I have no idea how long I was unconscious. I just know every fiber of my being hurt when I regain my sense of self. I slowly gather my legs under me and stand up. I stumble for a few minutes as the world spins in and out of focus before my disoriented face.
When I feel steady enough to move, I turn my head scanning for any sign of Squeaks. Completing my three hundred and sixty degree head spin, I realize my friend was nowhere to be seen.
I wince as I try to stretch my right wing out. I understand, it is broken, in more than one place as well. I l try to fold it neatly to my side, but the appendage simply hangs uselessly, the tips of my once mocha feathers, now drag along the floor in a distasteful shade of black.
Lifting my good wing, I bring it to my beak and call out. “Squeaks? Squeaks where are you?” There is no answer. Panic and fear wrap themselves around my very core as every horrible scenario runs through my head. I begin to walk, hobble really, in search of him.
Having no concept of time, I have no idea how long I wander aimlessly through the forest. I heave a sigh and take in my surroundings. This span of the forest is dead. The trees bare no fruit, nor nut, not even leaves. They almost look sinister in their barrenness. My mind races. If Squeaks is out here somewhere, he must be terrified. I note the lack of sound. The normal sounds of a forest are absent. There are no birds singing some pointless song to the sun, no sounds of scurrying squirrels, not even the sound of larger animals. It is almost as if the forest is waiting in anticipation for something to happen.
“Squeaks!” My call is frantic. I know I must find him before nightfall. While there are no animals that thrive for the sun, I am positive there are owls and other predators of the night lurking, waiting, for the moon to rise so they can hunt.
As dusk begins to claim the world, I heard pitiful squeaks. The cries sound tired and pained. I hobble closer to the sound and I swear, everything ceased to be, as my amber gaze beholds the scene in front of me. I hear my heart pound in my ears. The pounding is so fierce it feels as though my heart will tear from my very chest at any second.
The hawk is massive, possibly the biggest one I have ever seen, and pinned beneath his foot is poor Squeaks! I let my eyes scan around to see if I will have anything else to contend with. My gaze returns to the scene, then get caught in Squeaks’ frightened pools. I lift my paw to my beak signaling him to give no sign that I am here and quietly make my way behind the tawny feathered hawk.
I wince as a small twig snaps under my foot. I try to recover but have no time to as the hawk wheels on me with a malicious glint to his beady eyes.
“Well, well, well, wot ‘ave we ‘ere?” He asks in a strange accent I cannot place.
I round my shoulders, a vain attempt to show the bravado that does not exist. “Let him go hawk and I will not have to sharpen my talons on you!” I am impressed at how little my voice wavers as I speak those words.
The hawk grins and roughly uncoils his talons from around Squeaks. I watch as the small mouse bounces a few times before coming to rest, unmoving, beside a group of dead leaves and twigs.
“An’ ‘oo be you ta tell me wot ta do wit’ me lunch li’l owl?” The hawk asks as he takes slow, deliberate steps toward me.
I am strangely unfazed by this show of dominance and stand up taller. “I am Brown Mist, Familiar of the Wizard Merle. You had best leave before he comes and turns you into a worm for the crows!” I pray beyond hope that the bluff is not an obvious one.
Luck. However, was never on my side as the hawk responds. “You mean tha po’ ol’ chad wot lock’d in the dak magician’s tow’r? ‘E ain’ helpin’ no one any time soon lil’ owl. Why don’ you be a right ol’ chap an’ leave me ta my snack now.”
Anger boils under my feathers. There is no way I am going to leave Squeaks to die! My body seems to come alive and act without my brain’s knowledge. Before I am aware of what is going on, I find myself hovering in the air above the hawk. My broken wing screams in protest, but if I never flew again, the knowledge that Squeaks would live to see another day has more than compensated for that. I raise my feet and extend my toes so all my talons point out. Then I do possibly the stupidest thing any owl has ever done… I adjust my wings and speed at the hawk, claws first.
The world tumbles head over tail feathers as I lock onto the hawk, and he onto me. We roll around on the ground clawing and pecking. My inner voice calls me every name it can think of as I feel his powerful beak hit home on my body over and over. He is not unscathed by no means, my own talons clawing, scratching, and ripping with each opening he leaves open.
Suddenly, the hawk is still. I know it was nothing I had done. I am half molted, like a plucked chicken ready for the pot, covered in blood both his and my own, and I am trapped under his bulk. I draw my feet up laying them on the hawk’s gut and push up and to the left, knocking the bird off of me. That is when I see it, a small stick, skewered in the hawk’s left eye.
Squeaks scrambles out from beneath the hawk. He is breathing heavy and seems just a little dazed. “Sorry it took so long for me to help you out Mist.” He says sheepishly.
I cannot help but laugh before exhaustion and my injuries engulf me in the sweet embrace of unconsciousness once again.