Wild is the Witch (30)

Pike and I walk away and sit behind a large tree, close enough to see what’s going on but far enough away for the owl to feel safe. Of course he knows we’re here—he can still hear us, and he always seems to know where I am anyway—but the likelihood of him coming out for food is much greater if he doesn’t feel threatened by us.

We settle into the dirt, and Pike raises his binoculars to his face, watching MacGuffin. We don’t speak, and I silently beg the owl over and over to come out of his hollow and eat. But even from here, I can tell that the owl isn’t eyeing the woodrat; he’s eyeing us.

Several hours pass, and when it’s clear the owl has no intention of moving, I shift my focus to Pike. “He’s not interested in eating,” I say, frustration creeping into my tone.

“Just give it time.”

“He’s an animal. If he wanted it, he would have taken it already. Wild animals don’t typically subscribe to the delayed-gratification approach to things.”

Pike raises his binoculars again, even though the owl hasn’t moved.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Pike says, his voice tense. “You’re frustrating me.”

“And looking through your binoculars is helping with that?” I try to keep my voice down, not wanting to scare the owl, but we need a different plan.

“No, but it makes me feel like I’m doing something,” he says. “Just let me do this my way, okay?”

“Your way isn’t working.”

Pike doesn’t respond, and instead, keeps looking through his binoculars. I reach my hand up to snatch them away, but he jerks back, glaring at me. “These are the Swarovski Optik 8.5 by 42 EL Binoculars with the FieldPro package. Don’t touch them.”

He rattles off the exact model without hesitation, as if this is something he brags about quite a bit, and I give him an exasperated look.

“Seriously, Pike, it’s time for a new plan.”

“This plan is working just fine.” He doesn’t shift where he’s sitting, nor does he turn his head to look at me. He stays stubbornly still, watching the owl in the hollow as if he’ll fly down to join us at any moment.

“I’ll do it myself,” I say, standing and wiping the dirt from my pants. My herbs are in my daypack, and I’m not going to risk letting the owl get away again. I’m not.

I grab the towel from the ground, but I’m not quick enough, and Pike grabs the other side. He stands and faces me.

“Are you being serious right now? You’re going to tug-of-war this towel?” I try to pull it away from him, but he grips it even tighter.

“If that’s what it takes. Why did you bring me all the way out here if you weren’t going to listen to me?”

“I’m sorry, at what point did you hear me say that I’d submit to your every command if you came along?”

Pike yanks on the towel, and it slips through my fingers. “I know more about this stuff than you do.”

“Yeah, all your time in the classroom is really paying off.”

Pike opens his mouth to respond when the owl lets out one shrill scream.

No.

I rush toward the hollow, desperate to see the owl, to calm him down and reassure him that he’s safe. That everything’s okay.

But I’m too late.

He swoops from his place in the tree then flaps his wings, flying up and up and up. His wing is too fragile, and I shudder at the thought of how much this is taking out of him.

“No!” I call, begging the owl to come back.

I run, chasing after him, but I can’t catch up. I reach for the magic inside him, wrapping it with my own, doing everything I can to coax him back to the ground. I let him feel my utter terror, pleading with him to come back.

But it doesn’t work.

He’s used to magic, and he’s used to me.

He finds a clearing and flies out of the canopy of the trees, then he’s gone. Taking all my hope with him.





Twelve


We hike back to the campsite in silence. Pike is several paces in front of me, making a show of storming off, which is fine. My eyes are stinging, and I don’t want him to see me cry. It’s not that I think crying is a sign of weakness—I don’t. It’s that crying feels vulnerable, and I’m careful about choosing who I’m vulnerable with.

It’s getting harder to see, twilight enveloping the trees and shrouding everything in a dusty gray. A whole day wasted with nothing to show for it. I stop walking, lean my back against a weathered spruce, and cry.

My mom always says that there’s not much an epic cry-fest can’t fix, and while I don’t think leaning against a tree with tears streaming down my face will help me find the owl, I can’t deny that it helps me feel better.

I’m not sure how long I stand here, but by the time I wipe my cheeks and start walking again, the night forest is waking. Bats flit overhead and crickets chirp, but Pike’s footsteps are long gone by now. I don’t dare use magic to find him—it would have to touch him to work, and he’d see the unmistakable starlight that accompanies it.

Then he’d know.

But there’s nothing else in our campsite for me to draw magic from, and Pike has our only compass.

I’m lost, just like my hope. Just like the owl.