The Crow and the Owl

He watched as the old Witch dragged her shovel into the rose garden from his usual perch. His family around him squawked their gossip; the murder of crows always knew all that happened around the whole town.

“Olde Tom is dead.”

“How old was he again?”

“Stupid feline. If Tom’d acted his age….”

“Eleven is what I heard.”

They all jabbered around him while the crow leaned in, trying to hear the last words spoken over Tom by the Witch. He wanted to know what finally killed crazy, Olde Tom. Was it another tomcat, larger and more robust? The Crow wouldn’t be surprised; Tom was always strutting around town like he owned the place. The old Witch constantly had to reassure people, “yes, he’s had his shots,” and “he’s fixed,” whatever that means.

Or was it something more heroic? As the Witch’s familiar, Tom had many responsibilities. He was supposed to keep the Witch informed of the town, which was ridiculous. A cat as an informant? Everyone in the forest knew the ones with the information were the crows. It was why Tom came to them, buying their goods with mice and birds for them to eat.

They had lived fat and happy for several years now, Olde Tom shirking his familiar responsibilities to tomcat around. So just what got the cat killed?

The Witch was blubbering, her final words nothing but guilty confessions. The Crow tipped closer, hopping further down his perch while the murder clucked hardly.

“What are you up to?”

He flopped a wing back at them, “I wanna know more; I wanna know what got Olde Tom. He was stupid but large. What if it was another animal?”

“It was the Caddy.”

The Crow gasped, “what?”

“Olde Tom was too slow. Witch ran over him herself!”

They all broke into a fit, stirring up the air. The Witch glanced over her shoulder at the raucous. She never cared much for crows; their black eyes held too much soul. If she could get rid of them, the Witch still wouldn’t. Crows were known for their foresight. Or perhaps that was Ravens? She wasn’t sure anymore of which bird it was nor how to tell the difference between them. She supposed if they were clairvoyant, then they could have warned dear Olde Tom to move a little faster. The murder had been around her home for twenty years now; who was she to chase them away? If her grandmother let them be, then she would do the same.

The Witch was tired, a combination of her sorrow and the loss of her familiar. It left her weak. She needed to select a new familiar soon, or all her magic would fade.

It was circumvent that the Barn Owl ended her long journey then. Word had spread through the forest of Olde Tom’s death; the Racoon was also a chatty one. When he told the Barn Owl the once-great egg thief had met his end, she couldn’t resist the opportunity to see if it was true. After all, she had spent a great deal of her life at the Witch’s home, and if it weren’t for the cat, she would have stayed a great deal longer. This was where she and her mate had met and settled down until he stopped coming home one day.

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