Owl—Wisdom, Battle, Philosophy
When I pick this, the final feather, up from where it lays nestled among late fall leaves, I feel a sight tingle in my finger tips, then my hand, my arm, my shoulders and chest…growing until my toes spark with energy. I stare at the single tan plume, streaked with faint white and brown lines. It is simple. Pure. Beautiful. An owl's feather, judging by the shape and texture of the silky strands. I remember from my classes that owl feathers differ from other birds-each strand is specifically aerodynamic, specifically made to create soundless flight.
Owls were, for centuries, a symbol of wisdom. Athena, the goddess of war and wisdom, kept an owl familiar. Merlin, too, supposedly held one under his power. It's the wide, powerful eyes that lead people to a conclusion of supposed intellect. The birds actually have rather small brains. But that's beside the point.
He is wise. Clever, witty, tricky, even. He was almost always five steps ahead of me the entire time, in the Labyrinth. His Labyrinth, after all.
Out of every bird, this is the one that seems to fit him most. Imposing, wise, bringer of war, reverent, beautiful. A thousand words of beautiful. This is Jareth. This is the depth I sought for Ara, for my story. But my words, my words on paper will surely pale to the magnificent of a barn owl's soundless flight.
Owls are not evil. Truly, no creature can be evil. The debate on whether they possess souls is of no matter… they are, simply put, beasts without morals, therefore cannot be immoral. Or evil. Or bad.
What does that make the Goblin King? He is not a beast, but nor is he a man. He is conscious enough for moral thought, but does that bind him to it? My head is spinning with questions.
I glance upward to see a ghostly white bird take off from the oak I stand before to sail between the branches to some place beyond my view. Without a sound, the avian haunt has disappeared.
Hoggle had told me, all the time of the King's familiar form. He warned me, if I were to ever see the ghost-like owl, with wide eyes and a thin face, to simply run. To go away. To leave that place, not look back, and go. For the Goblin King was ne'r.
Yet, his leaving (if it were he) feels more like uncomfortable abandonment rather than the relief I ought to be experiencing. Why did the owl go?
Swan-Mated for Life.
I make my way out of the wood for the final time to be face again with the lake. Ahead I hear slight crashes. Circles begin to surface the water as drops plummet down—rain has begun. Merely sprinkles, I don't feel much pressure to go. My journey is over-seven feathers are in my grasp. My task has been completely. So now-what?
No answer forth coming, I settle onto one of the many boulders that rest on the lakeside to watch the free-falling drops. Like tiny crystals, they shimmer as they decent, then hit with soft noise the top of the waves, joining others in the lake. Entranced, I hold out one hand to let beads collect on my skin. When I turn my limb, they slide off, creating lazy lines of wetness.
Mist begins to take the scene. I cannot see more than several dozen feet beyond my face. The woods have disappear, making it seem as though the lake and myself are in a world all our own. As though we are removed from time to drift, alone. It is peaceful. This is what I had sought in coming here.
From my pocket, I pull out the seven feathers, spreading them out like a fan. Black, white, blue-green, red, sky, red, striped tan. A rainbow of beauty. Ignoring my inner voice (which sounds much like Karen) whimpering of how birds carry disease, I stroke the hairs of each piece, marveling at their colour, their task is done. Why has he not come to me?
A small sound halts my reverie. Head bowed, the swan sails toward me from the pelted water. I stand, feathers still in hand.
The creature stops just before the water's edge. Waiting. That elegant neck extends, and now it stares with liquid eyes.
"My quarry." I offer forth the seven quills. "I found seven. Tell him I am finished."
I lay the plumes down in the wet grass.
"I don't need any sort of…reward." I say aloud, casting my gaze around for…something. "Or my dreams, or anything. The journey was enough."
No reply.
The swan carefully turns its neck around to pluck a single quill from its back, laying it on the water. I stare, uncertain. I did not even know birds could do that.
"But…this is eight. Eight?"
Again, no answer is coming. The swan moves away, back toward the center of the lake. Half way there, it is hidden by mist.
I dart forward to claim the final feather. It is not unlike the other the swan first gave me. I stroke the vane, wondering again where its fellows were.
Swans are known for their mating habits. Like humans, they mate for life. When one in the partnership perishes, the other will mourn, like a human. They will not eat, nor take up another mate, and die shortly after the other's death. I had a grandfather who did that, when my grandmother died. He sat, silent, for days, until slipping into a peaceful sleep and passing on himself.
Has this one recently lost his mate? Or was she hiding back, tending to little ones? I had seen their broods before—fat puff balls of grey, squeaking and tumbling around puddles.
What is this feather trying to say? Whose trick is this? Whose is the face I cannot see in this misty park?
"A king," I begin softly. "My villain…but not. For a villain must be a bringer of death and misfortune, true, but they must not also be kind, and gentle, as dove. A villain might be vain, yes, and filled with beauty, but fierce in nature. And they might be quick to anger, childish, but also filled with wisdom, and passion, and—and—does that make them a point of evil? A knave? Or, simply…a man, with many parts?"
