“Calamity!”

“Calamity!”

“Calamity!”

It was evening in the land of the Mountain. Thin columns of smoke trickled up from the homes of the village in the valley. Stars, older than Time himself, swayed and circled through the empyrean, moving in concert to the pulse of their celestial dance. Beneath them, a full moon hung low over the Forest, crimson and dark, and bathed the trees in a soft scarlet hue.

“Calamity!” screamed the magpie. “Calamity!”

It flapped frantically through the night, and flew hither and thither about. Mindless with panic, it screeched and shrieked without respite.

“Calamity! Calamity!”

“Cease this tiresome yammering at once!” howled the great wolf, from the forest floor below. “Why must you scream so, and disturb the peace?”

“Blind fool!” the magpie cried. It fluttered down onto a branch above the wolf. “Well do you enjoy the illusion of peace! Well do you enjoy the tranquility of night! Do you not see our great brother, the moon? Do you not see how he bleeds? Do you not see how he falls from his sky? Can you not see that in this it must be that he heralds to us the coming of a Most Calamitous Age?”

The wolf bared its teeth.

“I am neither foolish nor blind,” it growled. “Have a care how you address your betters. I am not some soon-forgotten rodent flapping trivially through the sky. I am a wolf, little magpie, and the earth is mine. I am that which pursues and does not tire. I am that which devours and does not cease. I am the hunger in the night and the teeth in her shadows. Consider it your good fortune this night, feeble bird, that in my good humor I do not hunt your most cacophonous self and end your meager existence entirely offhand.”

It yawned a dreadful yawn, its fangs glistening red in the moonlight.

“It is said that idle minds and timid hearts make for ruinous thoughts and I see it is certainly true. Hark unto me, little magpie, and hear the truth in my words.”

“Our great brother, the moon, does not bleed. Rid yourself of such thoughtless notions. Bleed? Ask yourself, how could an Ancient One bleed? And does the color red not signify luck, and joy, and happiness?”

“No, little magpie, he does not bleed. He garbs himself in regal decadence. He does not fall, but draws near, as near as he has ever been since he and our great sister, the sun, stepped into the sky.”

Hearing sense in the wolf’s wise words, the magpie looked back up at the moon, and saw to its great surprise that the moon’s red glow was now indeed regal and kind, not at all the terrifying gleam that it had seemed even just moments before.

“It does not escape my keen eyes,” said the wolf with approval. “How you look upon the moon with wonder anew. Indeed I say to you, our great brother does not portend a Most Calamitous Age, but instead beckons upon us an age of utmost providence, a Most Prosperous Age.”

“Do you speak truly?” chirped the magpie. It hopped and fluttered in excitement. “Great wolf, do you speak truly?”

The wolf laughed a raucous, rumbling laugh. “I am not the fox with its tongue of silver or the hare with her quick words. I have spoken, and so it shall be. Any words that come forth from this deadly mouth of mine are as such that you may stand upon them as surely you do the very branch beneath you now, and I say a time of plenty is upon us. Rejoice, little magpie, for we shall grow fat, and merry, and abundant.”

At this, the magpie’s heart stirred in its breast and it knew the wolf’s words to be true. It thanked the great wolf with the deepest profundity for its wisdom and offered its sincerest apologies for having disturbed the wolf’s night, which the wolf magnanimously accepted.

Then it flung itself back into the sky with a light heart, and began its long journey home back to its nest in the high trees.

But barely a moment later the magpie, relieved and overjoyed at the wolf’s shared percipience, found it could not help but burst into a song of gladness.

“Providence!” it sang. “Providence!”

It wheeled and tumbled as it flew over the Forest, riding the cool evening currents through the sky.

“Providence! Providence!”

“And just who,” came the soft and deadly voice of the great owl. “Who is it that would dare to disturb the silence of my domain?”

The magpie gathered itself into a swift and sudden stop. It settled onto the first perch it could find and lowered its head in deference.

“I beg your forgiveness, elder brother,” it said humbly. “So drunk was I with joy and so beside myself that I was not aware of whose realm it was through which I travelled.”

