The Young Owl

  The forest seemed enormous from the sky, spreading far into the beyond, where its hills and valleys and rivers became just a flat line over the horizon, marching against the night of the sky. Rodwood was its name, and the maps of the Vestrica continent placed it in the cold northern lands, in the domains of the Great Kingdom of Asprain, a country younger than the forest itself. But the animals and beasts that dwelt and made their living in it had no knowledge of such arrangements. Imaginary lines drawn by men with crowns and swords, hiding in palaces of stone and marble, meant nothing for them. The forest only belonged to those who lived in it and had the strength to defend what they owned.

  Many rivers ran through this forest, born from the snow-capped mountains in the north. One of these many rivers was Rosbrik. Its waters were mellow and ordinary among its brethren, though sometimes they would grow and become dangerously deep during autumn, or they would shrink and become so shallow that even a fox could take a leisurely bath during the summer. The river's silver waters cut through the primeval lands of Rodwood's center, winding its path with sharp twists and loose turns towards the south, like a silvery snake crawling over the dark grass.

  In one of these many twists and turns, perched over a large oak that had grown close to the riverbank, was a young owl hunting in this night: a male in his second year of life. Not of bright mind was this owl, but neither too dumb, as he had survived so far, or maybe it had been his good fortune that had guarded his back. The owl had no partner or family to take care of, though he dreamed of having one soon.

  High in the dark sky, the round, white moon kindly shared its light with the world, but the tall, greedy trees took it all for themselves. The darkness felt oppressive under them, a disadvantage for the habitual night prowlers that roamed the forest floor, but not so for the young owl, for he used his ears and not his eyes to hunt.

  The owl waited patiently on the oak, watching the river's glowing waters flow as his ears listened keenly for prey to catch. This was one of his favorite spots to work. Prey often liked to tread towards the river, searching for water and the brightness of its surface. Many a time, he had caught prey unaware of his presence as they drank from the river.

  Several sounds he had picked up in the course of the night, but the prey was either too deep within the woods, or it was too large and too healthy for him to dare. The wind blew and rocked the oak and him. He felt the breeze over his feathers and dreamed of taking the current and flying high in the night sky. But he was hungry, so he maintained silence and discipline over the bough in which he sat.

  The owl heard the crackling of fallen branches: something was walking behind him, and it was getting closer. He turned his head toward the sound, but the dark covered the intruder. The creature would soon reach his oak and the river, so he turned his body to match his head and sharpened his senses. Then, he waited.

  And last, it came. It was enormous; even the tusks that cropped out from its mouth were several times larger than the young owl. Its four large hooves crushed leaves and sticks as it stomped its way towards the river; the earth gave out low thumps with each step. It had large eyes, a snout like a pig's, and a thick brown pelt. Its body was built round and wide, with short, fat legs, making the belly hang close to the ground, looking like a barrel with stumpy legs. It was a Braskar: large beasts that lived in packs north of the forest.

  As the creature approached the river, the owl noticed that it limped with its right hind leg, and its breath sounded jagged, as if water was trapped inside its lungs. The braskar's wide body sported numerous slashes, some short and in a crisscrossed shape, others large, running straight from its spine down to the belly, coating the pelt with blood; the dark liquid spilled and glowed like the river surface. The braskar reached the riverbanks, and with a loud thud, it let its wounded body fall over the cold, wet ground as its mouth tasted the river's sweet water.

  The owl watched the mighty beast drink. As he was hungry and dumb, a perilous combination, he thought of testing his luck and attacking it. He had never seen a beast of that magnitude before, and he knew that he could never grasp it between his claws and fly away with it. But the beast was wounded and weak, so he could not just shun the chance presented before him. His short life had taught him that wounded prey was easier to kill. He dreamed of how much he could feast on a prey of this size.

  And so, the dumb owl spread his brown and white mottled wings, and prepared for the assault and his eventual demise. His black-marble eyes reckoned the distance with the precision of a hunter; his claws gripped the wood in anticipation. However, the launch was aborted; his keen ears detected a faint rustling of leaves behind him. The intruder moved slowly and with stealth; not a stick or branch creaked under its footsteps, though the owl could still hear its coming. Then the rustling began to spread all about the owl, as several creatures began to creep along the dark trees.

