The Wise One

Harold trudged up the steep hill—confident, yet mindful in his steps. The dew of dawn had yet been scorched, with oily moisture clinging to all it can. He learned his lesson the first time slipping. Quite a tumble that was indeed, and moreso fortunate not to have broken a bone. Atop the hill was a welcome opening into the Fabled Wood—an expansive forest on the outskirts of his village. How or why this seemingly manmade opening came to be was beyond him, but Harold was grateful for it, as it made his daily trek all the more straightforward.

He reached the peak and approached the familiar entrance. It welcomed him this time, as he was without his usual sack of rodent carcasses. Normally, a swarm of flies and mosquitos would attack at this point—desperate for the daily spoils of rotting flesh. Though he’d learned that the offerings were expected; his mind held little concern or worry. Surely the Wise One would understand. Harold took a moment to enjoy the gifts of spring’s arrival in the forest. The ménage of green hues was now accompanied by a commingling of crimson and vermillion flowers.

Harold pushed through a tunnel of vines that led to the Wise One’s home. They dangled and swayed like inept snakes as he went through. The end of the tunnel led to a circular field of flat grass with a centered tree stump more than twice the size of the average man, in both length and height. Harold wiped his forehead and examined the area, looking around for any sight of the creature.

Huh, thought Harold. He’s usually always here…

In that moment, a familiar screech overtook the forest as ear-piercing as claws on stone. Vibrations were felt through all, causing goosebumps to appear on Harold’s arms. Clouds then came upon the surrounding area. A bit too sudden of an overcast, he felt, so he stepped back and tilted his head up.

Ah, there you are.

The Wise One made his descent onto the empty tree stump, fixated on Harold all the way. Its eyes were as black as death, with a pale face and feathers to exaggerate this. It wore a golden coat like a form-fitting jacket. A typical barn owl, one would assume, if not for its massive size—dwarfing the already impressive tree stump.

“Greetings, Wise One,” Harold said. “I trust all is well since yesterday?”

“Quite so, Harold,” the owl said with a low, booming voice. “Though I am dismayed at your arrival, for it does not accompany the aroma of a fresh meal. Surely you do not expect to receive guidance for free?”

Harold placed a hand on his waist and the other to his chin. He furrowed his brows at the possibility of making a day’s trek for naught.

“Oh, come now, I thought we’d become proper chums,” he protested. “I’ve brought offerings upon you every day for weeks. Have you forgotten?”

“Watch your words,” the owl warned.

“Apologies,” he said. “It’s just—well—I come here hoping that your daily wisdom sparks the change I seek. You speak of the ‘Secret to Courageousness’ as if there truly is a kept secret. If I’m to have any shot of knighthood, I must know it.”

To become a knight was Harold’s dream, and his only hope of achieving that was through a developed and thickened spine—courtesy of the owl’s good fortune and wisdom. He wasn't known for bravery in his village; this was most certain.

The owl kept silent for a moment, musing over this valid argument. Harold thought he heard a growl fill the silent void.

“Let’s come to an accord then,” it said. “I saw ill point in mentioning this before, but you raise a fine argument in that you’ve come before me all too often. This tells me my wisdom has fallen on deaf ears. No matter. There is a way to receive the Secret you seek.”

“Please, Wise One,” Harold said, bending a knee in respect, “Name the task.”

“Very well,” it sighed. “You must bring an offering.”

Harold scoffed. “More rats?”

“No, something more. Something worthy.”

“I don’t understand,” Harold said, crossing his arms. “How am I to know?”

“You’ll know,” it assured. “However, my patience is rather thin today, so you will only have three hours.”

Harold repeated this in disbelief and shook his head in frustration, but then remembered he needed not temper the owl. He offered his thanks and departed from the area through the tunnel of vines. The canopy of the forest hid the sun, which meant he’d have no way of keeping time other than gut instinct. He’d need to limit his search to the Fabled Wood. Fortunately, the place was named such for good reason, as he’d heard tales of all kinds of beasts lurking within—vicious and mild-mannered alike. But where?

First things first, he’d need a weapon. Not the hunter’s knife he’d carried around—no, that was for the little critters. Something with range would be appropriate here. Harold rummaged through the remnants of a fallen tree and found a thick branch worthy of sharpening. Within a few moments, he held a decent-enough spear. Then off he went, into the thick of the forest—marking his route via knife marks on every few trees.

About an hour of exploring, but all he’d seen were small creatures not worth considering. The sun’s heat was in full effect now, and Harold came to realize the arid desert that was his throat. He reached the side of his belt for his canteen and took a sip of water, noting the lack of weight remaining. There had to be a lake nearby.

