“So long, sweet birdies.” Bismark gave them a quick wave. “I shall think of you as I command the cool, midnight skies.”
Tobin stroked the smooth skin of his belly and watched, glassy-eyed, as the birds slunk away. “My tummy’s all tied up in knots,” he moaned.
“Wait a tick, amigo. It’s fear—not grief—that sets off that stinker of yours, correctamundo?” Bismark’s eyes nervously traced their way from Tobin’s stomach to his rear. “Si? Oui? Right?”
The pangolin nodded…but then his face suddenly crumpled and his eyes shone with alarm. “Look out!” he cried.
The sugar glider’s eyes bulged and he plugged his nose with both paws. “Mon dieu!” he exclaimed. “I thought you said the coast was clear…not that your stench was near!”
“No,” said the pangolin, “I mean, duck!”
At once, the Brigade-mates dropped to the ground.
Whoosh! Whee! Zoom!
Dawn looked up, recognizing the uneven flight rhythm. “Otto!” she gasped. “He’s alive!”
But the fox’s relief quickly turned to concern—something was off in the owl’s usual bumblings. This time, his looping and lurching was punctuated with sharp yelps and groans.
“Mon dieu!” Bismark cried. “And we thought he was off-kilter before!”
The animals eyes darted to and fro, tracking the owl’s irregular movements, until he plummeted down to the ground, landing in a puff of feathers and dust.
“Oh goodness!” yelped Tobin. “Are you okay?”
Panting and groaning, Otto staggered to his feet. His eyes were blurry, his feathers were messy and matted, and he swayed back and forth like a reed. Slowly, his beak fell open. “Golllllly geeeee…” he uttered. Then, suddenly, he collapsed, falling facedown to the earth.
“Otto!” cried Tobin.
A falcon at the rear of the departing birds spun around. “Did you say ‘Otto’?” he asked. The others quickly chimed in:
“Otto?”
“The owl?”
“He’s back!”
The rest of the flock came to a halt. Upon hearing of Otto’s return, they sprinted back to camp.
“Move aside!” they cried out. “Let us through!”
Anxiously, the birds pushed through the swarm of jerboas and past the Brigade. When they reached the owl, they erupted in horrified cries. Otto’s back was bloody and torn, and along his spine, where feathers had previously bloomed, was a long, violent gash.
“The blood!”
“The horror!”
“The pain!”
The falcons squawked, aghast. The owls spun their heads backward, unable to bear the sight. Others, however, drew closer to tend to the injured bird. A hawk cradled Otto’s head in his wings while a falcon clasped the owl’s long, orange talon in his own. And yet another bird, using the tip of his wing, began to wipe away streaks of blood so the group could inspect the wound. But he froze at the sound of a loud, gritty call:
“Everyone! Step aside!”
The group turned abruptly, stirring the dust on the ground. As it settled, Polyphema came into view. Slowly, with measured strides, she made her way toward the owl and examined his torn back.
The tuatara turned toward her audience and dramatically lifted her chin. “It’s the mark of the beast!” she announced.
The crowd released a chorus of terrified yelps.
“I warned you,” she said. “I told you the beast would attack!”
“What did he do to Otto?” shrieked a hawk.
Polyphema took a step backward, leaving Otto alone, front and center. He had begun to stir. “Ask Otto,” she urged. “He has witnessed the beast’s wrath himself.”
Immediately, the animals closed in around the injured owl.
“Careful!” said Dawn. “Give him space!”
But the animals didn’t listen; the frenzy could not be stopped, and they continued to move in closer, until Otto was completely surrounded.
“What did he look like?” they demanded.
“Did he speak?”
“How’d you escape?”
Otto blinked, alarmed at all of the questions, and struggled to get his bearings. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet. His body was trembling—and despite the dryness and heat, his feathers were cold and damp. “G-goll… golly gee! I don’t know! Hard to see or hear much of anything with my, well, you know…situation.” The owl gestured toward his crooked neck. “Can’t really swivel to see what’s behind me. But I do know this,” he continued. “Something—someone—wanted me dead. I was attacked!”
At this, the jerboas erupted in ear-splitting squeals. The birds frantically flapped in place. Otto shuddered and hugged himself with his wings.
“You heard him,” Polyphema warned the terrified birds. “The beast is still out there. Out there and angry! You all need to leave—now.”
