The hermit had become an owl. “Well,” said Oriell, “now what do we do?”

The owl, unsurprisingly, said nothing.

“I don’t suppose you can talk?” Oriell asked doubtfully. The owl hooted beratingly. “I had to at least ask.” After a moment, he continued. “It’s no use trying to climb down the Aethela in the dark; we’ll have to wait for morning. Is it alright if I stay in your cottage?”

The owl bobbed her head in a nod. Oriell felt strange sleeping in the hermit’s bed, but the night was cold, and he was glad of the warm furs. He thought he would never get to sleep, what with the excitement, the strange herbal smells of the cottage, and the unnerving feeling that the owl was staring at him, but the exertion and worry of the day pulled him into a dreamless slumber.

He woke in the morning, hoping it had been a dream, but he knew before he opened his eyes that it had not. Arnica’s cottage smelled of dandelion and a dozen other herbs, and her furs felt nothing like his own bed. A silver eye watched him, unblinking.

“Still an owl, I see,” Oriell said, by way of greeting. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and ran his fingers through his hair. “My mom’s a vet; maybe she can tell us…something. We’d have to go into the village.” Would the hermit be willing to leave the Aethela? Oriell watched carefully, but the owl seemed unconcerned. “Alright, then.”

Oriell strode across the glade, and the owl followed, bobbing along awkwardly on her short legs. As they began the trek down the mountain, Oriell kept having to stop and wait for the owl.

“Can’t you fly?” he asked, on the fifth or sixth occurrence.

“Hmph,” the owl hooted. Oriell imagined the hermit’s rough voice snapping, If I could fly, don’t you think I would be?

“At this rate, this’ll take all day,” Oriell retorted. “What if I carried you?” The owl stiffened, but she did not move away aw Oriell slowly reached toward her. Arnica’s every muscle was tense with fear, but she stayed still as he lifted her gently to his shoulder. As he let go, her talons dug into his skin.

“Ouch! Not so tight.” The owl shifted her wings nervously but didn’t loose her grip. Oriell grit his teeth and tried to remember that it must be quite terrifying to suddenly find oneself a bird.

***

Shallowdale was not a large village. It certainly was not large enough to have a vet, but when Mick Davis came to mine jade, his wife Janet came with him. Oriell’s mother had a small clinic in a refurbished barn, and it was there that Oriell took Arnica.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Janet said. “She’s an owl with a human heart. It shouldn’t be possible—it isn’t possible; it’s killing her.”

“What?!”

Janet nodded.

Oriell swallowed. “How long does she have?”

“It’s…hard to say.” Oriell’s mother discarded latex gloves and looked at the owl on her operating table. “There’s a man I went to school with, Allen Werther, specialized in avian species. I’ll send him an email; maybe he can help.”