Allen Werther replied within the hour. Janet’s old schoolmate would be delighted to see her son and the peculiar owl Oriell had discovered. In fact, he was not currently far from Shallowdale. He had come to Upper Klamath to speak at the university, and would be there for the next few days.

There were no roads into Shallowdale. Ensconced between the Aethela on one side and Upper Klamath Lake on the other, there was no room for a road. The only way into or out of Shallowdale was on the ferry. Morning and evening, Monday, Friday, and Saturday, the faded red ferry crossed the lake, bringing people to and from Shallowdale and the small city of Upper Klamath. It was soon decided that Oriell and Arnica would take the Friday morning ferry into the city to meet with Allen Werther.

Oriell had never been to the city. He spent the day in jittery anticipation. Despite many baleful looks, Oriell’s mother refused to let the owl into the house.

“My son says you’re our hermit,” Janet explained, “and I believe him, but hermit or no, I won’t have creatures in my house.” Arnica ruffled her feathers, but for all her grousing, she did not try to leave the barn.

Janet sent Oriell to bring the owl tuna for lunch, then canned salmon for supper. When Oriell’s father came home, Janet explained that Oriell had found an unusual owl on the Aethela, and that she was sending him to an old colleague of hers to have it examined. Mick nodded and commended his son for taking responsibility of the injured bird. Neither Oriell nor his mother mentioned that the owl was, in fact, the hermit transformed. Mick Davis was a straightforward man. He had no patience for the strange or silly, and he would not have approved.

After dinner, Oriell checked on the owl before he went to bed.

“Arnica?” he called softly, entering the barn.

The owl hooted sorrowfully, and Oriell saw that she had wedged herself into a chair. She looked terribly uncomfortable and seemed quite miserable about it.

“Silly bird,” he muttered, reaching to pick her up. The owl screeched and snapped at Oriell’s hand. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he retorted. “For right now, you’re an owl. Owls don’t sit in chairs. Don’t look at me like that; it’s your own fault you’re uncomfortable.”

Arnica glared.

Oriell glared back.

Finally, the owl lowered her gaze with a “hmph” and shifted slightly toward Oriell. He carefully lifted her and raised her to a long rod his mother had installed as a perch.

“Go on,” he urged. “You have to grip it, or you’ll fall.” When the owl did not do as he said, he threatened, “I’m going to let go. If you fall, it’s your own fault.” With much “hmph”-like grumbling, the owl wrapped her feet around the wooden pole. Oriell released his grip but stayed within reach, in case the bird should lose her balance. “Relax,” he said. Arnica shot him a look of utter disgust. You try finding yourself some other creature, she seemed to say, and see how well you relax. She slowly shifted her weight and grip, wobbling uncertainly. She tipped slowly but inexorably back. She squawked as she began to fall. Oriell stepped in to catch her, but Arnica’s wings snapped out and restored her balance.

Looking very surprised, the owl flexed her wings, testing the way they moved. After a moment, she settled herself and looked smugly at the human boy.