Ghost Owl

by Shauna Houser

Only the moon sees the Ghost of the Night,

gliding silent as thought, its cry eerie and grating.

Only the moon sees the flash of its eyes,

and the gleam of sharp talons held open and waiting.

Only the moon knows the Ghost Owl is hunting,

as pale as a shadow caught out in midday,

and only the moon knows the world is its playground;

the children of mortals its prey.

So come the deep cold, when the nights are the longest

and shadows are strongest, it’s time to beware.

For when the sun rises, unpleasant surprises

will leave mothers grieving, their lives in despair.

And only the moon knows the Owl hunted there.

Chapter One

It was amazing how one’s surroundings could change one’s perspective of an old ghost story.  What was normally an entertaining tale whispered around a warm fire with a cup of hot tea or a roll in hand, became something else altogether when one was trapped out in a dark forest buried in a blanket of ice and snow.  It became something frightening and sinister, and quite real to one’s senses, story or no.

This was how Thyme Willowbrook felt as she huddled down as far as she could in her thick, woolen cloak, listening as the wind shrieked around her and the cold seeped into her bones, cursing herself yet again for having accepted that stupid dare to salvage her pride.  A dare that she, at sixteen years old and nearly a grown woman, should have left to the young men, as most other girls in her village would have done.

Of course, she wasn’t like other girls in her village.  Everyone knew that.  She was what was termed a Tommy.  She didn’t much like the term, but she supposed it was her own fault that she had been branded with it.  After all, one would never catch Ariana Bowen climbing a tree like a squirrel, and Thyme’s cousin, Morgan, wouldn’t be caught dead in the breeches and tunics Thyme preferred.  She knew how to use her fists (thanks to her two older brothers who used to torment her regularly…until the first time she gave one of them a black eye), to deal out justice against those few bullies in the village, and she knew some words that could make a pirate blush, picked up from spending time in the gathering hall listening to Old Willie (who was supposedly a retired pirate himself) telling his stories of life on the high seas.

That’s where she had been today, when the entire mess had started, sitting in the hall enjoying a cup of hot chocolate (a very rare treat), while Old Willie told one of the many stories of the legendary Ghost Owl to a group of children sitting around his feet, transfixed.  One thing about Old Willie; when he wasn’t too drunk to talk, he was a fantastic storyteller.  This time the tale was about how a little boy in the neighboring village had mysteriously vanished into the night, and nothing left to show but a single long feather, as silver as mist, in the place he had last been seen.

What made the story especially scary was the fact that a little boy really had vanished into the night in the neighboring village, only seven days past.  Nobody knew what happened.  His mother had died years ago, and his father was a drunk given to vicious tempers.  Most thought that he had killed the boy in a drunken rage, and had thrown the body into the half-frozen river when he sobered up and realized what he’d done.  Nobody could prove it, of course, and the father swore up and down that he wasn’t even in the village when the boy had vanished.  Not that it helped his case any, considering that the boy had vanished outside the village.

But, as mysteries go, what truly had happened had already been blown into a full-fledged tale of spirits and ghosts and things that couldn’t possibly be true, except in one’s nightmares.  But Old Willie, who was highly superstitious, swore up and down that he had been there when the child was snatched by a huge owl as silver as mist, with fierce golden eyes that froze him like a deer in his tracks…which was why he hadn’t lifted a finger to save the poor lad.  Not that he didn’t want to.  He just couldn’t.

Thyme didn’t believe a word of it, of course, although some of the younger children seemed to.  They sat huddled under their blankets, gazing up at Old Willie with fearful eyes, and they stayed long after Willie had left for his hut, whispering among themselves about the Ghost Owl and whether or not it was still in the forest.

That was when the trouble had started.  Trouble in the form of one of the elder boys, although no older than Thyme herself, named Bronson Redfern.  He was the perpetual bully, and he had the countenance to match; small, piggish eyes, thick lips that always were pulled back in a sneer, and a mop of greasy, tangled blond hair.  He smelled like a pigsty, and he had no manners to speak of.  He had very little in the way of intellect, but he more than made up for that lack in rotten personality.  He was a liar and a thief, and all of the unattached girls avoided him like the plague.  It was doubtful he would ever marry.

At the moment, he was approaching Thyme’s young sister, Maddy, who was only eight years old.  Thyme saw him coming and stiffened in her seat, watching from the corner of her eye.  She had known Bronson the Bull was picking on her sister, although she had never caught him at it.  He was that clever, at least, to make sure she was never around when he chose his victims.  Apparently, he was looking for a fight tonight.

