Wabi by Joseph Bruchac Page A

one a little higher than the other. That way it is easier to take a bearing on some hidden tasty little thing rustling in the leaves and burrowing under the snow. As a human I also no longer had a nice movable funnel of feathers around each ear that I could arrange in such a way as to bring any sound to me more effectively.
    Luckily, though they were stiff and awkward, these new ears were fairly perceptive. (Much better, I would learn, than those of humans who had not begun their lives as owls.) And by tilting my head to one side or the other and cupping my wingtips—hands, I mean—around one ear or the other, I could focus in on sounds with some effectiveness.
    I had been listening and watching from the shadows for some time before making my own entrance. I listened more carefully than I had ever listened before as one young hunter after another arrived at the village, introduced himself, and said pretty much the same thing.
    â€œI have come to win the great contest that will begin tomorrow as soon as Kisos, the great sun, shows his face at the edge of the sky.”
    First, though, each new arrival would call out a greeting before he came into sight.
    â€œKwai kwai, nidobak!” Hello, my friends.
    I noticed how many of those young men arrived with their proud mothers close behind them. Nudging them along, in fact. In one or two cases, it seemed as if their sons were not eager to take part in this contest for Dojihla.
    â€œKwai kwai, nidoba.” Hello, my friend.
    That is the response that would come back to them from the tall gray-haired man who seemed to have the role of welcoming the visitors. That older man stood with his back to the fire, looking down the dark path where each new arrival appeared.
    â€œBidhabi,” the man would then say in a voice almost as deep and pleasant as that of an owl. Enter and sit.
    I had listened to humans many times, but never before had I been in a situation where I would actually be talking back to them. I needed to know what to say and how to say it. I needed to observe how a proper human behaved in such circumstances. I needed to avoid behaving in a way that would make people suspicious. Most of all, I needed to learn what had to be done to impress Dojihla.
    Unfortunately, none of the young men who arrived ahead of me could offer any guidance at all as far as that last thing went. No matter how they carried themselves, no matter how they were dressed, no matter what they said, Dojihla looked at each of them the way a hunter might eye a badly made arrow that he knows will never fly straight.
    I had noticed how all the hopeful young men introduced themselves. When they said who their people were and what they were called, familiar places and names often received nods and sighs of approval from the people of her village. But never from Dojihla. She looked as if she had eaten something that was beginning to disagree with her.
    None of the men had brought a gift for Dojihla. I looked at the lovely fat mouse I held cupped in my hand. It wiggled its nose and looked back up at me. Of course I hadn’t killed it. It is much more polite among owls for your present to still be alive. Then the recipient can enjoy the delicious pleasure of breaking its little neck.
    I shook my head. Perhaps not a good idea? Human tastes were different from owls. Come to think of it, I had never seen a human being eat a mouse. My only uncertainty before had been whether to dangle my little squirming token of affection from my hand or my mouth before passing it to the object of my affection. Now I realized how bad an idea that was. Apparently human suitors fed each other such tidbits as live food only when they were inside their upside-down nests. Not out in full view of everyone else.
    I went down on one knee and opened my hand.
    â€œGo and make more of your kind so we owls will always have plenty to eat in the nights to come,” I whispered to the mouse. It hopped off my hand and dug