from the Sark’s kiln.
Good
, she thought.
She’s not out of fuel yet.
The Sark caught Gwynneth’s scent as she circled high above. The scent of a Masked Owl laced through with the smell of embers, moss, and very savory voles! Her mouth watered in anticipation. For although she generally avoided rodents, starvation was preferable to the thought of one more tern egg. She had discovered that the tern eggs were not really rotten at all, or at least not in the sense of being spoiled. It was simply their natural flavor. The tern’s flavor matched its character, which was, in the Sark’s opinion, the most annoying of any bird on earth. Flying weasels, she called them. Sharp beaked, skittish, and ridiculously territorial, terns darted down and tried to stab anything that set foot on what they considered their ground. Well, the Sark had taught them a lesson years ago. She had leaped right up and whacked them back. After a few dead terns, the rest left her in peace and avoided the Sark’s encampment.
Gwynneth lighted down.
“Well, where in the name of Glaux, to use an owl phrase, have you been?”
“Silverveil, ma’am. It was impossible to tend a forge here.”
Owls often addressed the Sark as “ma’am.” Gwynneth was not sure when this practice began. Perhaps it was her father, Gwyndor, who started with this form of address, for he had an immense respect for the Sark and had frequently complained of the wolves’ treatment of her. Gwyndor abhorred that they often referred to her as a witch. So he had told Gwynneth it was particularly important to call the Sark “ma’am” when any wolves were around. “That’ll show ’em the proper respect!” he would often say.
Gwynneth continued, “I didn’t feel it right to try to compete for game here with the wolves.” She paused. “Not that I bring down caribou or any big meat. But I did bring you some vole. Sorry. I know wolves don’t particularly care for rodents.”
“Believe me, after tern eggs!”
“Oh, dear, it’s come to that?”
“It certainly has — at least for me.”
“You look well.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I never look well, not even presentable. But those voles smell great.”
“I wrapped them in rabbit-ear moss and set them on the coals. I brought you some coals as well.”
“That was very kind of you.”
“Eat them slowly. They’re rich, you know, because they feed on nuts. I wouldn’t want to upset your stomach.”
“After the insults of the tern eggs, nothing can offend my stomach.” The Sark pawed at the moss wrapping and uncovered a vole that was a bit scorched. She sniffed. “It’s a haunting aroma, really.”
“It’s the rabbit-ear moss. It smells that way when it’s wet.” Heedless of Gwynneth’s warning to eat slowly, the Sark devoured the little rodent in a matter of seconds.
“I take it your visit is not entirely a relief effort,” she commented with the last bite.
Gwynneth was immediately embarrassed. She should have known it was not simply the Sark’s sense of smell that was keen. The Sark’s other instincts were honed to a sharpness beyond the ordinary. There was no use evading. The Sark would never let herself be played for a fool.
“You’re right, b … bu … but —”
“Out with it, Gwynneth. I’ve known you a long time and your father, Gwyndor, even longer.”
“It’s about Da,” Gwynneth blurted out. “I know. I know. You looked for his body when you heard about his death but …” the owl said apologetically.
The Sark sighed deeply. “
We
, my dear. Remember I took you out with me. And what did we find?”
“Nothing.” Gwynneth cast her eyes down and shifted from one foot to the other nervously.
“So what makes you think we’d find him now?”
“Well, just possibly there’s a hero mark someplace for him. A hero mark with his helmet and visor.”
“Have you gone
cag mag
? Since when do owls have hero marks?”
“I know … I know it sounds crazy.”
“So why are
Good
, she thought.
She’s not out of fuel yet.
The Sark caught Gwynneth’s scent as she circled high above. The scent of a Masked Owl laced through with the smell of embers, moss, and very savory voles! Her mouth watered in anticipation. For although she generally avoided rodents, starvation was preferable to the thought of one more tern egg. She had discovered that the tern eggs were not really rotten at all, or at least not in the sense of being spoiled. It was simply their natural flavor. The tern’s flavor matched its character, which was, in the Sark’s opinion, the most annoying of any bird on earth. Flying weasels, she called them. Sharp beaked, skittish, and ridiculously territorial, terns darted down and tried to stab anything that set foot on what they considered their ground. Well, the Sark had taught them a lesson years ago. She had leaped right up and whacked them back. After a few dead terns, the rest left her in peace and avoided the Sark’s encampment.
Gwynneth lighted down.
“Well, where in the name of Glaux, to use an owl phrase, have you been?”
“Silverveil, ma’am. It was impossible to tend a forge here.”
Owls often addressed the Sark as “ma’am.” Gwynneth was not sure when this practice began. Perhaps it was her father, Gwyndor, who started with this form of address, for he had an immense respect for the Sark and had frequently complained of the wolves’ treatment of her. Gwyndor abhorred that they often referred to her as a witch. So he had told Gwynneth it was particularly important to call the Sark “ma’am” when any wolves were around. “That’ll show ’em the proper respect!” he would often say.
Gwynneth continued, “I didn’t feel it right to try to compete for game here with the wolves.” She paused. “Not that I bring down caribou or any big meat. But I did bring you some vole. Sorry. I know wolves don’t particularly care for rodents.”
“Believe me, after tern eggs!”
“Oh, dear, it’s come to that?”
“It certainly has — at least for me.”
“You look well.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I never look well, not even presentable. But those voles smell great.”
“I wrapped them in rabbit-ear moss and set them on the coals. I brought you some coals as well.”
“That was very kind of you.”
“Eat them slowly. They’re rich, you know, because they feed on nuts. I wouldn’t want to upset your stomach.”
“After the insults of the tern eggs, nothing can offend my stomach.” The Sark pawed at the moss wrapping and uncovered a vole that was a bit scorched. She sniffed. “It’s a haunting aroma, really.”
“It’s the rabbit-ear moss. It smells that way when it’s wet.” Heedless of Gwynneth’s warning to eat slowly, the Sark devoured the little rodent in a matter of seconds.
“I take it your visit is not entirely a relief effort,” she commented with the last bite.
Gwynneth was immediately embarrassed. She should have known it was not simply the Sark’s sense of smell that was keen. The Sark’s other instincts were honed to a sharpness beyond the ordinary. There was no use evading. The Sark would never let herself be played for a fool.
“You’re right, b … bu … but —”
“Out with it, Gwynneth. I’ve known you a long time and your father, Gwyndor, even longer.”
“It’s about Da,” Gwynneth blurted out. “I know. I know. You looked for his body when you heard about his death but …” the owl said apologetically.
The Sark sighed deeply. “
We
, my dear. Remember I took you out with me. And what did we find?”
“Nothing.” Gwynneth cast her eyes down and shifted from one foot to the other nervously.
“So what makes you think we’d find him now?”
“Well, just possibly there’s a hero mark someplace for him. A hero mark with his helmet and visor.”
“Have you gone
cag mag
? Since when do owls have hero marks?”
“I know … I know it sounds crazy.”
“So why are
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