The Forest of the Owls

The night of the new moon is when magic is darkest, when evil’s eyes can see into the souls of all beings. There is one place on this earth that evil will walk confidently with a name long forgotten. Frolicking and dancing with an icy breath whose stench can be discovered briefly before it’s too late. Satan himself would tread lightly upon the decay of this ancient forest floor. People call this place the Forest of Owls. How this came to be is a sad tale that has been passed down from generation to generation for hundreds of years, never wavering far from the original. It’s been told thousands of times.

Now I am telling you.

There was a time that the Forest of Owls was teeming with life. Forest and fauna living together in perfect harmony. Some say even unicorns would migrate to the forest for winter. The wild blackberries growing there would bloom all year round to feed them through the winter months, and the resident birds would comb out their manes and braid them in intricate patterns. There were gnomes living in the mossy nooks of trees and fairies flying in the air so thick that one had to make sure a quick inhale didn’t ensnare one of these beautiful creatures within a nostril. Even the flowers were magical. Singing beautiful songs softly to the animals at nightfall to help lull all creatures to sleep. At this time the forest was named something different. It was called Azura.

Near the forest’s edge in a stone cottage surrounded by flower hedges there lived a beautiful young woman. Her long hair was the color of golden corn flax and her eyes as blue as the forget-me-not flowers growing on her windowsill. She was a princess. Princess of the fairies. Pure of heart, knowing only love. No one in the town knew what her name was for she was an outcast. Living on the edge of the forest alone and using her magic to help protect the forest from any and all evil that may enter. The townspeople shunned her and threw stones at her if she came near them. They were scared of her because she was followed by owls. Wherever she went they would circle above her, as well as perch upon her shoulders. Hundreds of them. The owls were her friends, her protectors.

One stormy dark night the local preacher brought the townsfolk together for a meeting. His fire and brimstone speech directed towards who he called the Witch. The Witch who lived near the forest edge alone. “We must kill her! Kill the Witch!” they all chanted. He gathered them all and marched to her cottage. With pitchforks and rope in hand they stormed through the door and grabbed her by the ankles, dragging her deep into the forest. Her beautiful owl friends, however, were unaware. For this was the one night they fly away from their beloved friend to hunt. Only during the darkest of nights do they find prey. The night of the new moon.

The preacher and the townsfolk reached the highest tree in the middle of the forest with the fairy princess in tow. Before the rope was strung around her neck she was able to say these words:

“Curses to ye preacher! With one drop of murdered blood upon this pure soil shall corrupt it! Darkness and evil to always roam these woods in your name! “

The preacher laughed at what she said, and without further ado quickly strung the princess up. As the preacher and townsfolk began walking away, one small drop of blood from the princess’s mouth dropped to the forest floor.

The next morning was eerily quiet in the forest and the town, creating a sense of dread for the people. The preacher awoke to his terrified parish knocking on his door. “Something is awry!” they were all crying out. “Come follow us to the Witch’s cottage!”

They all made their way to the cottage, only to find that there was nothing there. Where it once stood was a large stone inscribed with the language of the fairy. The forest looming dark, empty and quiet next to where the cottage once stood. Upon discovering this, they all panicked. Not knowing what to do next, they all turned to the preacher who stood petrified with fear, looking up at the sky. Suddenly a mass of owls appeared, feathers and claws raging down upon the preacher. Picking and clawing through flesh, forcing the preacher into the forest. Never to be seen or heard from again.

To this day, hundreds of owls perch on that old ancient tree still standing in the middle of the forest. Their screeching cries at night echoing a mourning song for their beloved lost friend. Some say you can hear her name if you listen to them with pure love in your heart. As for the preacher, it’s been told that if a person is brave enough, or if you have a death wish, you can venture into the forest on the new moon. Maybe you will catch a glimpse of his torn, rotting corpse running through the woods hunting for what little prey remains in the cursed forest, the Forest of the Owls.

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