 “So th’ baby’s scared of a little ol’ owl, is she?” Bronson slurred, leering down at Maddy, who stared up at him with wide eyes, although her nose was wrinkling a little at the smell of him.  He had been drinking, apparently.  Even Thyme could smell the ale on him.  “Ya know…th’ story’s true,” he was saying in a harsh whisper, as though sharing some great secret.  “Ol’ Willie, he was tellin’ the truth.  He done seen somethin’ that night, an’ I can prove it, too.”  He laughed loudly at some imagined joke as Maddy nervously looked for an escape route. 

Her eyes met those of her sister’s, pleading for help, and Thyme, grim faced, rose from her seat and sauntered over to the group huddled around the fire.  “I think you need to go cool your head outside,” she stated firmly, fixing Bronson with a fierce glare.  “I don’t like anybody bullying my sister, especially the likes of you.”

Bronson stared at her through blood-shot eyes.  “What’re ya gonna do if I don’t, li’l girl?” he challenged, and as he spoke, two of his friends walked up beside him and glared meaningfully at Thyme.  They smelled almost as bad as he did.

Thyme shrugged delicately, flexing her fist.  “Come on, Bronson,” she said lightly.  “We both know I can knock you flat on your back in the best of times, and you’re barely sober enough to stand against a spring breeze at the moment.”

Bronson glared at her.  He may have been drunk, but he knew when he was being insulted, and in front of his pals, no less.  “Why don’ you jus’ git yerself lost?” he grumbled.

Thyme snorted.  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” she retorted.  “Leave my sister alone.”

“Big words, comin’ from a half-pint like you,” he sneered.  “I was jist tellin’ the li’l brat that th’ owl’s gonna come an’ carry ‘er off if she weren’t careful.  It likes little girls.  Likes to eat ‘em fer dinner, ain’t that right?”  He grinned and looked at Maddy, who glared back at him as his friends chuckled.

 “That’s not true!” the child protested, but she didn’t sound as certain as she might have.  “There’s no owl, is there, Thyme?”

“Of course not,” Thyme replied.  “It’s just an old story to scare people.  Whatever happened to that boy, he wasn’t carried off by some Ghost Owl.”

Maddy looked relieved, but Bronson wasn’t giving up.  “Tha’s what you think,” he declared.  “Ol’ Willie, he’s the one what found th’ feather, ain’t he?  He’s a grown man, an’ he seems t’ believe it’s real,” he pointed out smugly.

Thyme rolled her eyes.  “Old Willie also claims that he’s got a fairy trapped in his clothes chest,” she snapped.  “Bronson, aren’t you a little old to believe in ghosts?”

Bronson looked at her sourly.  “All’s I’m sayin’ is Willie was somewhere that night.  I was there, too, ya know.  I seen him come runnin’ into the village like ‘is tail was on fire.  He sure saw somethin’ that night.”

Thyme was surprised.  She hadn’t known that.  She eyed him suspiciously.  “You’re making that up, and if you believe it’s real, then you’re drunker’n I thought,” she accused.  “Go to bed and sleep off that ale before you fall into the fire place.  And take your lapdogs with you.”

“I ain’t makin’ anything up!” Bronson exclaimed.  “I seen it!  I did!  Was near dawn when Ol’ Willie came runnin’ home, bellowin’ about some giant bird with fire for eyes.  Surprised he didn’t wake up the whole village the way he was hollerin’.”

Thyme frowned.  “What were you doing out before dawn, anyhow?” she asked suspiciously.

Bronson gave her an innocent look.  “Was checkin’ my wolf traps,” he replied.  “Wasn’t I, boys?”  His friends nodded vigorously in agreement. 

Of course, if he told me he had been fishing for bears in the river, they’d probably agree to that, too, Thyme thought sourly.  She didn’t believe him.  It was too late into the cold season to be trapping wolves.  Most of them had headed to warmer grounds below the mountains where most of the game had migrated.  And Bronson was no hunter.  He didn’t have the brains to trap a squirrel, much less the intelligent wolves.  Besides, the few left in the forest could probably smell him coming a mile off.  “Well, I guess it isn’t important,” she muttered, deciding not to pursue the subject.  “But I’m telling you that there’s no such thing as a Ghost Owl, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t go terrorizing my sister with your stupid stories.  Bad enough Old Willie tells ‘em.  At least he’s good at it.”

