Breath of an Owl

A silver-haired barn owl makes its soundless descent, like breath smoke in the solemn night. Its eyes fixed ahead, taking in the sounds of the creatures below. But tonight there are no rabbits hiding in the snow.

"An owl is a good omen for those who see it by their window", my mother said. She was the only one in the village who kept a silver-haired owl, and named it Mist. On a cold winter night, I lit two candles on either side of Mother's bed. We recited poetry and played music as the fire danced to the rhythm of our two voices. We sang our last lines of our song:

In the flame I hear its voice

Spirits, let me make my choice.

From the corner of the room, Mist flew out the window, blowing out the candle on my mother's right side of the bed. We watched as the dancing flame suddenly ceased to exist. What was left in the darkness were the remnants of light, a whisper of smoke rising to the cold night-- the last breath of a live flame. Later that night, I heard my mother take her last breath. Mist never returned.

Tonight marks the ten years I have been away from mother. Since her last breath I have not been able to sleep well… or sleep at all. I live with a friend, Grecia who helps her brother run an inn for travelers coming in and out of the village. Over the years, our village has expanded and slowly became a hub for trading our winter birds, as interesting as it may seem for outsiders whose hometowns do not have lively birds in the dead winter. I for one, take more interest in books. The Grand Library was once an owl sanctuary, repurposed as a home for books-- a spiraling tower of bare trees carved into, and sculpted out from its exterior. Piles of books of various languages on philosophy, magic, art, and music make its way from all corners of the world. Jonas, the old book keeper invites me to see the newly repurposed room for musical instruments.

Jonas meets me outside in the snow, and guides me to the doors of the library. We make our way up the spiraling stairs, looking down occasionally to see scholars gathering around a candle-lit table of foreign paintings. "We've got some new arrivals. Stringed instruments, mostly handheld." As we make our way to the door at the top, Jonas lunges forward to push the door open. From the doorway, we pause to admire the unknown beauty of such strange novelties. I nod to the back corner of the candlelit room where a large zither sits, a silver owl's head carved and sculpted in the center, with a wingspan the same length of my arms. The wings are adorned with strange runes on each feather.

"I'm sorry, dear Helmut", says Jonas. He points to the owl's wings. "Quite beautiful aren't they? Your mother hired a seer from the Southern Kingdoms to bless those runes… Unfortunately… it couldn't save her from that horrid curse."

I place my finger along the carved edges of each feather, covering several runes as I pass along the silver lines and mumble, "Maybe he didn't carve them big enough". Jonas chuckles with sad eyes. With a livelier tone, he suggests I can have the zither taken to my room at the inn.

In the candlelight, they seem to glow gold in contrast to the owl's silver head. The eyes are hollowed out and by the time I realize it, we are already at the back of the room, crouched down and staring into two pools of darkness where we are reminded that mother and Mist will never return.

I return to my room at the inn, leaving the zither behind with Jonas. As I lie down in my bed, I notice the candle on the right side of my bed dying out. I turn my head away and blow out the candle to my left. I center my head and stare at the ceiling as the shadows around the foot of the bed grow and encase my body in darkness. And in the dark, I watch the smoke of two lived flames loom over my head and disappear into a dead night.