Night Hunting by Richard Lau

Sarah glanced over her shoulder and fixed me with a big-eyed stare as I crawled into our shared camping tent. I tried to stare back with my own eyes as wide as possible but what chance did my human eyes have against what they were facing? She merely slowly blinked. I’m tall for a girl, but she made me feel as small as a mouse. And I knew what she did with mice.

Even after being in a relationship with her for over five years, I still couldn't hide my discomfort. I’m normally high-strung, but her times of transformation almost put me over the edge. I think it would with anyone.

Of course, my girlfriend could have hidden her reaction to my unease, but she was annoyed enough not to even try. She scowled. Scrunching together her feathered brow, she said, "You know, my people were spinning their heads around long before your stupid exorcist movie."

She had a point there. My grandfather had always kidded me about being a "night owl" for how I've always loved staying up late after most people’s bedtime, reading or gaming or doing some last-minute homework. I always seemed to get my second wind around 8:30 in the evening.

But I had nothing on Sarah and her were-owl bloodline. Once a month, when the moon was full, she took to wing. Literally.

Since we lived in a city, we normally had frozen mice from the pet shop on hand for the full moon. “TV dinner night again,” was how she jokingly referred to these times.

We had tried to keep live mice and rats, but I kept making friends with them and mourning their demise, leaving Sarah exasperated with a feeling of rejection. “Do I ever get a pet cow for you to make a burger out of?” she’d ask during the resulting argument.

As a compromise, either she or I would pick up some live food from a pet store just a night or two before the full moon. But there were only a few local shops, and their selection was limited. In addition, not many of them stocked enough of a supply for a five-foot-two owl who consumed small critters like chocolate bon-bons, even for a single night.

To give both of us a break, every three months or so, we’d take a weekend out of town. Thankfully, there were many rural areas just an hour or two away.

We have our favorite campground and our favorite site. This time we were lucky enough to be able to book both.

The campground was in a deeply wooded area with a lake nearby, providing Sarah with a large and varied dietary selection. The site, while only a small dirt clearing, was a good distance from the other campers, so we had privacy for ourselves and Sarah’s transformation.

When I had entered the tent, she had not fully transformed yet. But she was close. I could see the “feather fuzz” growing on her face and her nose was developing a sharper downward hook. And those almost-saucer eyes.

“Anything I can get you?” I asked, which was part of our normal routine. Sarah doesn’t like to transform in front of me, so it would soon be time to make myself scarce. I thought this modesty was an odd quirk for someone who never closed a bathroom door, but she pointed out to me that physical transformation was a lot more personal and intimate than merely vacating one’s bowels.

“Anyway, I’m just protecting you. Lots of people think they can handle witnessing such a thing, but they can’t. They get mentally scarred, repulsed by even their partner’s human form.”

Having my own body issues, I knew what she meant.

I made a quick trip to our truck parked down the road and timed my return to be just after dusk. I checked the tent, and she was gone. Her clothes were neatly folded, with two newly preened owl feathers crossed on top.

It was a tradition we had created. One feather for our love in the air. The other feather for our love on the ground. As usual, I bound the two feathers in a hair tie and stuck them in my ponytail.

At the start of our relationship, I asked Sarah if I could go on these night hunts with her. She tactfully explained that her type of hunting required surprise and silence, two things that I wasn’t very good at.

“That’s not fair!” I protested. “I don’t have an ass full of noise-dampening feathers like some people!”

“That’s not the end I’m talking about,” Sarah replied.

I shot her a dirty look and mumbled that in spite of their reputations, owls weren’t known to be the brightest brains in the bird world, especially the blonde ones.

Since then, I’ve learned there are just some parts of Sarah’s other life that I will never be able to experience, and that’s fine with me.

Later, I was finishing up my dinner, mentally going back and forth over which meal I should be more envious of: Sarah’s “fresh food” or my canned chili heated over the campfire.

That’s when the stranger broke noisily through the brush surrounding the campsite.

I nearly had a heart attack. As I said, I’m normally high-strung, and I’m especially nervous during Sarah’s night hunts. And this guy silently approached from the darkness and the trees before making himself known. A literal creep.

“Evening, miss,” the man said with a smile.

Tall, thin, with close-cropped nut-brown hair and black-framed glasses, he looked just like an accountant. An accountant carrying a not-so-office-compliant rifle.

“Hello,” I replied flatly and in as unfriendly a tone that I could muster, my heart still pounding in my chest.

“You camping alone?”