And where there’s water, there’s life.

Harold closed his eyes and put all focus into his hearing. There were the clicks of various insects, the scrambling of squirrels, but underneath was something else. Something consistent. A rippling flow, bypassing all in its way.

A stream or river, he thought. Perhaps a waterfall?

After determining the sound’s origin, he made haste. The closer he got, the more it confirmed water’s presence. Indeed, as he’d guessed, a river. Following along the shores led him to the top of a small waterfall. The canopy thinned in this area, allowing sunlight to expose the brilliant blue of the plunge pool below. Harold wished he could take a moment to take the view in, but he had a hunch he’d gone over the halfway point in his allotted time. Interestingly, still not a single creature to be seen. He was beginning to think the legends of this forest were no truer than children’s fairytales.

Harold needed to fill his canteen regardless, and the falling water was his best bet. He descended down the cliff, taking his time with each movement until the ground was within a safe enough distance to release from. Soon enough, within a few meters of the surface water, he planted his feet against the rock and pushed off with great force—announcing his presence with a heavy splash.

Caws of birds filled the air at this disturbance. The young man rose up from the deep and swam toward the side of the downpour. He unscrewed the cap of his canteen and thought he heard a branch break, but it must’ve been his imagination. But there it was again—this time close enough to confirm its reality. Harold snapped his head to its origin, and his eyes widened. His body froze. Heart pounded. Mind unwavering from the sight before him.

A griffin…

The beast stood at the rim of the pool, staring down Harold. Its eyes were red as the blood it no doubt sought, with a ruffled mane whiter than snow, encircling its stoic and determined face. It had seemed that the legends of griffins were backwards, for it had the body and face of a common lion, yet eagle-like talons and feathers all-covering. It sported a set of massive wings in the mid of its back. They were outstretched—it must have just landed.

Harold tightened his grip on the spear. He felt the urge to run but realized his limitations within the water. His best hope was to dive and come to shore at a random spot. Even still, his chances of running away were slim to none. He’d have to weave through the forest trees as best he could.

The griffin bent its knees, ready to pounce, but Harold disappeared at once. He swam to where the beast had leapt from, hoping it wouldn’t have guessed such a move, and waited underwater for a few moments. Twenty seconds passed, and Harold knew he had to go—that the longer he stayed, the less air he’d have for any decent attempt of a sprint to safety.

Harold surfaced and ran as fast as he could, ignoring to look where the beast had gone or if it was in pursuit. A heavy gust of wind flew past him, and the griffin manifested at once before his path. Harold diverted left and it happened again, but this time one of the griffin’s talons swept through his left shoulder. He grimaced at the pain. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it was enough to fill the air with his blood’s aroma, making the pursuant griffin all the more vicious, yet careless as well. Harold tripped over the exposed roots of a well-aged tree, scrambling and desperate to be free. He got to his feet and attempted to grab his fallen spear, but then saw the beast leap toward him and managed to duck out of the way. Fortunate for Harold, the griffin’s talons became one with the trunk of the tree, and the tree desired not to part ways. The creature roared and pulled with all its might, yet the tree was unrelenting.

Harold retrieved his spear. This was his chance.

He charged toward the griffin with a fierce roar of his own—aiming the tip of the spear toward its head.

Both roars ceased, and the Fabled Wood fell silent.

*****

Harold’s return was swift. He stood before the Wise One with the griffin’s decapitated mane clutched in his hand.

“Time limit be damned,” he panted. “The rest is near the base of a waterfall west of here.”

He set the trophy before the owl and returned to his former distance.

“Excellent,” the owl said—sounding impressed. “This is indeed worthy.”

"I understand now.”

The owl cocked its head. “Understand what?”

“The Secret to Courageousness. There is none. You knew that this was the only way for me to figure it out.”

“Eh, not quite so,” it admitted, re-centering its head. “I was merely famished.”

“What?”

The owl appeared to shrug.

“Yes, I mean—bravo to you, of course—but truth must be known. I’d grown used to your daily meals and when you failed to deliver earlier, well—let’s just say I’m rather wicked on an empty stomach. Had you not succeeded, I was going to eat you.”

Harold stood silent and dumbfounded at this.

“Anyhow!” the owl continued, “By the waterfall, you say? I’d hate for someone else to stumble upon such a treat, so if you’ll excuse me…”

Its wings expanded in a flash, and the Wise One shot straight up into the sky, screeching as it took off.

Harold—baffled and rightly so—smiled and proceeded to return home. Despite the owl’s selfish trickery, Harold had in fact learned something he’d carry into all his years. He would go on to become the finest knight his country had ever known—forever sporting a griffin on his shield in honor of that life-changing day.