  From within the forest’s dark crevasses, silver eyes glowed and growled and approached; seven pairs of eyes watched the braskar’s back.

  The mighty beast's body rose and turned, then gave a loud blare to the silver eyes, awakening the forest around.

  The eyes growled louder and then howled—a sickening ruckus they broke in the dark. It was an answer to the blare, a shout to destroy, a summon to war. From far away, more howls responded to the call.

  The braskar growled at the eyes that hid behind the trees as it stepped backwards into the river. The waters ran deep and fast. It was dangerous for the beast to attempt crossing. Realizing that it had been caged, the braskar banged the ground with fury and grunted, inviting the cowards to come out and fight. Mad the beast was, for it was best to flee in that broken state than to fight against the seven eyes. Yet the braskar pressed on, its pride taking over, and called the challenge. If it were time to die, it would take at least half of the cowards down with it to the grave.

  The silver eyes answered the taunt, because cowards they weren’t. One vanished. Six came out into the light—a pack of enormous wolves of black, white, and brown fur. Gorgeous and fearsome, they looked in the moonlight.

  A male wolf took the lead. The grey hair on his black coat, the wisdom in his blue eyes, and the confidence of his pose marked him as the eldest and the leader of his family.

  ?A second wolf stood by him, a female. She had the same black fur and blue eyes as the old male, her father. The wicked smile on her pretty face made her look arrogant and belligerent.

  A third wolf stood behind and between the father and daughter duo, a male of yellow eyes and black fur. He was the largest of the family, though he moved with a carefulness and silence unmatched by his size.

  A fourth wolf timidly arrived and stopped behind the large wolf, a female with the same yellow eyes and black fur as her older brother. She nervously watched the braskar.

  A fifth and sixth wolf lagged far behind, two females and sisters. One was an adult and the other still a cub. Both shared the same green eyes and brown fur that glittered gold in the sun but silver in the light of this moon.

  The braskar growled and hit the floor with his paws, marking the line which shall never be crossed. The pack respected it and stayed still. The braskar lowered its guard for a moment to catch its breath, but then it noticed that one pair of eyes was missing.

  The braskar suddenly jumped left, avoiding the deadly bite on the neck by inches. The silent attacker chuckled and retreated, taking position by the riverbank, not too far, but not too close, just at the right distance to perturb the braskar’s mind without the risk of injury. This wolf was a young male, of black fur and blue eyes, and though he was not the oldest or the largest in his family, there was something in him that filled the braskar with terror:

  It was his patience and shrewdness.

  The young wolf had been a menace to the braskar over the course of the night. He liked to move alone and out of sight, merging his figure with the shadows and trees, flanking and guiding the braskar through the forest as if he knew the terrain by heart. His family attracted all eyes with their howls and growls, while he waited silently for the chance to strike without remorse. He may not have been the leader of his family, but he was undeniably the commander of the hunt.

  For it was he who had caged the braskar against the river.

  The owl saw with lament this encounter. Too many mouths were after the same prey, so he thought it was better to call off the hunt. He spread his wings wide and took off, flying high into the night sky. His hunting ground had been ruined by the clash of these two forces. He would not stand around and be swept into their battle. He flew in circles around the sky, hearing the loud howls of the silver eyes and the thunder of the fight. Yells of other animals joined the ruckus. The forest had been awakened. It would be a challenge to hunt anything on this night. Using the river as his guide, the owl flew southward. There was another hunting ground he favored away from the forest.

  The owl glided above, feeling the cold air ruffling his feathers and face. The river’s calm waters glowed white under the moon’s grace, and its course bent a couple of miles until it became close to a straight line. About three miles west of the river rose a giant tree, so grand that the other oaks and hazels and pines nearby seemed like potted plants under its royal presence. And they seemed to fear it, for the oak stood alone in a wide circular glade. On a bough near the treetop, sat an ethereal figure made of winds and thoughts, invisible to mortal eyes and ears. It watched the sky with a face of wonder.

  Inside the glade, walking against the line of trees, as if they were hiding from the moon’s grace, dark-hooded figures marched in line towards the east. The figure that led the line halted and looked up at the sky; the others followed him. They watched the owl and the shadow it was playing across the glade. They waited for the owl to pass over, then continued their march, disappearing between trees.

