Chapter 3
The sun was setting, and as the others headed toward their individual homes, I went to my meadow.
It's not the same thing as a house. There's no comfy bed or refrigerator stocked with food and drink. There's no address, no street, no manicured lawn. It is home to me, nonetheless. And it's not like I'd had the nice, safe bed or well-stocked kitchen before this happened to me, anyway.
I miss those days less and less, now. The days of being shuttled from coast to coast between two siblings of my mother, neither of whom wanted me around. My aunt was a power-broker, which meant her life revolved around the stock market and, by default, the bottom line. I know my aunt saw me just as something to list on her balancesheet at the end of the year. Did she make more in tax deductions for taking me in than she lost in petty cash for room and board? Probably, but it didn't lift her profit enough to want me around.
My uncle, the man I'd been living with when we'd had our encounter with Elfangor, was even worse. At least at my aunt's house, I was left alone. My uncle was a roofer. He might have been good at it; I don't know. I do know that he stayed home as much as he worked, and while he was home, he was drunk. Sometimes that was a bad thing, like when he was riled up and wanted somebody to take the negative things in his life out on. A lot of times it was good, because he was simply too drunk to make trouble or he was completely passed out.
Either way, from the start it had been clear neither of them gave a damn about me. I don't say that to get pity; it's just the way it is. It worked out, too. I don't care about them, either, which was why my transition from human-in-a-house to hawk-in-a-meadow was relatively easy. Of course I missed things about being human. When a person is hungry, they raid the fridge. When a hawk is hungry, they have to hunt.
No big deal. I actually kind of like it that way. I have a lot of time to think, and I'm pretty sure society itself is why such a huge number of people are so royally screwed up. The way it's supposed to work, people are supposed to be focused on hunting and gathering and surviving. We are supposed to be a part of the food chain, not the masters of it.
Something happened. People figured everything out, and over time, safety pretty much became a guarantee. Eating wasn't a worry anymore, it was automatic.
Anyway, that's what I think is wrong with the world. People were designed to have their days filled with hunting, building, hiding, and surviving. Now that those things were just givens, people had way too much time to whine about all the unimportant crap that makes them unhappy. 10,000 years ago, people laid down for bed thinking, 'Hey, nothing ate me today and I found some berries. It was a good day.' Now, people can't stop thinking about their mortgage, or their car, or their 401k, or one of about a million other things that just don't matter.
Me? Of course, I have the Yeerks to worry about on top of everything else in my life. But, again, that was really not that big of a deal. I mean, I kill to survive on a daily basis. I'm watchful for things that want to kill me all the time. The Yeerks are just like any other predator that I'm competing with, only it's actually fair. They're sentient, and so am I.
My thoughts were interrupted as a flash from the dying sun illuminated a tiny patch of fur in the meadow. Just a single square millimeter of grey fur, but it was enough for my ever-watchful eyes. I spread my wings in slow motion, as to not make a sound. One hard, strong pull like the breaststroke of an Olympic rower, and I was airborne.
The mouse didn't have a prayer. If I had just abandoned myself to the hawk's instincts, I would have had about a 50% success rate at hunting. With my human intelligence and the fact that I could learn, I was up in the neighborhood of about 80%. Eight out of ten times I took to the air to hunt, I killed something worth eating. I had the best stats in the Red-tailed division, no doubt.
I quickly finished my meal. I would have taken my time about it, but the sun was below the horizon and nightfall was shrouding the meadow with an eerie speed. The meadow may be mine by day, but at night it belongs to a clever fox and a deadly, silent owl. I don't worry about the fox; he's smart, and I know he'd have no problem eating a Red-tailed TV dinner, but he's just too loud to creep up on me, even in a dead sleep.
The owl, however, freaks me out. I sleep deep in a hollow of a rotted-out tree trunk, and there's no way a predator could get at me without a little work…but you have no idea how dangerous owls are. They are the ninjas of the birds of prey. Silent, swift, and every bit as deadly as me…and then, their senses are perfectly tuned to pick up the slack in mine. Everything I miss seeing and hearing at night, the owl picks it up.
Anyway, this particular owl hadn't taken a shot at me yet, and by now that meant he probably wouldn't. It still freaks me out. It still makes me crack an eye every half hour or so. Every night except for this one; I was exhausted. Fighting the Yeerks will do that to you, especially when they pull some new trick out of their evil hat. As I settled in to sleep, I told myself that if the Yeerks couldn't do me in, the world was just going to have to wait another day before it claimed this hawk. I closed my eyes and slept peacefully for the most solid chunk of time in a long time.