It lifted its head and found itself face to face with the great owl, now suddenly beside it. Dark and ominous in the light of the red moon, the owl gripped the branch with clawlike feet and peered at the magpie with large, unblinking eyes.

“Drunk with joy?” asked the owl. It enunciated each word with contempt, and the branch creaked in its grasp. “Pray tell me, little brother, what joy is there to be found this night? Do you not see our great brother, the moon? Do you not see how he presages the Age to come and its many misfortunes?”

“With the deepest respect, elder brother,” said the magpie, bowing again. “It may be that I bring news to the contrary.”

“Oh?” The owl’s soft voice was low and dangerous as it twisted its head into a sharp, sidelong tilt.

The magpie fought to keep its voice from trembling. “From the mouth of the great wolf. See how our great brother, the moon, robes himself. See how he draws near. He does not signify a Most Calamitous Age, as even I had once thought, elder brother. But by his attire and adjacency, he announces the joyous coming of a Most Prosperous Age in which all manners of creatures can look forward to growing fat and content.”

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“Do not presume,” hissed the owl. “To tarnish my ears with the words of the wolf that crawls. I am not some flightless scavenger forever scrabbling in the dirt. I am the owl, little magpie, and I am free. I am the wind in the moonlit sky. I am the silence in the deep night. I am that which watches and does not blink. I am that which strikes and does not miss. Truly you find yourself in the midst of a most fortuitous fate in that I have already slain and eaten tonight and am not wanton and wasteful, and therefore do not slay you out of mere, irritated, whim.”

It ruffled its feathers, framing its dark figure in a more prominent outline of red.

“It is said that foolish minds and fearless hearts make for delusions of grandeur and I see now it is certainly true. Attend, little brother. Hear the truth in my words.”

“Our great brother, the moon, does not clothe himself in attire. Clothe himself? Clothe himself? Tell me, little brother, what need does an Ancient One have for clothes? Can there be anything more divine or more worthy of the star filled heavens than his unmarred and unmitigated form? And does not the shade red reminisce of flame, and anger, and war?”

“No, little magpie, our great brother does not garb or adorn himself. He darkens with ire. Dark is his crimson flush as he glares down at us from above, no less inflamed at the sight of your foolish figure singing shamelessly across his sky.”

The magpie, unable to find an argument against the owl’s ominous divination, looked up again at the moon and saw that its glow was indeed fiery and foreboding, not the joyous cast it had once seemed.

“It is entirely clear to me,” said the owl. “How you now gaze upon our great brother, the moon, with a wholly appropriate quality of unease. And it is well you do. For he does not beckon unto us an age of plenty like the pitiful wolf so supposes, but an age of strife and conflict, a Most Contentious Age.”

At the owl’s declaration, the magpie’s heart fell in its breast and it knew the owl’s words to be true.

But just as it was about to thank the owl for its wisdom and once again depart for home, the tree beneath them shook and the sound of deep, snuffly, wet laughter filled the air.

“Never have I ever,” wheezed a ripe, rich voice. “Never have I ever heard such contrived nonsense, in all of my days, as I have just heard this night.”

At the base of the tree beneath them, the bear scratched its back against the rough bark and laughed at the exchange it had overheard.

The owl, affronted, spread its vast wings and glared down menacingly at the bear’s guffawing form. “Be silent, witless bear. Dare to call me a liar or laugh at my expense again. I will rip the small, dull eyes from your head and laugh over you as you suffer a slow and miserable end.”

But its threats only amused the bear even further. It shook with amusement, showing no concern or even regard for the owl’s mad-eyed gaze.

“Your words are but air,” it said, at last. “Listen! My laughter echoes still. Listen again! I declare that never have I ever heard such contrived nonsense, in all of my days, as I have just heard you speak this night. Now come, little owl. Make good on your word. Look, I do not move.”

It sat down on its haunches and looked up at the owl as if with great expectation.

But the owl silently folded its wings beneath itself, and said nothing. It glowered again at the bear who broke into such thick and heavy laughter that it seemed to the magpie that the peals of its laughter spilled over from deep within its enormous being and carpeted the forest floor as it spread.

