The Hunter

In the days of my grandfather, it was very bad luck to shoot a barn owl.

But he found himself, one morning, a very lucky man. Hunting with his bow and arrow, he came across a shadow. He had only just claimed his bow and arrow from his tribe the year before, the year that the moon eclipsed the sun; and since he had been born in a month with two full moons, this was a very good sign. Though he was young, he walked amongst the strongest hunters. He could pierce the wing of a bee, aiming just by the sound of its soft humming. He could pin a fox to a tree without the creature feeling any pain.

As he walked with the men of his tribe, he believed himself a man. But such luck can be deceptive, especially to a young hunter. Even his aim deceived him, the day he met the owl. And the young, any elder will tell you, are much too trusting.

The shadow. It was circling him where he stood, and he had been watching it closely. As the shade of the grass changed before him, to his left, then to his right, he imagined the winged beast high above him. Graceful and quiet. Sure and proud.

So he flexed his shoulders, and took his aim by nocking the arrow so that his bow pointed behind him. He kept his gaze steady upon the shadow. The sun would seek to blind him, but my grandfather was clever.

Of course, his aim was true. This would not be much of a story if it hadn't been. And even when fate fulfills our intentions, we are often met with regret nonetheless.

When he trotted over to his catch, he immediately noticed his mistake. Luckily, the bird was not dead.

"Great owl, I did not mean to shoot you. I aimed by your shadow, and did not know what I was doing."

The owl ruffled his feathers. He knew what the boy had intended. He had been watching him too.

"Young hunter, you have shot me down. Your intentions mean little to me," he huffed. "My wing, it will never be the same."

My grandfather began to sweat. He knew the damage was done, for killing an owl was the sign of an unwise hunter. A hunter who did not see. How could he hone his senses to the subtle breeze of a bee's wing, and yet not see he was aiming for an owl?

"Owl, ask of me anything, so that I may be redeemed in your eyes."

My grandfather knelt in front of the white bird, as the owl guessed he would. For the owl had been watching my grandfather longer than you realize.

Hunter, you possess many gifts but you lack one thing that would make you great, he could have said. Hunter, you do no realize your true transgression. But the owl simply said:

"I will ask of you one thing, and one thing only."

"Anything, and it will be done."

The owl smirked at my grandfather's confidence.

"Catch me a fish."

"A fish?"

"A fish. It is all I ask."

"But that is simple. It will be here waiting for you before the sun has set."

"Ah, I applaud your optimism," cooed the great bird. "But now I must tell you that I require something of yours as collateral." The bird flapped his wings, which my grandfather noticed did not seem injured. "Your bow and arrow, please."

My grandfather stood quite still. Without his weapon, how would he catch the fish? Without his weapon, who was he at all, against the world?

He threw down his bow. He reached for his quiver, but hesitated.

"Do you deny yourself this chance to prove your remorse?" asked the owl.

My grandfather smiled weakly. "Of course not, great bird." And he threw down his only tool.

"You must go to that river," he gestured with his strong wing, "and that river alone."

For six days my grandfather sat in the river, lost to the world. For six days he did not catch a fish.

He tried scooping them out with his hands, but they were too slippery.

He tried bludgeoning them with stones, but the sun tricked him, and made him think the fish were closer than they were. He always missed.

"I don't know how my arrows would have helped, had I been able to use them," he would say to himself.

He tried luring them with bait, but by some misfortune, they were uncompromising. By the sixth day, he knew the river held a power over him that he did not understand, and that the bird had tricked him. If he had truly been older, perhaps he would not have been fooled so easily, but he doubted that any of his fellow hunters would not have done the same had they been confronted with the owl. They too were always sure of themselves.

And on the seventh day, my grandfather was too tired to think of how he could catch a fish. He was too tired to remember who he was. The hunter.

He stood, knee-deep in the river, lulled by its sound and the sweet smell of rotting reeds, eye-to-eye with a fish. It had been a moment before he realized the fish was before him, and he held no doubt that the fish would swim away from him eventually. But empty-minded as he was, he watched the fish for many hours. For many hours, the fish was in no hurry to flee.

My grandfather, when the sun had just dipped its toe into the horizon, blinked. He knelt in the river, ever so slowly. And reached out his hand.

The fish saw the glint of his fingertips in the water, the bubbles swimming around my grandfather's fingers. He swam forward, curious.

My grandfather waited, and when the fish would falter, he would not. He kept his hand outstretched, watching for the rapid twitch of fins, drawing his hand ever so slightly back until the fish's movements would slow.

Then he was close, and he snatched the fish out of the water.

And so my grandfather returned to the spot where he had promised the owl his fish.

"You have caught me a fish," mused the owl.

"Great bird, great hunter, I did not know how you honored me."

And some say, that when my grandfather died, he did not die like ordinary men. No. For he was born in a month with two full moons, when the moon eclipsed the sun. During the hunter's moon. And was taught by the greatest hunter how to see, and was therefore, very lucky. Some say, and I cannot disagree, that my grandfather, the moment before his death, turned into a barn owl. And if you're lucky -- if you're very still -- you might see him.