  The dark forest ended, turning into a strip of green grass and later into farmland. The wind caressed the grain fields, creating rolling waves that persisted until the horizon. They looked like silver ponds under the moonlight, spread apart by vegetable fields and dirt roads. The owl took a draft of wind and rode it.

  The river kept going southward, but the owl said goodbye to it and flew west. Prey prowled inside the wheat and barley, the owl knew, but better prey hid in the vegetable fields. Unfortunately, there were guardians watching all over the place: monsters made of old clothes and straws, hanging on wood poles with their arms wide open. They never moved, but the young owl was no fool, for he knew that they were the same as him—waiting for dumb prey to approach and capture. The owl kept going. No scarecrow would ever catch this great owl.

  More fields ran beneath him. Ahead, he spotted what he was looking for and rushed. The farmland ended, and the terrains of a massive house began, surrounded by a stone wall. To the west of the house, more farmland marched along; to the north was the forest, and to the south lay a massive orchard with more farmland after it.

  Copses and lone trees sprouted outside and about the stone wall, like verdant guardians looking towards the house. But the owl was not interested in any of them, even in the ones belonging to the orchard. This time, the familiarity of a tree was useless to him. What he wanted was the enormous house, one of its chimneys to be precise.

  Built with a raised ground floor, the house was four stories high and spanned over ten thousand square feet. It had cream-colored walls and a black tiled roof with four chimneys rising high. Stone stairs with iron rails lead to a heavy-looking oak door at its entry. Two paths branched off from the stairs. They met again at a tall iron gate at the property's entrance, forming a circle with ample open space inside and two rectangular outbuildings outside, where the barns, stables, sheds, and workers' quarters were located. Behind the house was another outbuilding, which the owners used as a training hall.

  The house was a countryside manor. It was enormous, larger than any of the buildings the owl had seen in the village to the south; the same for the terrain it occupied. There was light on some of the windows on the ground floor, and smoke rose from one of its chimneys. People called the manor Whitehill, and its masters, the Hunter Family, owned the vast lands around it.

  The owl landed in one of the smokeless chimneys and surveyed the surrounding area. Although abundant prey roamed here—mostly big rats trying to eat the grain in the granaries or in the animal feeds—the chance for a good hunt was hard. Competition was ruthless; night hunters like the owl often prowled the place, taking the best lookout spots above and defending them with claws and pecks. Still, the place beat any other hunting ground inside the forest by miles. Strangely, no one was around. The owl had the whole roof for himself.

  The moon shone clear and unbothered in the sky. The farmstead grounds looked alone, silent, and naked; nothing but the wind and a cricket rang in his ears. Then, he heard it: the familiar noise of prey sliding through the grass.

  There, from one of the outbuildings in the manor front, a fat, juicy rat bounced out and stopped in the middle of the field to clean itself. The owl spotted it and locked on it, but remained still, waiting—for he knew monsters patrolled the manor grounds at all times.

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  A growl suddenly broke out down below; more followed it. Five male dogs rose and left the shadows of the manor, slowly walking ahead with their ears perked up and eyes staring at the front. Their solid and short-haired bodies sported old scars of battle: tails munched, ears ripped, and milky white eyes. They were a race of dogs bred out to fight, to be locked inside a ring and then forced to mutilate each other for the pleasure of a cheering crowd. However, these five dogs came out deficient; they were too soft, passive, and compliant—they lacked the rage and violence necessary for the fighting ring. So they were used as “target practice” by their perfect peers, then discarded when they were too broken to fix.

  But a kind soul found them, healed them, and gave them a second life.

  The five dogs growled again. They had the fat rat in their sight. Slowly, they slipped ahead, spreading out in fan formation, with their bodies and heads low to the ground. The fat rat was oblivious to their presence.

  Another dog came out from the manor’s shadows, and this one looked like a different breed. He, for it was also a male, had long legs, making him taller than the other dogs. His body was coated with a thick, grey fur, and no scars were visible on him. Unlike his brothers, he remained behind, watching the hunt. Born from a lineage of wolf hunters, the killing of a mere fat rat brought no satisfaction to him, though he often found himself too caught up in the fun, and more than once he had also run after one.

