Wild is the Witch (29)

I know where to go, but I walk the opposite way so I don’t seem suspicious. I pretend to look in cavities and squint to see faraway nests, weaving slowly through the old trees. These woods hold so much magic, upwards of two hundred years’ worth, absorbing particles and holding them in their trunks for safekeeping. It fills me with rage and heartache in equal measure, knowing these forests are getting smaller and smaller, fewer and fewer. Knowing the habitats that are being destroyed along the way.

We don’t know for sure why the northern spotted owl is an amplifier, but we suspect it has something to do with its preference for old-growth forests, spending its days and nights in a place drenched in magic. But if these forests cease to exist, the northern spotted owl will, too.

After a suitable amount of time has passed, I make my way toward the owl, keeping my pace slow so Pike still has a chance to find him. When he turns and goes the wrong direction, I follow my connection to the bird, and there in a low hollow of a towering Douglas fir is the northern spotted owl.

His big eyes stare at me, unblinking. He doesn’t look surprised or startled or afraid. If anything, he looks…satisfied. As if he has been waiting for me to find him.

“Hi,” I say, quiet enough so Pike won’t hear. MacGuffin is in the lowest cavity of the tree, and one sweep of magic through his system tells me his wing is in worse shape than it was when he left the refuge.

Hope begins to bloom in my chest, an aching pulse that moves through my entire body. I found him. Now all I need to do is get him back to the refuge and unbind the curse. Then I can focus entirely on healing his wing.

“Pike,” I say, keeping my eyes on the bird. “I found him.”

Pike comes over and stands next to me, binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck. He looks into the hollow, and a smile spreads across his face.

“Hi, MacGuffin. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

MacGuffin stares at us and cocks his head, and it isn’t the first time I feel as if he’s orchestrating this in some way I don’t understand.

We keep our distance, several yards away so he doesn’t feel threatened, but that doesn’t seem like much of a concern. He recognizes me.

“He’s a beautiful bird,” Pike says, looking through his binoculars.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” I mutter, then immediately mouth an apology.

Pike laughs and brings his binoculars down. “He wouldn’t be a very good MacGuffin if he weren’t.”

“Wow, you’re so proud of that name.”

“I really am,” Pike says, setting his pack on the ground. “It was a total stroke of genius.”

I take a few steps to the side and survey the hollow, getting the best possible view of the owl. He looks calm and comfortable, happy in the massive old tree. He watches us with interest but doesn’t make any move to fly toward us. With his wing the way it is, I suspect he hasn’t done much hunting, but he doesn’t seem agitated or weak.

Back at the refuge, we have tools for capturing animals when needed, but they’re still wild with minds of their own. I could use magic to try to entice him, but he’s already shown that my magic doesn’t have much of an effect on him. He’s used to the feel of it and isn’t as compelled to follow its pull as an animal first encountering it.

And even though his wing is injured, it still works. If he starts to feel threatened, he’ll fly away.

The frustrating truth is that Pike and I can try all the tricks we want, but the only way we’ll get him over here is if he wants to come. If he doesn’t, we’re out of luck.

“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, setting my pack next to Pike’s and leaning against a nearby tree. “He looks awfully comfortable in that hollow.”

“Yeah, he does,” Pike agrees. “I think we dive right in with the modified trap. It’s pretty basic since we don’t want to hurt him, but it’s our best shot, especially if he didn’t have a successful night of hunting. Most animals, wild and domestic, are extremely food driven,” he says. “MacGuffin isn’t any different.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Pike pulls out two flat boxes from his pack and assembles them, then hands me several towels. He fills the bottom box with one towel, then props up the lid of the box with a stick, readying the trap for the owl. The longer I watch him, the more my fears surface.

The curse is so strong in the owl, so powerful, I can feel it from here. And Pike is only yards away from it, from this curse that could turn him into a mage, that could ignite him like a tree in a California drought, engulfing him in flames instantly.

I swallow hard and try to keep my focus, blinking away memories of Alex and visions of Pike, forcing myself to stay present. There is no fire, no flames. No immediate danger.

We’re okay. Pike is okay.

“Iris?” Pike asks, and I look at him. “I lost you for a minute.”

“Oh, sorry,” I say, realizing the trap is almost ready. “I got distracted.”

“Well, pay attention because this next part is tricky.” He picks up the carrier and opens the lid just enough to grab one of the woodrats. The animal scurries in his hand, and after a few tries, Pike successfully sets the trap.

The owl watches us the entire time.

“Okay, let’s give him some space and see if he’s hungry,” I say.