The Inner Circle: The Knowing

by Cael McIntosh

  *

  Its sister having taken human life created a sense of ease in the remaining portion of the whisp and its darkly clad journey all but simmered to a stop. Life was granted to the dead only if another was made to pay the debt. After all, life and death always had to remain in balance. The Ways demanded such justice. The dark haze meandered about the skies for some thirteen years before finally billowing through the treetops into the place marked out by man as Narvon Wood.

  A small bird known by many in the region as an elf owl lifted into the air, beating her wings in anticipation for the night’s hunt. After having been created through such meaningful salvation, why the whisp chose such an insignificant target would forever remain a mystery. Perhaps it chose the owl because it had tired over the years. Perhaps it sought out the small animal through fear of its own inevitable demise. Either way, it was within the little bird’s soul that the darkness took its hold.

  With its limited capacity, the owl could not understand from where the chill had come, nor why the cold spread so relentlessly throughout her body. Mind and instincts all but destroyed, the bird lost track of where she was and that she had a family awaiting her return. All the same, her body continued to function and, as such, the egg that’d been forming within her awaited being lain.

  After a clumsy landing, the elf owl shuffled through the leaf-litter carpeting the forest floor and produced a perfectly black egg among the protective roots of an old tree. The bird opened her wings, the cold night beckoning her return, but the whisp within her died and, with it, so did she.

  In the weeks that followed, the animals of Narvon Wood strayed increasingly far to avoid the base of that old tree. The surrounding foliage died and soon after rotted away, leaving a clearing in which nothing was able to live. Perhaps the dark and pervasive omen had been intended as a curse. Perhaps it was divine intervention for that which was yet to come. Or perhaps, as was so often the case, its creation was simply a grand coincidence of neither intention nor design. The clearing was a place where sunlight seemed dull, the egg becoming indefinable among the shadows that lulled across its surface.

  Despite the lack of maternal warmth, when the time was due, the egg began to hatch, a tiny beak pipping its way tirelessly through the surface. The shell emitted a foul odour as it splintered to reveal the pathetic bit of flesh that came from within. The owlet’s appearance was deceptively similar to that of any other newborn of its kind. The bird opened its beak and called for a mother who’d long since become little more than dust and bones. It gaped for many hours but was graced by neither nourishment nor attention. Just as the young bird grew too weak to hold its head aloft, an unlikely guest appeared at the other side of the clearing.

  The plump rat bristled fearfully as it approached the weakened owlet. Within its crooked teeth, it carried the still warm corpse of its own young. It laid down the body cautiously in the dirt and proceeded to tear off pieces of flesh and place them within the awaiting gullet of the hatchling. Having fed the bird to contentment, the rat curled up beside it, offering warmth throughout the night. Upon awakening, it scampered away without a backward glance.

  The next visitor slithered equally as hesitantly into the clearing. Ordinarily, one would assume that the arrival of a serpent could only indicate ill intent, but again the visitor merely offered the owlet pieces of flesh torn from its kin.

  In the days that followed, a variety of animals approached the bird, each providing food and warmth until the day came when the owlet was due to leave his place between the roots of the old tree. He’d gained much knowledge as he’d grown. He’d noticed that the tree was entirely black at the base where he’d spent so much time and that the wind seldom touched a single leaf.

  Although he hadn’t realised it yet, the young owl was quite unlike other woodland animals. The bird ruffled his feathers and practiced beating his wings. He spotted a cricket on a nearby tree, leapt forward, and snatched it up within his clumsy talons. The elf owl no longer required the services of the animals of Narvon Wood, and oddly enough, they stopped coming.