Cold. So cold.
And wet. So wet.
I discovered why this hole was empty. It’s built wrong. It’s tipped toward the sky a little, and it lets all the rain in.
All the smart owls figured out this fact.
Only the worst owl in the history of owldom would miss such a crucial fact. Would discover this only because the skies opened and poured waterfalls from the clouds. And they poured right in on my head.
My wings are bedraggled. My horn feathers are slick against my skull. My chest feathers are matted.
Everything is terrible.
All night, I waited for the rain to stop so my feathers would dry. The rain did not stop. So now I’m half sleeping on the edge of this soggy tree hole with my wings stretched a little, letting the sun dry me out. Hoping no one notices me. Especially something humiliating like a thrush. How awful would it be to get attacked by a tiny nothing bird like a thrush?
A rumbling comes from somewhere nearby and then dies. The same kind of rumbling that the monsters make.
I crack open my eyes and peer around my hole.
Nothing. I’m safe. For now.
There’s rustling in the grass. Some cries of birds and grunts of deer and buzzings of bugs. Nothing too close. I doze in and out of the world, checking it every so often for danger.
When the warmth reaches all the way in to my gizzard, I test my wing. It feels not great but not terrible. It might fly.
I stretch it out, give it a full flap. The pain is sharp, but I can fly with it. I have to be able to fly with it.
I open my eyes and the light is blinding. How do animals live in such brilliance? The world is white and sparkly and sharp.
Then I hear it.
Squeaking. Not far from here.
Serious squeaking.
I swivel my head and see the mouse. It’s just sitting in the grass. Running in circles. Squeaking.
Is this mouse crazy? Why squeak to the whole forest while spinning around in one place? There might be a hungry owl nearby.
There is a hungry owl nearby. A starving owl.
I’m off the tree before I think to check my feathers. They’re still full of water and I kind of half glide, half plummet to the grass near the mouse. It seems to be trapped inside a spider’s web. I hop onto the web, but it’s stiff like a twig. I can’t get my claws on the little fur ball.
I grab again.
The mouse shrieks and skitters around inside the web.
“Oh, be quiet,” I hoot, grabbing and poking with my talons. What is this web made of that I can’t get this delicious, tasty, trapped-just-beneath-my-feet mouse?!
And then I feel something slip through the feathers along one of my toes. A slick filament slides up my skin and then grabs.
This is a very strange web. Perhaps this mouse is more trouble than it’s worth. I go to lift my leg, but it’s caught.
My heart pounds.
I jerk my foot again. Still caught.
“AGH!” I squawk. “The web has me! The web has me!”
The mouse squeals angrily. Like maybe it has a clutch of family that’s on its way . . .
I flap and lift off the ground with this shrieking mouse and its web of terror strings, but it’s too heavy and my wing screams with pain and I flop down into the grass.
Could the mouse have built this web to trap owls? Could the prey have found a way to fight back? Great Beak, what is going on in this forest of rumbling monsters and vengeful mice?!
“Help!” I cry. “The prey are on the attack! HELP!”
Hearing my own squawks, I wonder what owl would even bother to help. How big a failure of a raptor do you have to be to get caught by a mouse in a spider web?
Imagine if First saw me like this. Or Father. Even Mother.
I will not go down without a fight. Even the worst great horned owl is still a great horned owl, as Father reminded me once.
“I will do you proud!” I squawk.
I give my leg one last jerk, confirm I’ve been captured, and flop still, awaiting the throng of angry vermin that must be on its way, my talons sharp and ready . . .