The Owl.

Out of my window an owl was sat perched on a branch, looking rather pleased with itself (as most owls do). The night luminous with bluebells ringing in the wind, the remains of the moon half eaten by the starry night. I had serious suspicion the owl was the seventh child of the third sun, vexed by some vague memory… 

You ask, protected by the blossom of a black thorn in your back; your heart in your mouth, what is this? This is how it is. The sting of death upon your tongue. Your teeth hanging from a rope, the charcoal maids leave them hanging, leaving you to rot. Now the stars in your sky bloom. This is how owls daydream. 

I do not like to peek into others daydreams, and especially owls. The day begins with such thoughts; with the obscure likeness of being. 

The owl suddenly launches itself towards the window with a screech… 

Twit 

Woo 

Twit 

Woo. 

Flapping its wings with such modesty I am star struck. I became extremely shy, so shy I began to panic and fell out the window into the garden. 

 

The owl floated down in deep hesitant jest, landing on my head. Its claws digging into my scalp, taking the complexion of my thoughts and blowing them into the wind. My thoughts ending up stuck in the fashion of the trees. 

 The owl spinning webs and playing tricks picks me up and takes me through the air, holding me tight over meadows and the pale green voice of stones. 

Heroes paid tribute to the colossal body. 

Nothing yet stirred and yet through the echo of nimbus the silver grimace of buffoons bellowed out. Soon, the owl released me and I was dropped into the strut of the great wood. I hit the ground with such a thump I did not protest the reason. 

I often camped in the woods and wandered in perpetual worship of the hum of nature. So, I had some experience in a survival situation. I spent whole nights maundering through the great wood, breathing in the penetrating silence of the trees. 

At some point I came across three witches dancing around a cauldron. All three were wearing beautiful robes. The cauldron was bubbling and smoke rose from it like a soul departing for its body. The smell it gave off was earthy and a little pungent. My eyes watered slightly from its fumes. 

‘Hello’ I said 

The witches turned to face me and giggled like excited children. I explained that I was lost. They spoke in rather eloquent patterns that made me feel dizzy. My head felt as though it was going to fall off and my stomach rumbled with a sickness. I felt I may vomit but it did not occur. 

‘We will help you find your way, if you will help us with a little matter?’ the witches said in unison. 

‘And what is the little matter?’ I ask. 

‘The matter is this: We need the golden beak of a Rooster that lives in these woods for our concoction. Find the Rooster, kill it, chop off its head and bring it to us.’ 

They then gave me a knife to kill it with. 

I was unsure of killing an innocent animal but I felt I had no other option. I ventured forth into the wood and followed my nose. My nose was not much help, so I prowled my way through the dark green sea of leaves with nothing but my intuition. 

It took me three days and three nights to track down the Rooster. The Rooster was quite majestic and very proud looking. He strutted about like royalty. The confidence of his strut made me feel uneasy. 

I hid behind some bushes, crouched down ready to pounce. My heart began to palpitate and I began to sweat. The sweat dripping from my brow like a man hanging from a cliff. The Rooster was now stood still as a statue. 

I slowly rise to my feet and quietly tip toed towards the Rooster, coming in from behind. I got ready with my knife, tip toeing closer and closer to my prey. I soon got close enough I could slit his throat, but I did not have the heart to do such a thing in that moment. So, instead I grabbed it by the neck and wrestled it to the ground. The Rooster was strong but I overpowered it. I put my knife to his neck and said: 

‘I have come for your golden beak!’ 

The Rooster’s eyes widened in distress. 

‘Please, please don’t hurt me.’ The Rooster pleaded. 

He went on: ‘If the three witches of the wood have sent you, you cannot trust them. After you have had my guts for garters and separated my head from my body, they will surely do the same to you and parade your head on a stick.’ 

I had nothing but my intuition and when he said these words an electric shock pulsated in my stomach. 

I felt an ease come over my heart. 

I let go of the Rooster and told him of my predicament. He told me he cannot help me but can offer me something to trick the witches. 

‘My wife lays golden eggs, and when witches eat the yokes of golden eggs they transform into hens.’ I knew what I must do. So, I ventured back to the witches with golden eggs in hand. It took me three days and three nights to locate the witches once again. 

‘Do you have the golden beak?’ the witches said in unison. 

‘No. But I have something better.’ 

The witches’ ears perked up. 

‘And what would such a thing be?’ said the witches in unison. 

‘Golden eggs. I am told if you eat the yoke of golden eggs, they will give life eternal.’ 

The witches then run over to me and steal the golden eggs from my hands. They stare at them for a while, feeling their texture and debating the truth of my words. Their eyes pierce my eyes and suddenly they levitate me into the air and tie me up to a tree, turning the leaves into rope. 

I struggle a little but it does no good. 

The witches then began to crack open the golden eggs, swallowing the yokes in desperate excitement. 

It was not long before their stomachs began to hurt and they fell to the ground in agony. They moaned and rolled around like pigs in dirt. I watched them for two hours performing such behaviour until, finally they transformed into hens. They were not pretty hens. They were as ugly as hens as they were witches. 

After two days or so I witnessed the hens being killed by foxes. I was still tied to the tree. I lost track of the days, but at some point, the owl returned to me, landed on my head, looking rather pleased with itself. 

Reviews

[emmajoy]

What an extraordinary story... and from start to finish holds some fine descriptive language: '.. The night luminous with bluebells ringing in the wind, the remains of the moon half eaten by the starry night.'

It all suggests something of mystical past, a myth perhaps with another ninety nine tales to follow: . 'adventures of.. ' but interpretation is up to the reader. Which is the truth, where do the good and bad or right and wrong actually lie?

[Danny Metcalfe]

Thank you, Emma for you review. Very much appreciated. :)