Torv was exhausted and allowed himself to shut his eyes in the safest place he could find on short notice. He was nestled in the hollow of an old tree. It was dead; struck by lightning and rotted through, but held up for centuries between its two neighboring trees as a lone sentinel from a time before their roots had first grown. It was dry enough in the hollow, and Torv curled into a ball under his cloak. Whether he was asleep for hours or mere moments, it was dark when he was rudely awoken.

Torv was hazy, having not truly slept in a long time, and having let himself get some actual rest, waking up was difficult. It appeared to his sleep-befuddled brain that a large stick was hovering in the air and poking him hard in the sternum.

-Ow, stick stop that! I’m sleeping.

But the stick did not stop and it was not a dream but a real piece of wood that was repeatedly jabbing the young man in the chest. Torv pulled his cloak about him and rubbed at his eyes. When he opened them and they were clear of sleep the image became no less dream-like. The sight that greeted his eyes was this: a large, brown, barn owl was seated upright on the top of a well-worn walking stick. As if to demonstrate that balancing was not his only trick, and that it had indeed been him who woke up Torv, with a powerful downward push of wings, the owl flew from its perch, clutched the stave in its claws, and with another flap of wings swung that stave into Torv’s chest rudely.

-I see you’re awake, the owl said. If you would kindly follow me.

-Is it far?

In Torv’s state of exhaustion, whether or not he was going to have to walk far was more important than discussing the owl’s various impressive skills.

-Not far. Come along, Torv.

The owl dropped the walking stick at Torv’s feet and he picked it up. It was a blessing as his travel was finally catching up with him and each step was a tortuous slog through fatigue. With the walking stick helping keep him from falling down ignominiously, the unlikely pair made their way from the hollow of the old tree to a path through tall ferns that Torv never would have noticed had the owl not led him to it, but once he was safely walking along was as obvious as a large nose on a pinched face. The brown owl hovered low above the ferns, circling back repeatedly for Torv’s slow gait but showing no signs of impatience or annoyance, which was a great relief given the alacrity with which he had whacked Torv’s sternum with the walking stick.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The bird did not lie. They reached their destination after only a short walk through the ferns. It was a house. Or, rather a dwelling. It was the meeting point of an indeterminate number of trees which, while still very much alive and full of leaves and birds and who knows what else, were all twisted together about thirty feet from the ground, creating a natural yurt. The end of the fern path came directly up to the door or opening into the yurt and it was here that the owl flew up into the upper canopy of the dwelling/trees.

-Go on in now. He’s waiting for you. I must go to sleep now.

And with that, the owl was gone. Torv walked into the structure expecting it to be dark and a bit dank, but it was nothing of the sort. While the trees had twisted together tightly enough to create an insulated, snug structure of warmth and security, there were also thousands of tiny pinpricks of light shining through the canopied ceiling and walls. The furnishings of a simple, country cottage barely registered to Torv, so taken was he by the architecture of the place.

-I see you like my home.

The voice belonged to a very old man standing with his back to the fireplace, his hands tucked neatly behind him, a benevolent smile playing about his lips. His clothes were earth-colored, his hair and beard white, and his eyes a luminous, dark brown as of fertile soil.

-I’m Torv Mannold.

-I know who you are, Torv. But I suppose you haven’t the slightest idea who I might be.

-It’s true, I don’t. I do thank you for your hospitality.

-I hope old Icarus wasn’t too rough with you?

Torv rubbed the sore spot on his sternum.

-I’ve had worse.

-And will yet, I imagine. Tea?

Torv very much wanted some tea, and could not remember the last time he had experienced such a luxury. The old man chattered to himself as he put on a kettle and doled out the tea leaves, but it wasn’t until he and Torv sat down across from each other in front of the old man’s cozy fireplace, each of them with a steaming mug in hand, the aroma of tea filling the living house that the old man cleared his throat and spoke directly to his guest.

-I suppose I ought to introduce myself.