Otto looked down and plucked a loose, bloody feather from his side. “Silly Otto,” he muttered. “Clumsy, dotty, featherbrained fool. If not for this kooky neck of mine….” He sighed. “I’m an easy target. What was I thinking, flying at a time like this?”
“Yes, si, it’s true.” Bismark nodded. Then he smoothed his fur and stood tall. “A physically perfect specimen such as myself would never have this sort of trouble. No bulls-eye on my beautiful back.”
“This could have happened to anyone.” Dawn shook her head in dismay.
“That’s right!” yelled a falcon. “It could’ve been one of us!”
“It will be one of us!” screeched a hawk.
“Yes, it will,” confirmed Polyphema. She bowed her spiked head toward Otto. “Your friend here was spared. He’s lucky to be alive. But—” she paused dramatically, “there’s no telling what the beast will do next.”
“She’s right,” said a hawk.
The owls swiveled their heads in a panic. “Hurry!” they yelled. “Let’s go!”
In a frenzied rush, the animals began to scatter.
“Wait!” yelled the fox.
But no one heeded Dawn’s call. Instead, consumed by their fear, the birds tugged their friends by the feathers, urging them to move faster, and stumbled off toward the trees.
“Poor birds,” lamented the pangolin. “Poor Otto!”
The fox shook her head at the departing birds. Then, she shifted her gaze to Otto. With a path finally clear, Dawn made her way to the injured owl’s side and leaned over his ragged back. Gently, using her paws, she peeled back his blood-soaked feathers and examined the gash. The fox’s almond eyes narrowed to slivers.
“Wait a moment,” Dawn said.
“What is it, my sweet?” Bismark asked. “Is it the blood? Are you feeling faint? Shall I hold you?” Without waiting for a reply, the sugar glider ran to the fox and embraced her rear leg.
“Golly gee.” Otto winced. “Is it that bad?”
“Not bad…” replied Dawn, though the wound was, indeed, deep. “It’s just…strange…curious. Look,” she said, summoning Tobin. “Do you see? Look at the mark the beast left.”
The pangolin stepped next to the fox and bent over Otto. “Oh goodness,” he gasped. “There are three gashes!” With his snout, he gestured toward the trio of vertical slashes.
Dawn leaned closer. “Yes. But what’s really odd is that they’re not solid lines.”
Tobin cocked his head and squinted his beady eyes. Dawn was right: each scratch was actually made of several smaller marks. The two outer lines were fairly faint, and the wounds were relatively shallow. The source of most of the blood was the bigger, deeper punctures that made up the center line.
“These marks weren’t made by a claw,” Dawn concluded.
“Well done, my sleuthy sugar plum ! Well done. Well observed.” Bismark eyed the gashes and shuddered. “Mon dieu! Whoever did this was really out for blood.” He choked back a retch and turned away before Dawn could notice his nerves. Then he looked up at the orange disk of the sun perched high in the blue sky above. “Say… it’s getting late in the day, amigos, and we’ve been awake far too long! How about we take a small snooze before we continue this nauseating—I mean, noble—journey? It might be too late for our beat up, broke-neck owl friend here, but I still need my beauty sleep. We are nocturnals, after all.”
“This pattern…” Dawn mused, still fixed on Otto’s wounds. “It’s so…familiar.” The fox furrowed her brow and bent closer. “Where have I seen it before?”
“Come along now, my smart señorita. Look at something more pleasant.” The sugar glider framed himself with his paws. “My handsome face, for example? Or perhaps my terrifico tail?” He winked.
The fox looked up with a start. “That’s it!” she gasped.
Bismark beamed. “My tail? Fine choice, mon amour!”
“Polyphema—”started Dawn. “Where is she?”
The pangolin searched the area. To his left were the departing birds, slumping away toward the sun. To his right were the jerboas and kiwis, buzzing and bumbling with fear. But Polyphema was nowhere in sight. “She—she was just here…” stammered Tobin, bewildered.
The sugar glider stood on tiptoe. “Poly-pee?” he called. “Poly-poo?”
“There!” said the fox. Dawn narrowed her eyes. Polyphema was bolting toward the mountain, full-speed. And in the light of the rising sun, the tips of the spikes on her tail were shining—gleaming—in a deep, dark shade of red.