Wild is the Witch (55)

Pike is staring at the tree as if it’s a monster from a children’s book, something he knows can’t be real yet stands directly in front of him. The rest of the landscape is still, save for the slight breeze that is ever-present on the peninsula, coaxing the branches to shake and sway in the salty sea air. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them slowly, looking around as if the problem is him, a figment of his imagination.

I want to tell him that what he’s seeing is real, that he isn’t imagining it, but I’m supposed to be just as confused as he is. “What is happening?” I whisper under my breath, loud enough for Pike to hear, angry at myself for holding onto my secret when I know it’s about to reveal itself no matter how tightly I cling to it.

“I don’t know,” Pike says, shifting his pack to his front and digging inside. “I have to call it in before it gets worse. Before it spreads.” His voice is uneven as he speaks, unsure, because he knows it doesn’t make any sense for a single tree to go up in flames in the middle of a damp spring.

Thick gray smoke drifts toward me, and my eyes burn. Sweat rolls down my neck in large beads that soak into the fabric of my shirt, and heat distorts the air around me as if I’m looking through imperfect glass.

I’m horrified when an image of Pike bursts into my mind, burning just like the tree in front of us. Burning just like Alex.

No, I tell myself, backing away from the tree, away from the image. Backing away from a possibility that seems far too close.

I no longer care what Pike thinks. I’m going to find the owl, right now, before things get any worse.

Pike is holding his sat phone up to the tree line, waiting for a signal, eyeing the burning tree as if it might uproot itself and walk toward him at any moment.

“I’m going after the owl,” I say, pulling Pike’s attention away from the flames.

“No,” Pike says, shaking his head back and forth. “Something isn’t right; I think we should stick together.”

“The owl isn’t far from here. If you can’t find me once you make your call, just shout for me. I’ll be close by.”

Pike is about to argue when his call goes through and someone answers. I catch his eye and signal that I’m going, then walk away before he can say anything. Once I’m safely around the fire, too far away for Pike to see, I run.

***

Without Pike here, I don’t have to pretend that I’m unsure of where the owl is. I can feel that I’m close, and I keep running, deeper into the trees. My knee is stinging, and my pant leg is soaked with blood. I ignore it as best I can and follow the trail of magic. The owl is giving off so much I’m surprised this entire mountain doesn’t go up in flames, and I suspect he’s avoiding the trees after seeing what happened to the last one. He loves these ancient forests as much as I do; he doesn’t want them to burn.

I trip over an exposed root and force myself to slow down. The earth is damp and slippery, and without a clear path to stick to, I’m trudging through plants and over roots, loose stones and fallen trees. The farther in I get, the denser the trees and underbrush—the perfect place for a runaway owl to hide.

The air is getting heavier with the metallic scent, and it stings when I breathe through my nose. I know I’m close when my skin starts tingling with the sensation of magic, even though I’m not using mine.

Then I see him, not in a tree or on a branch but on the soggy ground, unable to fly. I rush over to him, and he doesn’t flinch or try to get away. Instead, he looks directly at me, his large black eyes piercing mine.

“Hi, MacGuffin,” I say, kneeling next to him.

I can feel the pain he’s in before I even summon my magic, and any animosity I felt toward him vanishes in an instant. All I want is for him to survive.

“I’m going to help you,” I say, looking over him.

Then I see the injury, a large, gaping wound on his left side, spanning from his wing to his abdomen. Even though I know he was attacked by the bear and this is how it works in the wild, my eyes sting with the threat of tears.

I wish I could have been there to protect him.

“I’m here now,” I say out loud, steady and clear, taking off my pack and getting ready to work. “I’m here now.”





Twenty-One


I unclasp the top of my daypack and pull the drawstring open. The gray day is making it hard to see, especially this deep in the forest, and I pull off my cap and set it aside, giving myself more light. The ground is wet, branches and ferns hanging heavy with rain, and I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the cool, salty air.

The owl watches me with patient eyes, reinforcing what I’ve always known deep down: he has been orchestrating this from the very beginning, and for whatever reason, he wanted me to have to trek through the woods to find him.

“Why did you do this?” I ask, not out of anger or frustration but out of genuine curiosity. I want to know.

He looks at me and tilts his head to the side, blinking once.

I sigh and pull the towel from my pack, gently placing it around MacGuffin to keep him warm. Pike has the boxes with him, so I’ll have to wait until he gets here to safely transport the owl. But at least I can keep him warm and survey the damage. The wind picks up again, the sound of the swaying treetops almost tricking me into believing it’s a peaceful day, that everything is as it should be.