By M. Elizabeth Ticknor
Originally published in MurderBirds: An Avian Anthology.
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There is no shame in being afraid of the dark. Darkness is the purview of night, and night is when Owl takes wing. Avoid the liminal spaces between civilization and the primal wilds, the paper-stained alleys and leaf-strewn park trails that so easily isolate you from your fellows.
Beware of Owl, children–and be ever vigilant, for he lurks in places you’ll not expect. Watch out for men with strange-stretched shadows, for women with eyes that reflect orange when they catch the light, for children with spindly legs and too-sharp teeth. Owl stretches toenails into talons, strengthening jaws that they might rend flesh like beaks, fletching mutilated arms with bone-shard feathers gleaned from the remains of his victims. His ravenous appetite bloats the stomachs of his hosts to bursting.
Owl is a murderer and a cannibal. Should you give him the chance, he’ll rip open your belly, splatter your intestines on the ruddy earth, and pluck out your still-beating heart. Even if he devoured you whole, that would not appease his hunger. Owl is insatiable.
Study Coyote’s teachings, children, for it was he who brought us fire, who created death, who taught us how to protect ourselves. Owl’s talons may be sharp, but his legs are weak and wanting. He can be tricked. He can be shot from the sky with arrows, bullets, or birdshot.
Be mindful of your hungers, physical or otherwise. We are all of us Coyote’s kin, but we are creatures of flesh as well as spirit. Anyone can fall to Owl in a moment of weakness, though it takes time for Owl to fully devour their spirit. So manage your appetites. Guard against starvation, lest it leave you open to Owl’s influence; guard against excess, lest you become easy prey.
People crave a host of different things: freedom, justice, sex, drugs, violence, even pain. The need for affection is vital–touch-starved infants wither and die no matter how well they are fed. The yearning for power is as universal as it is dangerous; far too many fail to resist its siren song. The power-hungry are the most dangerous of Owl’s offspring, for they feed not on flesh, but on souls.
Remember, children, that Owl’s legs are his weakness. Shatter them, cripple them, strip flesh from bone. Rip the feathers from his arms before he can ascend to the sky. We’re all of us at risk when Owl takes flight. In this modern age, it’s rare for mortals to have birdshot, bullets, or arrows readily at hand–and, as the descendants of Coyote, our only way to acquire wings is to forge them from bone.
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The End
Ticknor Tales 