Bronson gave her a contemptuous glance.  “Okay, Miss Know-it-all,” he sneered.  “Yer so smart, how’s about a bet, aye?  I dare you ta go into the forest tonight.  I dare ya to stay the night there, an’ if the Owl don’t carry you off, then that’ll prove it ain’t real, an’ no more words about it, huh?”

Thyme looked at him disdainfully, although a bit of unease was making its way through her mind.  “The Owl only steals children, remember?” she replied, speaking as though to a dull-witted toddler.  “Even if it were real, which it ain’t, it wouldn’t take me anyhow.”

“What about th’ girl what went missin’ last winter?” one of Bronson’s friends  pointed out.  “She was yer age.  Vanished without a trace, jus’ like the boy.  From the same village, too.  An’ what about Jana?  ‘Member her?”

Thyme felt a chill creep up her spine.  She did remember Jana, a girl eight years older than her who had lived in her village.  Ten years ago, Jana had gone into the forest and had never come out again.  Thyme had been six years old when Jana had disappeared.  The entire village had spent weeks searching for her, but they never found her.  Most folk claimed that Jana had run off, because her father had used to beat her, and she was rather a wild girl.  But deep down, Thyme had always felt it to be otherwise.  It was a mystery even to this day.  Another mystery.  It seemed like the village, and everything around it, was full of them.

 “Okay, fine.  So people my age vanish, too.  That don’t mean anything,” she snapped.  “This place is so dull.  Nothing ever changes here.  Probably they all ran off to see the world or something.  Saints know I’ve thought about it often enough!”

“So prove it then.  Go out in the forest an’ spend the night, an’ come back an’ that’ll prove there’s no Ghost Owl,” Bronson replied triumphantly.

 “Are you friggin’ crazy?  It’s freezing out there!  I ain’t gonna spend an entire night out there in the snow!” Thyme cried.

 “Well, then, go later, closer to dawn.  That’s when they were supposed to’ve vanished, anyhow,” he replied with a smirk.  “Whazza matter?  Can’t handle a little snow?  Or are you scared of a ghost?”

Thyme glared at him, knowing she had walked right into that one.  She glanced at Maddy, who was looking at her hopefully, with something akin to adoration in her eyes.  To Maddy, her sister could do anything.  She really didn’t want to shatter the child’s perception of her.

“Fine,” she bit out.  “I’ll go.  Before dawn comes, I’ll go into the forest, and I’ll prove once and for all there’s no stupid Ghost Owl, and that’ll be the end of it, okay?  And Maddy, if you tell anyone about this, I’ll make you disappear myself.  Same goes for the rest of you!”  Referring to the other children who were watching the drama unfold with wide eyes.  They nodded at her quickly, knowing Thyme did not make idle threats.

 “Right.  Well, guess I’d better go get some sleep then.  Saints know I’m gonna need it,” she muttered, stomping out of the hall toward her hut with Maddy in tow.

“I’ll be by before dawn t’ wake ya up!” Bronson shouted behind her, followed by the laughter of his friends.  The gleeful tone of his voice let Thyme know that she was going to regret her decision before the night was over.  Indeed, she already did.

*              *              *              *              *

And that’s where Thyme was now.  Alone in a dark forest, surrounded by trees and ice and wind, and the saints only knew how many wild animals.  She knew there were still wolves in the forest; her own brother had shot one just the other day while hunting rabbits.  It had been mad, and he’d had to fire three arrows into it before it died.  Thyme could still remember the revolting smell of burning hair and flesh when they’d tossed it into the fire pit dug away from the village for just such a purpose.  This time of year, the foaming sickness ran rampant throughout the forest.  One could never be too careful.

The wind suddenly picked up with a shriek, and Thyme cursed yet again and huddled still further into her cloak, her back against a tree to afford her some protection.  However, the wind had shifted, and now it was blowing full in her face, carrying snow along with it.  She didn’t remember ever being so cold in her life.  She amused herself by imagining the most horrible forms of revenge she could come up with for the one who had stuck her out there, and felt a little warmer at the thought of his yells for mercy while she hoisted him up into a tree by his toes.

And then the wind died.

She didn’t know how else to explain it.  Later, when she tried, the only thing she could think of was that she had been sitting out in the open, and then something had dropped an invisible box over her that had blocked out the wind.  Only it wasn’t just over her, but the entire forest.  The horrible shrieking of air through the trees cut off abruptly, and the rattling of ice-covered branches stilled only moments later, and Thyme found herself sitting in a perfectly silent forest.

