Santiago taught Morro to hunt mice. Small tufts of earth-stained fur stuck out of his beak: “A life is a life,” he said solemnly, “no matter how small.” Morro listened as Santiago concluded, “It must be respected.” After finding Morro all on his own as a young owl, Santiago showed him how to be fly. He taught Morro integrity. His mentor taught him how to be an owl. Morro felt less alone.
Morro’s feathers quivered as
he remembered Santiago’s words. Seasons had passed since Santiago’s spirit
travelled on, but Morro did not feel so alone. He had found other owls to show
him their ways. They took great pride in their Parliament and, at first, were
very encouraging of Morro.
“You have so much potential,
small Morro.”
“So much room to grow.”
“We don’t take just anyone in,
young Morro.”
“You will never need anyone
outside of us.”
And so, the small owl embraced
this network of tree and sky compatriots. But he did not forget Santiago or his
teachings.
Over time, the Parliament
changed in its sentiment. They taught community and collectivity, but isolated
Morro. They preached egalitarianism and freedom of choice, but they kept Morro
confined to his tree, subject to their commands.
Morro began to ask questions.
One day, he asked Prina, a head owl, why he must be the one to hunt for
everyone each day, though all the owls were capable, and often did it for fun.
“We are all well-fed, aren’t we, Prina? We have all had our fill?”
Prina hooted at Morro. “We are
all owls. What matters is that we govern ourselves. We make our own rules, we
make our own way. The way we choose is right and good. The way of the mouse,
the ferret, the vole, the rabbit- these are all lesser animals. They are
uneducated, primitive. They are small. They matter only in how they support our
lives as owls. We hunt them to remind them of who we are. We hunt them because
we must. We owls must not lose our place. This is the order of things.”
Morro changed over time. He
realized the other owls did not trust him. He became lonely and craved their
acceptance. He tried being less forgiving. He tried to hunt ruthlessly. He took
mice from their nests and bunnies from their mothers. He hunted at night, when
other animals could not see. He listened closely to their sounds. He took
advantage of their migrations and their hunger, tracking their movements and
striking without remorse. But Morro did not leave Santiago’s tree. Santiago’s
claw marks were etched into one branch. Though his claws were smaller, Morro
often stood where these markings were and thought about Santiago.
For this reason, also, the
other owls were suspicious of Morro. They sensed he did not fully believe in
their teachings and their ways. They whispered from their branches, and they
watched him as he flew. They commented on his hunting.
Morro knew this. It bothered
him a little, but because he was young, he hoped this would go away with time.
They would accept him with age.
One autumn day when the gold
leaves rustled in a still-warm breeze, Prina found Morro basking in the sun on
his branch. She saw his feet clutched over Santiago’s markings.
“You must go hunt for the
clan, Morro. Winter is coming.”
“I am so tired, Prina,” Morro
answered, “I hunted all night.”
Srina gazed sternly at him.
“You must. There is a litter of kittens a night’s journey from here, and you
must be there when they arrive.”
“A litter of kittens? But they
will be new!”
“The clan needs you to do
this, Morro. Return with the kittens. Prove yourself.”
So, Morro took flight. He
stretched his wings wide and set out in the direction Prina pointed him. The
whole journey, Morro felt the presence of Santiago in the sky beside him. His
wings felt heavy. He dreaded his arrival.
By morning of the next day,
Morro arrived at a farmstead and heard mewling cries from a dilapidated barn.
He silently descended from the sky and poked his head through the top of the
rafters to gaze inside.
New kittens, hours old,
squirmed in the hay beside the mother Cat. Morro gazed on them happily,
remembering his brother and sister owls in their nest and breathing in the
scent of the barn. After an hour, Morro shook himself, remembering his task.
His eyes narrowed, preparing to dive, when a gust of wind hurled him through
the open crevice in the roof. Trying to maintain balance, Morro’s wing opened
and caught on a piece of wood. He couldn’t catch flight as he fell into the
barn and onto a hill of hay.
The kittens yipped in
surprise, and their mother sprang up to face the owl, back arched. Morro hopped
to the side, trying to stand up, but his wing was hurt, remaining limp on the
ground.
“Are you alright?” Lowering
its hackles, the cat looked on Morro not with fear, but concern.
“Oh…well, no, I think I have
hurt my wing.” Morro looked at the brown and white cat, “I’m sorry to disturb
you and your little ones.”
“It’s quite alright,” said the
cat, “I could use some company, and I have found other owls trustworthy. I am
quite tired. If you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye out for danger while I nap,
and watch over my kittens, you may recover here for as long as you need.”
So, Morro stayed in the barn
with the cat and kittens for two weeks. He hunted plump barn mice for himself
and the cat. He grew in size, happy and content to provide and play with the
kittens. He became close friends with Lindy, their mother.
When Lindy had recovered
enough to hunt for herself, Morro took his leave. “I have enjoyed this time
with you, but I must go face my clan,” Morro said. “Goodbye.”
“Very well,” said Lindy. “You
remind me of an owl I met many seasons ago. His name is Santiago. He saved me
from a field when I fell down a rabbit burrow as a kitten,” Lindy said. “I was
so small then.”
Morro’s eyes filled with
tears. “I knew this owl,” he said, pausing on a rafter before flying away. “He
saved me, too.”
Morro began his return with
his wing just fully healed. He was also noticeably bigger. Though feathers were
disjointed from his wing, and he was in visible discomfort, Morro remained in
good spirits. However, he feared his return and what Prina and the other owls
would say.
When Morro returned to his
forest, the Parliament gathered before him. They ignored his wing. They huddled
together facing him from an opposite tree, with shrill, angry sounds and sharp
hoots expressing their anger at his long leave away from them, and disdain for
his return, empty-clawed.
“He is not one of us. He
cannot be trusted.”
“Prina’s orders have been
disobeyed.”
“He is still too small to be a
true owl.”
Morro remembered Santiago. He
sat on his branch, and his claws now fully covered Santiago’s markings.
“You are not Santiago, Morro”,
said Prina. “You are barely an owl at all.” The Parliament hooted in shock at
Srina’s words. Not an owl? What did this mean for any one of them?
Morro stood up and shook out
his wings. He felt Santiago beside him. He thought of Lindy and the kittens. He
thought of the mice, the ferrets, the voles, the rabbits. He thought of the
owls.
“I am an owl,” Morro said
quietly, “no matter how small.” And flew.
