Oriell continued to climb the Aethela every Wednesday, and as winter turned to spring, he saw more and more of Arnica. She spoke little, but he grew accustomed to the dry-branch rasp of her voice and the strength in her twisted hands. He began to look forward to seeing the hermit and working silently side by side.

One day, he reached the ruinous glade, and Arnica was not there. Surprised, Oriell crossed to the cottage to begin chopping wood, but there was no woodpile. This had never happened before.

“Arnica?” Oriell called.

Perched on the pillar-stump the hermit sometimes used as a table, a silver owl fluttered its wings and hooted, but there was no response. I guess I’ll wait, Oriell decided. He sat with his back against the side of the cottage.

Shafts of sunlight pierced the glade like arrows, leaving trails of gold in their wake. Cherry blossoms fluttered palely and drifted in the erstwhile breeze. Lulled by the warmth of the stone wall, Oriell drifted into sleep.

When he awoke, indigo washed across the sky and the breeze had turned cool. He sat up, rubbing his neck, and looked around. There was still no sign of the hermit.

“Hello?” Oriell cupped his hands around his mouth to shout. The silver owl hooted and flew to land beside the boy, watching him intently. “I don’t suppose you know where she went?” Oriell muttered. “Well, we’d better start looking. Which direction shall we try?”

The owl hooted irritably and pecked at Oriell’s hand.

“There’s no need for that.” Oriell stood. He decided to follow the stream, thinking that as likely a direction as any in which to find the hermit. Trying to ignore a feeling of utter hopelessness, Oriell strode towards the wood, looking for any sign of Arnica. The owl followed, waddling behind him on short legs and hooting incessantly.

Oriell’s toes soon hurt from collisions with roots and rocks. An unseen branch slapped his cheek, and he had to hold an arm in front of his face to keep from losing an eye in the blinding dark. Every so often, he called Arnica’s name. The increasingly frustrated hooting of the owl was the only reply.

After he missed his footing and plunged face-first into the stream, Oriell was forced to admit the futility of his search. He blundered back to the glade. Oriell felt strange about entering the hermit’s house without her, so he slept outside with his back to the wall to block the wind.

Once again, he woke to find the owl staring at him.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he asked the bird.

The owl hooted—quite grumpily, Oriell thought—and pecked at his hand again.

“Stop that,” Oriell snapped, standing up.

Overcome with exasperation, the owl squawked a rasping sound like the creaking of dry branches in an autumn storm. Oriell stared at the owl. Surely, it couldn’t be. “Arnica?” he asked, feeling foolish.

The owl nodded and made a sound very similar to “hmph.”