Owl Eyes

Fred leans against a tree. He pants, clutches his chest. Unsteady on his legs, he rests a hand on the trunk. The bark crumbles under his fingers. The decay jolts him; his legs quake under the fright that consumes him, and he collapses on a bed of dead leaves. The entire forest screams of his impending doom. It tries to silence his yearning for rest and reprieve. Though he knows what is to come, he can’t curtail his hope. He rights himself.

“Greg.” Fred whispers into the wind swirling about his head.

No answer. He stopped hearing the echoing crunch of Greg’s footsteps several miles ago. Still, he calls. “Greg?”

Embracing the reality of Greg’s demise, means accepting his own fate and he won’t welcome death. Not while he has life. Not while he can still run. A hoot triggers a thundering in Fred’s chest. His eyes dart up to the naked limbs, seeking out the watcher. His head swivels; his eyes strain against the black, in search of the owl. Stars and a half-moon capture his vision. But no owl. The pounding in his chest subsides.

A strong wind whistles through the branches and ices his face. He hugs himself, tries to convince himself that the hoot wasn’t a hoot but rather the wind playing tricks on his mind. Like his efforts to warm himself, the attempt to ease his mind proves to be inadequate. He hears the sound again, and this time there is no denying that it is the harbinger of his death. This time he sees it.

Perched on a branch above his head the snowy white owl stands stark against the black of the sky. She locks eyes with him. The Hunter now knows of his location. Blisters set his feet afire. He runs, trips. He labors to right himself and tries again but the ache of his soles anchors him to yet another tree. He hurriedly removes his shoes and lets them crash against the tree’s roots. There’s no use in concealing the path he treads from the Hunter who sees with the eyes of the owl. He eyes the moisture on his feet. Under the glow of the sky, it looks dark but he knows it’s blood. It reminds him of her blood. The blood spilled on the day he took her.

For the first time, he truly regrets having taken her. He’d watched her for so long, yearned for so long. Watching her was prohibited, but no-one knew he watched her. No-one – except Greg. Greg encouraged him in his craving of her, told him the rules made no sense. Validation heightened his desire and when it burned like a white-hot flame, Greg came up with a plan.

“I’ll help you, but you’ll have to share,” Greg said.

Fred didn’t want to share. Several times he tried to approach her and each time he melted into a babbling mess. His body forgot how to function in her presence. After too many failed attempts, he finally accepted Greg’s aid. He should’ve stuck to gazing upon her, imagining her breath against his neck. For it was a sin to look but the hunt is the reward for touching. He’s been cast out of his village and chased to his death because he’d lacked the strength to resist her lure.

Few things earn a chase through the woods. And the things that do, can never be forgiven. His only hope for mercy is outrunning the watcher and finding refuge before sunrise. Leaves and twigs pierce Fred’s feet as he runs. He thinks to return for his shoes but the thought of running into the chest of the Hunter makes him grit his teeth and silence the pain. The shoes, like his village, is lost to him.

All attempts to outrun the watcher prove futile. It hovers above him, its wings a menacing shelter. If he uses a ruse to throw the Hunter off his trail, it will be revealed through the eyes of the owl. Fear washes him. His body vacillates, unsure if it should run cold or hot. The fluctuating body temperature and the ache in his chest make him feel sick, near collapse, still he runs.

When he no longer hears or sees the owl, he brightens. Besides his predicament and pain, he finds himself elated when the new sky rises to rescue him. The trees ahead start to thin, and he can taste the escape. He’s survived the night and the hunt. Fred vows to never again need to be hunted. Though he’s certain he’ll never again find another like her, as pure and delicate. Another to evoke such desires.

An arrow sings by his ear when he plants one bloody, cracked foot onto the highway. He registers the song, knows there will be another. Before he can run, duck, or turn around, warmth rushes down his neck from a spot at the back of his head. His body has finally decided on a temperature. Cold. Very Cold. His palms clam up. The chill travels up his arms and bellows about his body. He falls to his knees.