“Do not think to subdue me with empty threats and ominous glares,” the bear rumbled. “I am not some small creature that flees or flies. I am the thunder on the Mountain. I am the storm that moves the trees. I am the inexorable darkness of night. I am the bear, little owl, and I am mighty. Dare to come near me. I will crack you open to the white meat.”

It gave the tree a casual swipe that scored it through the bark and into its white core. The owl narrowed its eyes dangerously as the tree beneath them groaned, then fell silent.

But the magpie, unable to restrain its curiosity, piped, “Why do you say the owl speaks nonsense, Master Bear?”

The bear idly scratched its chin. “Because the truth is plain to see, little magpie, even for one with eyes as dim as mine. The moon does not darken with ire as our pretentious friend the owl so laughably divines. He does not fume above us as would an embittered infant. He blushes with love. He does not mark our passage into a Most Contentious Age. He draws near with reddened countenance to proclaim upon us a time of passion and love, a Most Amorous Age.”

The owl laughed a high, cruel laugh.

“Blushes?! Blushes?!” It laughed even harder. “A Most Amorous Age?! See, brother magpie, how the dumb bear fumbles with its meager mind. Not even the worms of the earth could believe such befuddled blather.”

“I speak the truth, little owl,” the bear growled, no longer amused. “But if you wish to say otherwise, then by all means, come contend with me. Let us mete out the truth between us.”

“You are all mistaken,” hissed the snake. It slithered out from its home in the roots of the tree, disturbed from its sleep by the sound of their quarrel. “You muddy clear waters, and complicate what should be simple.”

“The detail of whether our great brother, the moon, blushes or seethes is but minutiae. Can you not see that it is the turning of his tincture itself that illuminates the nature of the age to come? In its disharmony, he enlightens us to the coming of an era most rotten and wrong. He does not convey to us an age of passion or war, but an age of evil, a Most Iniquitous Age.”

At the snake’s words, the bear rumbled and took a single menacing step in its direction.

“Contend with me if you wish, Master Bear,” the snake said. It circled its long body in on itself in great looping coils. “But I am not like the owl so easily vanquished. I am the last mistake and the final breath. I am the silence between the beats of your heart. I am the hidden knife and the sudden shadow. I am the snake, Master Bear, and I am death.”

“Be silent, worm,” spat the owl from its perch. “Or I will fetch you up in my talons and grow fat on your carcass. You speak in the manner of simpletons and fools. Clearly it can be seen from even the most cursory glance how our great brother, the moon, nearly trembles in anger!”

“No, you are all wrong,” the wolf barked as it bounded through the trees. “Has red not always been the color of joy and prosperity? How can it possibly elude you all that our great brother, the moon, by his garb, most assuredly summons a Most Prosperous Age?”

“Be silent, little brother,” the bear growled. “Or be silenced. Mention such drivel again and I will lay upon you such destruction that none who come across your remains will recognize them for what you once were.”

The serpent laughed in a fit of spits and hisses. “Yes, little brother,” it mocked. “This is a meeting of better minds than yours. Do not make the mistake of believing there is anything you can contribute.”

“I have yet to see any such contribution from yourself, little worm,” hooted the owl. “Even my own children would have more wisdom to offer than anything we have heard from you this night.”

“I will eat your offspring as they slumber in your nest, owl,” the snake hissed. “And thereby save us all from any idiocy that they have most assuredly inherited from you.”

The owl shrieked in outrage, but was drowned by the bear’s uproarious laughter.

“SILENCE.”

An immense, powerful, quiet voice rolled through the trees and shook the earth as it passed. Leaves stirred and fell, as if struck by a sudden wind. Fur, feathers, and scales trembled as the air about them shuddered at the utterance of the single word.

Without a single further word passed between them, the animals fled, terrified, each back to their homes in the Forest on the Mountain, stifling their yelps, whines, hoots, and hisses as best they could.

The magpie, faster than the others, flew as fast as it had ever flown the rest of its way home without stopping to rest or sing. Only when the night had passed through the coming day, into the next, and the moon had returned to its pale, silver hue, did the magpie think and reflect on all that had taken place the night before from the warm safety of its home in the high trees.