I thought it was a rude, insensitive, and invasive question. Still, I tried to swallow my outrage at being disturbed and the fear forming a lump in my throat. I wasn’t so much afraid of the stranger, as I had dealt with unwanted attention for most of my twenty-three years of life. But he had a rifle, and Sarah was in owl form. Those two facts increased the stakes and my anxiety.

“No,” I said, standing, trying to appear as big as possible, as when confronting a mountain lion. Be brave, I told myself. “My boyfriend just went back to our car to get the rest of our gear.” I wanted to add that he had also gone back for his badge, college wrestling sweater, and father’s bowie knife.

In the light of the campfire and the electric lantern the man held, I could see him swivel his head and check out our campsite. Thankfully, the amount of stuff scattered around indicated the presence of more than one person. He seemed to especially take in the two backpack frames by the tent and thankfully didn’t notice my single set of dinnerware.

“Well, I hope he’s wearing a safety vest.” The man grinned awkwardly, proudly pinching the orange vest he wore. “Wouldn’t want him to be accidentally shot by a hunter.”

“There shouldn’t be any hunters,” I said tersely, trying to keep my growing panic from being reflected in my wavering voice. “It’s not hunting season.”

I knew what I was talking about. Sarah and I took precautions and always checked. We didn’t want her accidentally getting shot. Was he intentionally being threatening or was it my nerves fueling my imagination?

The guy let my implication sink in like a sudden rainfall into drought-parched ground. “Oh, I ain’t no poacher. I just carry my rifle as a precaution. You know, for safety. Like with the vest.”

I was worried that he was going to hang around until my “boyfriend” returned, but he got the message that he wasn’t welcome. I was shaking, causing the metal fork I held in one hand to tap machine gun-like on the tin plate I held in my other. Fortunately, my visitor mistook my nervousness for impatience.

“Well, have a good night. My camp is just down the path a ways if you or…”

He paused expectantly.

“Archie,” I said almost immediately, cutting myself off and twisting the last syllable from fully saying “Archimedes,” Merlin’s owl from The Sword in the Stone.

“…if you or Archie need anything, just come by. I have some fresh fish and duck if you’re hungry.”

“I thought you said you weren’t hunting?” For my own sake, I shouldn’t have pushed him, but I was losing my temper and control. I was also worried that Sarah would swoop in and that he would take a shot at her.

“I brought them from home,” he answered pathetically.

I bit back a “sure, you did,” and figured that it was easier to repulse with honey since vinegar wasn’t working. “Thanks! I’m sure we’ll see you around. I’d better get these bags unpacked before he gets back. It’s been a long day.”

Nodding, the stranger melted back into the shadows. I busied myself, but I had learned a trick or two from Sarah. While my eyes were on my hands unfastening a bag tie, my ears were focused on his retreating footsteps.

It was a rough night. I was exhausted from burning through my stress-induced adrenalin dump but too panicked to fall asleep.

Several times I thought I heard gunshots in the far distance. Was it my unwanted visitor with the gun? Was he doing some night hunting or just trying to scare me? Once I thought I heard some screeching and screaming. I hoped once again it was just my imagination.

Fired by my concern for Sarah’s safety, I was tempted to go running into the woods. But more rational thoughts stopped and calmed me.

There was no guarantee that I would be able to find her. And if she needed me, she’d return to our campsite where she’d expect me to be. So, I needed to be here. For both our sakes. I determinedly stayed at my post with the dedication of a soldier.

And like some poor, inept soldier, I must have fallen asleep. The stress and worry had sapped my usual burst of nighttime energy like a slow tire leak.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Sarah’s face hanging close over mine. It was daylight again.

I quickly rose up, relieved, banging our noses together, hers still feeling beak-bone hard. She had transformed back into human form but just had a blanket draped over her still naked body.

“How was the night hunting?” I asked, feeling embarrassed for my dereliction of my self-appointed guard duty. But also thrilled to see Sarah and daylight again.

“Very filling,” answered Sarah, her eyes smaller but still sharp. “It’s you I’m worried about. Are you okay? What are you doing sleeping outside the tent?”

“I was worried about you!” I cried out, hugging her. “I’m so glad you’re safe! There was this hunter…”

At that moment, Sarah coughed up an owl pellet. She spat it onto the ground, and I couldn’t help but see a shred of orange fabric uncurling from the meatball mass like a stubborn tangerine peel.

“Who?” my were-owl asked innocently.

Richard Lau

Richard Lau is an award-winning author who has been published in magazines, newspapers, anthologies, the high-tech industry, and online.