  The fat rat finally noticed the coming assault and broke off, but the dogs were right behind it, flying fast across the yard like bullets. A lucky dog caught the rat with its jaws and began to shake it violently. The rat shrieked loudly in pain, then it went silent and limp. The lucky dog then walked back to the manor, proudly holding the dead rat in his mouth, while he avoided the assaults of his jealous brothers who tried to steal it. They disappeared towards the back of the manor, followed by the grey dog.

  The owl observed the dogs from his vantage point at the chimney. He knew where they were going, same as always, so he took off. Not far he went, just to the oak that lay behind the manor. He landed in one of the branches and continued observing.

  The lucky dog dropped the rat by the tree's trunk—three dead rats were already there, piled one over the other. The dog settled himself on the ground nearby to rest, letting out a big yawn. His brothers came and lay about him.

  The young owl watched the rats and the dogs with fury. The beasts would hunt throughout the night, making a heap of dead bodies, but never eating a single one of them. The owl could not understand why they did this. Why hunt if they were not hungry? They treated the bodies as a trophy to show around, but to whom? And worst of all, the damn beasts would not let anyone else take them either. They allowed others to hunt in the manor grounds with them; they weren’t selfish, the owl acknowledged. But if anyone tried to steal one of their

  bounties, they were received with claws and fangs. Huddled in the same bough where he now sits, he had seen how another night hunter tried to fly away with a rat before; the idiot nearly lost his life under the dogs' assault.

  Suddenly, he heard the opening of a door and spotted someone coming out from the back of the manor. It was a man. He had black hair and blue eyes and was wearing brown trousers and a loose white shirt. His body was tall and robust, like a man accustomed to hard work. He walked away from the manor and stopped not far from the oak. There was a black pipe dangling in his mouth, with a line of gray smoke rising from it, like the chimney at the roof. The dogs let out barks of happiness and dashed after him, wagging their munched tails. The man watched them. The confidence of his pose demanded obedience. The dogs obliged and turned quiet, then they looked at him with pleading eyes.

  The man smiled. Defeated by their sad eyes and whines, he bent down to caress them. The dogs barked and jumped around the man, begging him to follow them. They led him to the tree and showed him the dead rats. The man laughed and took strips of dried meat from his pockets and gave them to the dogs.

  After a short petting and feeding, the man left the dogs and went onward, walking past the raised vegetable garden, the chicken coop, and the training hall. He was staring at the forest, hearing the howls of the wolves, and though they sounded more like a whistle this far away, they seemed to be getting louder.

  The man’s pipe glowed orange, and a billow of grey smoke puffed from his mouth. As the dogs stood silently beside the man, charmed by his presence, and far from the tree, the owl saw an opportunity to steal a rat. He opened its wings and prepared to launch. But then, he felt the coldness that spelled danger, making him shudder. He quickly glanced at the dogs, thinking they had spotted him, but they were focused on the man. Then he heard a grunt and steps, and the dogs scattered.

  The man walked towards the tree, looking up, right where the owl was. And the owl looked at the man and saw the black beard covering his face, the glint of his pipe, and the eyes that could see through the leaves of the trees, and then... the owl froze, feeling his soul abandon his body.

  The man’s eyes were glowing, and it was not the moonlight’s fault, like the silver eyes in the forest, but the man’s own doing, for it seemed as though his eyes had become two embers that burned like the light of his pipe, but instead of the fiery orange, they blazed in a terrifying white, fed by the will of his soul.

  The owl trembled; even though branches and leaves covered him and hid him, he felt denuded under that gaze. There was something wrong with those eyes. They seemed many times more dreadful than the silver eyes in the forest. He felt as though he were being weighed and measured, and then the contents of his body and mind were pulled out and laid bare on the ground to be examined. The young owl could no longer bear the invasion of his soul anymore and so flew high and away, escaping from the terrible gaze. But the glowing eyes never left him; they followed him as he circled the sky about the manor, until a current going south took him away.

  For a length of time, the owl rode the wind. He wanted to get as far away from that cursed place as he could. Never again would he hunt there; he swore. The fear of that encounter still plagued him. Those eyes were hard to forget; even in the wind, he saw them.

