In the time when the west was still wild and Spirits hid in the venom of snakes and the travelling shadows of tumbleweeds, a caravan rested for the night underneath the shadow of a worn mountain. Battered by the onslaught of the elements, the mountain seemed to be held together more by crevices than by rock, the way skin is crisscrossed with scars.
A girl of no more than ten peered into one of these crags, far above her parents campfire where the stone met sand below. Although the night threatened a chill, the stone was still warm under her hands and she leaned in further, the litany of lies she had told her father sweet on her lips.
I promise I won’t go far. I just want to look at them. I’ll come right back.
The entrance of the crevice was shaped like a tall window, complete with a sill worn smooth. Just past the lip the wall dropped down a mans length, leading to a damp floor that sloped slightly downward into the darkness. A cool breeze blew on her face and brought with it sounds of hidden creatures; clicks of scorpion and squeaks of hungry bats. She swung her legs over the shelf and dropped down without a thought of how to get back up. She landed badly and slipped, skinning her knee. Something in the shadows moved at her hiss of pain, just out of sight.
She pressed herself against the wall and tried to climb back out, but her fingers found no purchase on the smooth surface. Failing that, she sat with her back against it, her shirt damp with sweat and dew, and the sound of a soft tread made her look up. A small face as bright and round as the full moon peered back at her and hooted. She grinned and sighed, “Hello little owl.” It cocked its head to the side and stepped further into the pool of moonlight. Where claws should have been, fur covered legs and paws tread instead, with a supple tail to match swishing behind it as a cat would with prey.
At once, her body was cold and heavy as ice and her mouth was dry with her frightened panting. The creature spoke to her in a fluted voice that vibrated within the stones around her. “Do you come with your tribe, child?”
Her tongue stuck in her throat.
It cocked it’s head the other way. “No. You are not with a tribe; you smell of iron. How did you come to be here?”
“My parents said we had to head west where there’s land for us. They’re down by the fire.”
“They let you come to me alone? Only chief’s have that privilege, and I hardly believe you are one.” The half-owl settled to the floor, and wrapped the tail around itself. The girl had the sudden thought that it looked like a ridiculous hat the mayor’s wife may have left behind. She grinned and balanced on the balls of her feet.
“But I am the chief. I have my own horse and tent too; I may be young, but they all agreed I was the smartest and put me in charge. I told my parents I wouldn’t come in here and they believed me, so I must be the chief.”
“Lies.”
Her face grew hot. “So what if I lied? It’s their own fault for believing me. I’m just good with words.”
“Good with words.” The creature rose and took a step towards her. For the first time, she noticed a spine like that of a scorpion protruding from the tip of its tail and the soft glow of picked over bones in the darkness. She fell back against the stone.
The Spirit continued, “Words often cloud more than clarify. Do not confuse being good with lies as being good with words. Humans know what to do with lies; they are easy. Like your parents, the person hearing the lie accepts or accuses, and the liar spins further webs to cover the first. Only the accuser is good with words, they seek the truth. You are not clever, you are naive. Now, child,” it fanned it’s wings and brought the spine to bear, “I can show you the truth of the world, as I did the chiefs, but it is yours to decide. Are you good with words, or merely lies?”
Room for Wonder 