"For what is a character, but many facets to make a whole gem?" I continue. "No one is simply described in one adjective."
There is not a sound throughout the clearing. I sigh. "Oh, what does this mean?"
"It means you have won."
I turn to find him sitting on my boulder. Seven feathers lay in his outstretched hand, palm flat. Instinctually, I cross to place the eight, the final quill, alongside the others. But I pause, and draw it back to my chest, spinning it between my fingers.
He is ethereal. The hair is wild, wind-swept, strands of long silver-gold. As though he has been touched by the moon, bathed in light. He is dress in his feathery cloak of off-white. Black breeches sit tight on his tights. A billowy poet's shirt of gentle sage shows a peek of bare chest. And there on his crown, a different touch, sits a circlet of woven silver. He surely must be a dream. But not one of mine.
"What are my winnings, sir?" I ask, tilting my face upwards. My words are playful, and I sway, holding out the hem of my tunic. "A cloak of gold? A prince? Or a wish?"
"Do not mock." He warns me mildly. "You played the game, after all."
I stop all motion, sobering. "That is true. But I still do not see—see the translations of the task. I found your feathers, yes, but to what end?"
Mismatched eyes find my own, holding me still intensely. "I believe you already know."
"No, Goblin King, I fear I do not."
"Allow me to elaborate." He plucks up the feather of night. "Misfortune, but wit."
The feather of white. "Ferocity, partnered with wicked loveliness. Cruelty, hidden within beauty."
The feather of green-blue, longest of the lot. "Vanity, together with princely dignity. Extravagance. Brightness."
Then the striped quill of sky. "Childish, quick anger, loudness."
"Paired with passion," For the scarlet feather.
The grey slip. "But countered with gentleness, kindness."
Next, the tan lines of the owl. "Wisdom. Silence when there ought be noise. Keen senses."
And finally—
"Love," He said simply. "Love that holds until dying breath."
The feathers have been spread before me. The Goblin King stalks forward, offering my quarry once more. I can hear a pounding—my own heart, enraged into heavy beating.
I am breathless. "And all of this, it comes to?"
"The traits of a king. The particular traits of this king."
We are silent. He stares beyond me, to the lake, to its mists. I never take my eyes off him, a thousand questions burning in the back of my throat, like glowing coals. I wish to spit them out, but now doesn't seem the time. So, instead, I swallow many to keep one between my teeth. Finally I release it, and it soars like a sparrow from between my lips.
"You said I had won. What would I have gotten, if I lost?"
The King shrugs, never taking his gaze from the glassy water. The surface is now being marred by bigger, fast droplets. "Nothing. You would've gone home, returned to your dormitory in a few days, and lived out your life. No harm would have befallen you, just as the same if you were to ignore the challenge."
A peak of wind ripples his cloak, musses up his mane of glorious hair.
"Truly?" I ask.
He turns those mismatched orbs to me. "I am a man of my word, Sarah." That being said, he sits grandly upon the stone once more. He treats it like a throne, rather than a rock. "But come now, Sarah. You have won, not lost. Don't you want your prize?"
My knees tremble. "I do not know. Do I?"
He smirks, though his heart is not in it. "Let us not be coy. "
"So…my dreams. The life I want." My voice is hollow. "A college degree, my novel published, and a comfortable live."
Pained, the Goblin King shakes his head. "No, that cannot be what you want," He whispers. "Surely it is not so hard. They're your dreams, Sarah Williams. You know them."
Do I?
I focus my thoughts. "I…I truly do not know what I want." I say, honest. "A life of dreaming, of fairy-stories would have suited me fine long ago, but now-"
"You are all grown up." He hesitates. "Could it be, Sarah, that it is simpler than even that? What is it you want?"
"What is it you want, Goblin King?" I counter. The eyes flash.
He is suddenly stiff. "Nothing I could not have, if I but set my mind to it. But come now, it is you we are speaking of, not I. Think!"
A thousand images flicker over my mind's eye. Toby. Merlin. The Labyrinth. My dorm. Hoggle. Words, words of my novel. My quick sketch of Ara. The Goblin King. The birds, one after another. A floating crystal. My car, my bedroom. Dad. Mom. My music box, with the wind-up dancer. Ludo. A room of glass and bubbles. Masks. Lancelot. My roommate Jen, laughing. The Goblin King Karen, bent over her rose bushes. Toby, stumbling toward my car soon after I've pulled up to the house. The blue house my father bought after marrying Karen. Peaches. A white fairy-tale gown, with billowing sleeves. A thirteen-hour clock. The grandfather clock from the foyer. The Goblin King-
"I want—" I begin slowly. "—time. Time, so that I may know the Goblin King, who I have seen passing in my dreams. For, it is the Goblin King I should desire, if he will have me."
When I meet the glittering orbs, I know I have said exactly the right words this time. Though his smile is small, it is there, subtle.
"Granted."
-XXX-
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