  Farmland spread far and wide in all directions, running fast under its claws. Ahead, a tower made of stone rose from the ground, and beside it stood a grand two-storey house with white-plaster walls and red tiles; a high stone wall enclosed everything. On the tower's crown, a flag with the image of a yellow and red eagle over a white background spread proudly in the wind of the night. The owl perched on the flag’s post and looked around him. The tower and the house lay dormant, with their windows open, but no light in them. The dogs in the yard slept too. Hunger was calling him again. He thought of hunting there, as prey may be hiding in the grass and shrubs about the tower. But he remembered the eyes and felt he was too close to that cursed place.

  The owl took a wave and rode it to the south.

  More farmland he left behind, though now it was divided into smaller parcels by drystone walls and hedgerows; like a badly drawn checkered board, it seemed from above. Houses made of wood, straw, and stone sometimes sprouted inside these parcels. They all looked smaller and shabbier than the manor in the north.

  Soon a village appeared. It was small. It only had a singular two-mile dirt road that ran from east to west, with dwellings lying at its sides. The road bent slightly in the middle. On the bend’s north side was the village’s green: an open area of trimmed grass with four stone paths that intersected into a circle in the green’s center, where the large statue of a woman stood, splitting the green into four squares. Flowery bushes of many colors and trees of white bark lined the paths and circle. At the north end of this green lay a shrine, which was the most important building in this village.

  The shrine was made of cement and stone, following the open-air style of old, a style in danger of disappearing around the continent. Rows of columns stood over a wide and elevated stone platform with stairs, holding above their heads a roof of triangular shape. Inside were rows of wooden benches lying over a polished granite floor. The only wall the shrine had was located at the back. There lay the statue of a tree, taller than the average person and made entirely of brass. It stood surrounded by flowers and more statues of human figures, much smaller in size and splendor. Candles and braziers burned within the shrine, and the shadow of a person laboring inside played over the platform and the grass outside.

  The owl landed on the shrine’s roof to rest his wings and mind, though he was soon called to action, for his ears grasped movement at the green. There, not far from the shrine’s stairs, a hare was carelessly wandering through the grass. The owl saw it, and the hunger rushed to his head, forgetting the perilous encounter he had had at the north. He spread his wings wide and nailed his gaze on the hare’s defenseless back. His beak opened, imagining the sweet taste of blood and entrails.

  But as he was preparing to launch, barking sparked from inside the shrine, and a loud dog walked out. The hare heard the blare and fled, getting lost between the flowering bushes. The dog resembled those from the cursed place, and even bore the same battle scars, though this one didn't run after the hare; instead, it pursued it with all the calm in the world. The dog sniffed the air and the ground, following the hare's trail to the bushes, and began to dig in the earth.

  “Emmy, no!” A female voice screamed from inside the shrine. “What are you doing, lassie?” The voice walked down the shrine stairs and went after the dog. She was thin and pale and wore a white robe that reached her ankles. Her long, gray hair fell loosely down her back. She looked like a wandering ghost drifting over the green, haunting the rascal dog that was ruining her flowers.

  “Bad dog! Bad dog!” The ghostly woman yelled, yet the dog took it as a play and lay on its back, exposing its belly. “I told you many times not to touch my flowers.”

  “Woof, woof,” the dog responded and then began to jump and run around the old woman.

  The owl watched with angst at the two. Once again, a third time, his hunt had been interrupted during the course of the night. The old woman stopped scolding the dog and left with it. The owl kept staring at the pair. They seemed to be going towards one of the two red brick dwellings at the right, the one with lights spilling out from its windows.

  “Coo.” The owl suddenly heard something behind his back and quickly twisted his head back to look.

  Behind, a towering owl stood at the opposing side of the roof, over the edge, giving its back to the owl. The newcomer was two or three times the young owl’s size. It was covered in pure white feathers, except for the two black lines that ran vertically over its back.

  “Coo,” the white owl spoke again as he stared at the horizon.

  The young owl remained silent, feeling his heart beating wildly in his chest. Where did this monster come from? He asked himself.

  “Coo?” the white owl said, and then twisted his giant head to look at the young owl. “Coo?” it said again.

  The monster's ice-blue eyes made the young owl tremble. He stepped backwards until he felt the roof’s edge and halted. He had never seen this white owl before, even at the cursed place, where he had met dozens of other owls.

  “Coo,” the white owl spoke and spread its massive wings, turning the black lines horizontal. The white owl turned his body and began to approach the young owl. With each step, its giant claws scratched the roof’s surface; like the pained screams of prey, they sounded. The young owl imagined those claws gripping his head and gouging his eyes.

