The Crows and the Owls

For as long as the forest remembered, crows and owls had kept a truce built entirely out of hours: the day for one kingdom, the night for the other. A one-eyed owl-king broke it, raiding crow nests by dark while the crows sat blind and helpless in their own trees.

The crow-king called his council in despair, his numbers thinned, his younger nobles arguing for a war his army could not win in the dark.

Old MinisterWe cannot out-fight an enemy on his own hours. We can outwait him on ours. Cast me out, publicly, cruelly — accuse me of treason before the whole flock, and let the owls hear how far I fall.

The crow-king, trusting a plan he did not enjoy, denounced his oldest minister in front of both kingdoms. The minister flew, wounded and bitter-seeming, straight into the owls' own territory, and asked for sanctuary from a king who had cast him out.

Young OwlA crow who forgets his own color while it is convenient is still a crow underneath the story he is telling us.

Owl-kingAn enemy's enemy has earned a season of trust, at least. Let him stay.

He stayed years, not a season — learning the cave's every entrance, the guards' habits, which owls slept lightest, until the geography of the enemy's safety lived entirely in his memory.

When at last he had all of it, he flew home before dawn and told his king exactly where and how deep the owls slept, blind as crows themselves once the sun came up.

The crow army came at first light carrying lit twigs in their claws, and sealed the cave's mouths with burning brush before a single owl eye could open against the glare.

The crow kingdom kept its nights after that, though the minister who bought them never spoke of the years he had spent answering to a name that was not his own. Loyalty patient enough to wait outlasts a wall that only has to wait until morning.