The Chronicles of Hototo, The Blood's Hearth

Chapter 1

The sky dawned a bluish grey appeal, smothering the mountains in its veil. A tall, stony leg broke through the mist with a carved lion's head engraved in it. A lantern lay in its jaws, piercing the night in its haunting gloom. White wings fluttered on top of the gargoyle. A shockingly white barn owl clicked its beak. Voices could be heard in the distance.

"Come on, Chesmu! Please, tell us about the Lupis kingdom," a small voice peeped. Clusters of heads bobbed in a fissure in the mountain, brightly light by torches. An adult barn owl with soft brown feathers was on a small podium, an irritated look on her face.

"Okay, children, stop your nagging, I will get to that." She cleared her throat.

"When the sun had first kissed the hills, a flame spat from its mouth creating the first fox. Clever but rash like the fiery sun, the fox is a being of imagination. But they have one flaw, the lack of invention. So, when the sun first died, from its husk the moon was born, serine and silver. 

"From its first beams came the crow with a lust for creating. But the crow lacked ideas. But then, the fox and the crow met each other, and learned to work together, creating the first tree for the crow to live.

"'But Crow, where will I sleep?' he asked. The crow thought.

'Use the earth.' They thought for a moment, then the fox began to dig. And that is why they live in what we call burrows."

A fledgling shook with anticipation. "And the wolves!" she whispered. Chesmu gave an exasperated sigh.

"They are a creature of strength and loyalty. Remember this, my children, to always be kind to one another and be loyal to your kingdom. Loyalty is a strong thing, like family. Like the wolves."

An owlet started to pipe up, but Chesmu cleared her throat. "Winter, a season of snow, which is ash from the summer when the sun burns the leaves. All of you know the wolf was born from the ash, correct?"

They all nodded. "Good. The wolf is from the winter. Who can tell me what was born from the spring?"

Someone raised a talon. Chesmu turned towards the owl chick, who was blooming red feathers. "Yes?"

He squared his wings. "The salmon, right?"

Chesmu nodded. "Correct. And what about summer and fall?"

No one responded. They looked around, as if the stony walls would give them the answer.

Their attention pulled back to Chesmu as she spoke in the stillness of the air. "Summer is said to be the mother of the monarch butterfly. And fall is the birthplace of all flying animals. And the first night of fall is home to owls."

The faces of the chicks brightened. They all peeped in excitement. "Chesmu," they said. "what happens on the first night of fall?" Already knowing the story, they settled in anticipation.

Chesmu continued in an amused tone. "Well, we all know how this goes, right?" They nodded, white faces shining in the dim light. "Our ancestors have said that on the first night of fall, we can connect with our past. Lives of those lost can be found on this night, dancing in the moonlight."

The sound of excited babbling and the rustle of wings almost drowned out the screech from outside, addressing noon time.

"Alright, chicks, feeding time. Your parents are outside." Chesmu dismissed with a wave of her wing. The room was filled with scurrying owlets as they exited the stone room and out onto the flat ridge. It was chilly, the usual mist floating outside of the mountain, tall flag poles with red banners swimming in the morning light. A guard barn owl was perched atop the pole, watching the sunrise.