly making his own arrows, and of all of his warm recollections that shooting the bow and arrow overall had poured over his childhood days, through into his adolescent years. Just as he had little difficulty talking of archery, so much more did my heart reach out to him. After all, I realised I was but standing on some lone and forgotten shore, looking at a lighthouse craving to be noticed.

Over the course of several steaming cups of strong coffee, Marcello related to me in his broken English, interspersed with Italian, that he could never afford a longbow made from the Yew grown in the mountains of his native homeland. The metal bow had been his only option for a long time.

“Oh, I can shoot it well yes!” he remarked with the glee of an old church mouse. He shared with me detailed recollections of being a founding member of the local target archery club, how he could still hold his groups right up to the 60-yard mark, and that he was also the most senior club member. The only time the excitement in his voice faded slightly was when he softly mentioned some of the shooting days down at the club. Sometimes, he would chance to overhear some of the comments made by his fellow club members. Comments about his old-fashioned archery gear, how they silently mocked and derided his shooting style while gloating over their high-performance bows. But then, suddenly looking up with a quick glance, the twinkle back in his eyes, I could see Marcello truly lived for the moment. Those moments of seeing his homemade arrows fly true to the mark were what kept his light shining strong. For the rest he wasn’t much affected, and I could see his affections were deeply rooted within the right soils of life.

Marcello was also a keen Howard Hill fan. In his younger years he had worked and lived in Tanzania, managing a game farm. I listened in amazement as he related how he had once, during one of his frequent travels to Africa, met and hosted for two days the legendary Howard Hill, who at the time was on his African Safari undergoing the making of the film “Tembo”.

As I listened to Marcello’s voice, time seemed to stand still, the same way it does for that magical moment when a child opens its hands to set free a little bird, or perhaps a beautiful butterfly. There is beauty in the captured moment of freedom to come, and I was the captive. Life was teaching me a valuable lesson in the art of listening…

After some hours, and many refills of coffee he came to what seemed like a conclusion of sorts. Babbling in a staccato of childlike excitement and typical Italian “sign language”, he admitted that he had never quite liked the feel of the metal bow. Always, for as long as he could remember, he had wanted to own a solid longbow of wood. He then fell silent. With trembling hands holding and peering thoughtfully into the steaming coffee mug, I watched as his bushy eyebrows contorted into a deep frown, followed by a sudden beaming ear-to-ear grin that burst all over his timeless face.

Marcello looked up at me and humbly asked with a quivering voice: ”Could you possibly, if you find the time, please make me a longbow from wood?”

Was it a bird or a butterfly that fluttered its wings deeply within my spirit? Or was it the honesty and wisdom of his old age, without the masks of ego carried proudly by so many men of today’s age, which touched the youthful chords of my heart? As I looked at him to reply, the answer from within reached straight for the freedom of the open air, towards the warmth and golden sun of opportunity and friendship.

It was already dark when he finally excused himself. I wanted to hand it to him at no cost, but at his insistence he purchased from me a bundle of Cedar arrow shafts, and a handful of nocks, feathers and field points, and then left the workshop with his old metal bow neatly packed away in the tube. When I turned off the lights, the echoes of what had passed still lingered with the rich aroma of sawdust and coffee in the air. And the bow stave cradled there in the bench vice with its beautiful character-laden grain, mingled with the lines of a newly found friend’s face. Ah, it was to become his.

Who understands the labour of love that goes into a bow? Does he who receives a handcrafted wooden bow know that in becoming his weapon’s master, he too accepts part of its maker? For mingled with the grain, most of the time lies imbedded into the wood a little of its maker’s sweat, and heaps more of its maker’s heart. Over the following few days, Marcello often visited and watched with childlike anticipation and the wisdom of appreciation as his longbow took shape. I was just as excited to hand him the finished product, which I had promised to have ready within the following three days.

From an Italian family member, my uncle, I gathered the correct words and well wishes to be inscribed in Italian on Marcello’s bow. Finally, all that remained to be done was to seal and polish the bow to a fine satin finish. At last, as the linen string spoke with a sweet hum, the newly bent longbow sung its beautiful arrow song. It was finally ready to part with me, to be united with its master, and to be forever shared in unity with a friend.

I cheerfully dismissed the thought of picking up the telephone to share the news with Marcello, and opted instead to go downtown, to see his face light up as I handed him his life-long dream.

But my Old Friend missed his dream. For upon arriving at his home, the family gathering there shared with me his sudden passing of two nights previously. His visiting daughter had found him in peaceful sleep, still seated on his bedside chair, an arrow shaft and taper tool clutched in his lifeless hands. Little heaps of aromatic Cedar shavings lay on the carpet by his feet. Oh, what a peaceful way to part with life.

I handed the longbow to Marcello’s grandson, silently hoping that maybe someday the burning torch of archery would be passed on through him. In return, his grandson and daughter gave me the book that Marcello had borrowed me the day after our paths had crossed. The cover read: “The Complete Archery Book – by Louis Hochman”. The book had been printed in 1954.

I set back homewards into a cold autumn breeze, clutching the book closely to the place where my spirit was rocking like an old wooden ship, blown off course far away onto a deep and stormy sea. Tears pouring freely by then, I silently remembered to clean up the shavings from his longbow, which were still lying on the workshop floor.

Is there deep sorrow in loss, or is there deep loss in sorrow? That was the question my soul struggled with at the time. But today, six years later, I stare into the reflections of yesteryear, far beyond all the ripples urged on by the timeless winds of change that are now dancing on the sparkling surface of this ever-changing pond called Life. I see the selfless treasure that Marcello had left behind: it matters not what age a man may be, for endless youth is always to be found within the welcome shadows of traditional archery. And of all things, we should live each moment to the full while youthfulness, or youth and the blessing of life remains. The rest? Well, if you put yourself within the right place, it becomes an adventure waiting to happen.

A beaming light casts warmth upon a newly fortified love that I today kindle and treasure towards the lure of the longbow, the hunt, and the flight of the feathered wooden arrow. The light is warm and welcome. It is filled with the promise of many a wilderness adventure yet to come. The passing light also tells me that how much we shoot the bow and arrow, or how much we hunt, and how many animals our bows have slain within our different lifetimes, really does not matter. They should remain private moments between your Maker who provided the meat, and towards the animal that presented you with the opportunity, the animal to which you owe an irrevocable respect unto. And that the true success of your hunt lingers not around the trophy you may have earned, but how much you enjoyed the great wide open.

I turn to look, to see from where the light is coming, and my soul and spirit smiles at the knowing. I see a lone, towering beacon standing strong: it is the legacy of Lighthouse Marcello.

Ah yes, the Pond I stare into is clear now, and it is good to see that Marcello’s light never dimmed, “For when the eye is pure, there is sunshine in the soul.”

And that is the way I shall forever remember you, my friend.