Gifts

Autumn Rain, Theurge Stargazer I've been called a wolf of few words. That's fine with me. Some say I'd run into less trouble if I would just ask questions now and then, but I trust what my senses tell me more than I trust words. Words can be false, but smells are true.

Sometimes, though, even words and smells together can't prepare you for what comes.

“Who?” the snowy owl spirit asks of me. That homid Weaver-lover would find this funny, I think, but I just respond.

“Autumn Rain.” I give my name with a slight bow of the head, though I don’t take my eyes off the owl. We’ve made a deal already, but birds are strange allies.

“Autumn Rain. Come.” Its hollow voice rings out over the still lake, where the crescent moon is mirrored in silver. It flaps into the trees, and I follow. My breath puffs out into mist in rhythm with my paws tossing up snow that smells

like buried things. I weave through trunks as large around as two wolves. A chill wind picks up, howling like a friend across the forest and gathering under my…

…wings? I try to bark in surprise and instead a screeching call emerges from my curved beak. “Silence,” says the spirit. “Do as I do, and understand.”

We sweep soundlessly through the darkness under the canopy, alight on branches to watch for prey, become the stillness of the raptor. The smallest details of the forest carpet are as clear to my eyes as the ringing of bells or the songs of distant robins should be. At any moment, I expect the chase to begin, the exhilarating rush of motion, but with an alien patience, Autumn Rain the owl just waits. Around me the forest moves and lives, passing me by with fleeting scents I can’t parse. I feel like a tiny boulder, a dead weight, with trees five times their usual size looming around me like specters.

Finally, we dive dreamlike into the snow, ever silent. No calls to the pack, no bounding pursuit. One merciless strike is all we need. The spirit banks aside at the last moment to make room for me and my snatching talons. I sink them into the grey fur of the unsuspecting mouse and warm blood follows my flight like raindrops, staining the flawless winter. My prey struggles helplessly in my iron grasp. Colors and shapes define the swiftly-passing landscape, new and bright even where the moonlight doesn’t reach.

Then I open my true eyes, heavy with a sleep I never took. The forest looks muted, but smells alive again. I have four paws as I should.

“Now,” says the spirit, “you have a little owl in you. Hunt not as the wolf but as I do, and you will snare your prey.”