  “Coo, coo.” The air trembled with the white owl’s voice, and the roof quaked under its walk, and the moonlight disappeared behind its open wings. Darkness covered the young owl, and the roof, and the world, paralyzing him. In those icy, cold eyes, he saw his demise. But then…

  The white owl suddenly halted midway, closed its wings, and stared at the young owl with eyes of curiosity. “Coo, coo… coo?” it said softly, tilting its giant head.

  The young owl couldn’t take it anymore and shot out and up, seeking the sky in a nervous fluttering of its wings, losing feathers along the way.

  Away and to the green’s left, he flew. Beneath, he saw a grand building of three floors nearby. Old men sat at the entrance, talking and laughing merrily about a small fire. Coming towards them from the dirt road, three men approached with the known stumble of drunkards, singing and waving their hands, and hugging each other for support.

  The village slept. The houses on the road sat in darkness, though one place seemed lively. The last house to the east was alight with fire, and music, and laughs. People sat on benches behind and in front of the two-floor dwelling, with beer and food cramming their tables. The owl kept going, leaving the green and the village behind him.

  After a short flight, he glanced back and noticed that the white owl was not following him. He breathed relieved, though he held his guard up because the area was unfamiliar to him. He had flown this far south once, or maybe twice, before. The cursed place was as far as he liked to venture outside the forest. Perhaps all this land was the white owl’s territory. It had to be. To feed such a large beast, it required a lot of prey, and those who dared to trespass on its domain, the white owl would feed on them instead. The young owl felt sure of this thought, for he hadn’t seen another owl like him since he left the forest.

  Nonetheless, the young owl had had enough for one night. First there were the terrifying silver eyes of the man, and now that white monster. Maybe it was for the best to stay away from this place and return to the forest. Not every day wolves get in the way of his hunt.

  The owl turned, changing his course towards the north. Not wanting to see the white monster again, he took a wide berth from the village, favoring his flight a little to the west. More fields and farms he passed over.

  Finally, the forest came ahead, and with it the manor. He took a glance at the cursed place, searching for the silver gaze. Then he spotted him; the dreadful man was marching out of the manor, leading a group towards the forest, all wearing black garments.

  The man stopped and looked up, tracing the owl in the sky—his eyes began to glow white.

  The young owl got spooked and lost altitude, but recovered quickly and began to flap his wings in despair. It lost itself in the sky above the forest, leaving behind a trail of falling feathers.

  The man scratched his beard, watching the fleeing owl. He carried a massive longsword over his shoulder with ease, as if he were lifting a broom; a normal-sized sword hung on his hips. The man shouted a command to the people behind him, his family, and resumed the march.

  A young woman was the first to respond to the call, hefting a similar massive longsword as the man and a pair of daggers as her backup. She was talking and laughing with the person behind her—her laughter seemed wicked.

  Next came a young man. He followed the woman silently, nodding to her words. He was the tallest of the group and had a long spear and a sword as his weapons.

  A young girl came next, walking closely behind the tall man and looking nervously at the forest. Unlike the others, she only had a sword with her.

  Two girls shyly followed the group from a distance, but the man quickly spotted them and ordered them to return home. The two obeyed after a brief dispute with him. From afar, they appeared unarmed, but upon closer inspection, it became apparent that they were carrying daggers beneath their black clothing.

  After making sure the two girls had left, the man raised a hand and resumed the march again, but stopped right at the entrance of the forest and turned to gaze at the patch of grass that lay behind him, where a young man slept peacefully on a blanket. A moment passed. The wind gently waved the green stalks and the fireflies that floated above, like bubbles of soap carried off by a breath. The man stared hard at the young man, but was ignored.

  The man sighed and entered the forest, followed by the others.

  “He’s mad,” the young man said, watching the group leave. After they were gone, he sat up and began to check the musket rifle by him. Content with his review, he lay down again, placing his hands against the back of his head. His blue eyes watched the night sky, counting the few clouds that slipped over the pale moon.

  His family had left without him. It had always been his job to stay one step ahead of them, commanding the hunt. But not tonight. Tonight, there was no prey for him to hunt.

  So, for this time, he would stay behind.