I enjoy nature. It feels still and vivacious at the same time. It is quiet, but not silent. Serene, but not dull. I think back to the nice hilltop hut I lived in when I took up post as tribe shaman in Solmienya. The tribe I administered to were very particular about where I lived. The hut had been where several generations of their prior shaman lineage had resided and, even though I wasn’t from that lineage—nor even a lizardman—they insisted I take residence in the quaint abode. They had also insisted, eventually, that I keep a bird of prey as a pet—another symbol they felt was important because it had been so with their past shamans. At least as far back as they remembered.
I did not appreciate being told what to do and how to live, and I was near to abandoning the tribe when I had heard some strange-sounding bird calls while out in the jungle gathering medicinal herbs. I had followed the source and saw a young owl perched on a limb high above. It’s nest had been nearby, nestled in the intersection of limbs and vines, decorated with an assortment of leaves and twigs. The owl had looked down at me curiously. It mostly wore the feathers of an adult, but fluffy down still peaked through all over, causing it to resemble a frayed and overstuffed toy doll.
I had sat for a time and watched the owl as it worked up the courage to attempt flight for the first time. It’s parents had been nowhere to be seen, but hooting and fluttering echoed through the jungle periodically. It seemed it was fledgling season and little owls were earning their wings all throughout the forest. From the sound of it, over the hours I sat, most were successful. The little owl I watched, however, held back.
What was it waiting for, I had wondered, lost in the existential dilemma unfolding before me. Was it weak? Was it afraid? No, it didn’t seem so. It had seemed to me that it was contemplating something more important than whether or not it could fly. It seemed to struggle to find the purpose in it; whether or not it should fly.
From its high vantage point, it observed several other fledgling owls in their first attempts. I could only hear whether they succeeded or failed from where I had sat.
Then, quite without warning, the little creature had sprung from its perch, launching skyward with all the strength it could muster. Wings tight at its side, it had shot like a geyser through the air for a long second before it unfurled its wings and caught the wind. Flapping with a fervor rarely seen beyond youth, it had beat back the pull of the earth enough to alight on a slightly lower branch a little ways away. The landing had been awkward and clumsy, and its wings seemed to have had a mind of their own—flapping so furiously the little owl was nearly knocked from its perch by its own wings, so desperate to fly, they had been.
The owl had peered down at me from its new location, panting heavily from the great exertion of moving a few ounces of owling a few feet through sheer will.
Satisfied, I had got up and finished my herb picking. As I left the area, the sound of furious flapping had rippled through the trees like a sudden gust of wind. Then, quite without warning, a flurry of feathers had struck my head, made a terrible scratching sound against my gorget, sunk a needle-like talon into my shoulder, and then half-fluttered, half-tumbled down my back onto the ground at my ankles.
Gripping my punctured shoulder, I had half-turned to take a look at what had attacked me, and it had been none other than the thoughtful, little owling I had been watching—and who had been watching me. Its two large, orange eyes focused on mine; its head rocked back and forth inquisitively.
It had hooted at me, the squealing hoot of a juvenile, and ruffled its gold-and-black flecked feathers, then had begun to preen.
Curious, I had put the basket of herbs on the ground next to it, and watched as it peered inside, brimming with a curiosity of its own. Satisfied after giving a thorough visual inspection, it had flapped around hectically and high-stepped itself onto the edge of the basket. No longer interested in the contents of the basket, it had looked around at the forest floor and waited. So I’d picked up the basket and walked back to my hut overlooking that backwater lizardman village. It has been with me ever since.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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