Her eyes went wide, and her heart raced ahead even as she froze, like a startled squirrel.  Her skin prickled with the feeling of danger, and her breathing went quick and shallow…and oh-so-loud in that silent forest. 

Something’s out there…

The thought echoed over and over in her mind, and she barely noticed that she had begun to shake.  Something was out there, and that something was so sinister that even the wind dared not disturb its passing.

The Ghost Owl…

Yet again, the song of the Ghost Owl and Old Willie’s story echoed in her head, and she shoved it away.  Poppycock, as her mother would say.  Pure fiction.  There was no such thing.

Something else told her that she wasn’t so sure…

Then she heard something above the harsh sounds of her breathing.  Something that sounded like velvet snapping in the wind, like her mother’s good dress after being washed and hung to dry on a breezy day.  Something like the near-silent echo of wing beats shattering the still air.

Thyme’s heart stopped, and she clutched something in her hand so hard her knuckles cracked.  She looked down and saw that she was holding a bone-handled knife.  A dagger her father had given to her before he died, and had taught her how to wield and throw like an expert.  She didn’t even remember drawing it.

If that is the Ghost Owl, I don’t know that a knife’s gonna be any use in saving myself from it, she thought.  It was made of iron, which, while it might be useful in warding off any local fae, would probably do nothing more to a ghost than pass right through it.  But it was all she had, and she held on to it like a drowning man to his raft.  If she was going to go, she was going to go kicking and screaming the whole way.  She wasn’t called a Tommy for nothing, after all.

Slowly she stood up, slipping the dagger into her belt where she could easily reach it.  There was no way she was going to sit around and wait for whatever was out there to find her.  She was going to find it, first, and get the drop on it, if possible.  Ghost or no ghost.  The way she figured it, if the Ghost Owl was solid enough to carry people off, then it was solid enough to allow a dagger to inflict some damage, if only enough to allow her to escape.

There came a low sound, an eerie cry, off to her left, and she froze.  It had sounded like an owl’s call, only much deeper than any owl she’d ever heard.  She crept silently toward the sound, cringing at the sound of fresh snow crunching softly beneath her booted feet.  To her hypersensitive ears, the muffled squeak-crunch of the powdery snow sounded as loud as the crack of a branch snapping in two, over and over again.  Surely, whatever was out there had heard her coming long already.

There was a little clearing just ahead.  She knew the place well; in the summer, the bushes surrounding it were filled with blackberries, and she’d spent many a warm day picking them for her mother, and eating half of them herself.  Right now, those bushes were bare of leaves and berries both, the thin, brown branches exchanging their layers of green and dark purple for a thin coat of crystallized white, instead.  But they still provided enough cover so that she could crawl slowly forward, ignoring the chill of the snow soaking through her clothes as she sought to gain a better, safer view. 

There was…a figure in the clearing.  The moon shone down full upon it, and she could see that it was definitely a bird of some kind.  She tried to deny what her eyes were telling her, but there was no mistaking the fat, silver-feathered body or the round, noble head of the owl that filled her gaze.  It was huge, but she had expected that.  That’s what all the stories had said.  What she had not expected was for it to be so…beautiful.

That was the only word to describe it.  It was the size of a large dog, or perhaps a wolf, and the moon turned its feathers, which must have been the color of mist on a summer’s morning, to the hue of softly-polished silver.  Its huge, round eyes were fierce and burned golden in the moonlight.  They seemed ancient, those eyes, as though possessing a wisdom that far outweighed man’s intelligence.  The Ghost Owl is real, she thought, in somewhat of a daze.  I don’t believe it.  The Ghost Owl is real.

And if that was the case, then she was in very real danger.  For the first time, she began to realize just how much.  Those talons were probably just as sharp as her dagger, and there were seven times as many.  Not to mention its beak, sharp and hooked and perfect for tearing into flesh…

She forced herself not to panic and slowly began to back away from the clearing.  If she could just get away without it seeing her…

And then the Owl turned its head, in that way that owls are so known for, until it was looking at its own tail.  But it wasn’t looking at its tail at all.  It was looking directly at Thyme, and she couldn’t help but think that maybe it looked…hungry.  That was all she could think, because at that very moment, with a shriek that could have made a dead man cringe, the owl had twisted itself fully around and was launching itself straight at her.