Ben always feared this time of day. He always had. But nothing would ever come from this time of day, and today would be no exception.


Allow me to give context to this, as I am sure that you ponder why anyone would fear this one time of day any more than the next. Picture a forest, one that is neither massive nor small. This forest is dominated by silver birches, and violet orchids nest in the summerly grass. This forest is Whitemoor, located just outside of the quiet town of Dusslebury. Food is plenty here, the days are long and temperate, and a blissful consistency is ever persistent.


You would be right to wonder why anyone could fear anything here; I too would question it, if I did not know the reason for that fear. You’ve pictured the forest of Whitemoor, now picture a hawk from a southernly land that is not so perfect. A land where food is scarce, and the blooming flowers are a truly rare sight indeed. The hawk starves, and flies up north in the hope that somewhere up here will be his salvation. He finds it in the forest of Whitemoor. The green vegetation is widespread, and the wild critters plentiful. All the squirrels, wild mice, sparrows and rabbits; they all amount to a single, most welcome word to him: food. Here was food, and here was a life for a hawk, and that hawk was he! He built himself a humble roost upon the trees, and settled to remain here until he grew old. That was four years ago, five next month.


One hawk is not an issue, though. It’s part of the natural ecosystem, and gives no reason to fear one hour more than the next. This, however, did:


Spring meets its zenith in summer, and withers in winter, before rebirth in the year that follows. Winter itself, here in Whitemoor, was not an issue. At least, not usually. The winter four years ago was no ordinary winter. Four years ago, the snow fell hard, and buried anything green and luscious, and smothered out the rest. The cold fouled the food, and bit with sharp burns at predator and prey alike, for no matter where on the natural hierarchy you belonged, this winter was the hunter supreme to all. Besides the weather, this year was of especial importance to the hawk, for in the time he had lived in these woods, he had found the love of another hawk, and together they were in possession of a clutch of eggs, due to hatch, with impeccable timing, in the dead of the icy storm.


In desperation to ensure the survival of his young, he scoured the whitened world before him for any solution. With many long, dreary hours of searching, he finally found the solution in the form of a crow. This crow had found themselves in the possession of a human book, and contained within black swirls incomprehensible to the hawk, the crow had read the answer to the hawk’s crisis. This answer was dictatorship. With the clever eyes of the crow to read the guiding words, the hawk asserted himself the dictator of Whitemoor forest, lord over all its inhabitants. With the sharp mind of the crow, the hawk invented a great gathering of the woodland critters, and with authority over the gathered creatures to compare and compete with that of the crow’s authority of their own cunning wisdom, here the hawk would select prey for himself and his hatchlings.


With needy young as his anvil and a dreadful winter as the hammer, and with the shrewd crow to work the forge, the hawk was cast beyond that of an ordinary raptor, and into Dietrich of Whitemoor, the dictator of the forest.


Go forward four years, back to the now and back to Ben, who is fearing this hour. Spring has dawned many times, and still the hawk reigns. The daily gathering at sundown continued, the “Evening Hunt” as it had become known as.


The orange sun sat low in the dusky sky.


The Evening Hunt was about to begin.


This was why Ben was scared. This was why Ben was terrified! This was why Ben was in his family’s burrow, hiding in the darkest corner of its deepest room. Something that passed Ben’s judgement, and always did pass it, was that he always hid here, in the exact spot he was currently in. So once again, like every day, his mother, Dorothy, found him there, and pushed him out of the burrow, for nobody, not for any reason, was allowed to not attend the Hunt. Not even the ailing and the dying were spared. To not attend was to volunteer to be the food. Ben knew that, but even still… the very name “Evening Hunt” sent fear running down his spine in cascades. Couldn’t he just try to hide? He knew he could not, but it never did stop him from trying.


As she got him out of the Burrow’s round entrance, Dorothy said: “Make fast of yourself, Ben! We haven’t much time left!” Even though she suppressed it, stress was evident in the contours on her face. Ben deemed to comply now, and hurried along with his mother and his little sister, Anna.


The Evening Hunt took place outside of the Roosting Palace, the residence of Dietrich. It was a box constructed of white branches, and held together with ropes. The flooring was made from actual plank boards, hauled up to the top of the tree by a minor army of birds, and a central, cylindrical tower rose from palace’s roof, a glass box resting at its top. The Dictator himself was lying on the porch, an outcropping of planks situated at the front of the palace and leading to the entrance.


He’s… already out. Ben winced. That meant that the Evening Hunt had already begun. Nobody’s ever late. Maybe he didn’t… notice? …Hopeful—his thoughts trailed off before they became circular. The Six Sons of Dietrich were each perched on a branch of the tree, with the sixth, smallest one just arriving and landing upon a meagre branch as Ben, his mother and his sister joined the great, circular crowd’s edge.


Now, the minutes would pass by. Minute after minute would go by as Dietrich carefully examined his subjects before him, his eyes turning each of the woodland creatures over, inspecting every last inch of them, evaluating them for palatability, as a food critic would scour over each option in a menu, the waiter fidgeting with his concealed thumbs behind his back, anxiously awaiting a reply. That was exactly as it was like, to be there in the crowd. Except you weren’t the waiter; you were the food itself. As Dietrich contemplated how best to fill his stomach, Ben’s own tied itself into knot after knot.


Finally, after too many minutes, yet still not enough, Dietrich’s feathers rustled as he moved a bony talon from underneath him, and a claw creaked as it slowly unfolded towards a squirrel. She gave out a chilling scream, then started to fight to get out of the crowd. Dietrich was not alarmed. Already, two of his sons leapt from their posts, and dived towards the squirrel. With firm talons they yanked the struggling rodent from off the ground. She writhed to win freedom from their grip, and bit at their toes, but her efforts were in vain. What is one simple rodent against a bird of prey, after all?


The talons suddenly released, and she tumbled down onto the porch of the Roosting Palace. Shaken by the drop she nonetheless pushed herself up to fight the hawk of Whitemoor. But her defiance swiftly caved in, and she cowered, arms out to defend herself from the advancing hawk. With a single talon, he made the kill. All the onlooking critters hid their disgust under carefully woven veils, an emotionless expression perfected and maintained through constant daily use. The hawk shifted, and resettled himself, before indulging in the squirrel for a full minute.


Each time Ben thought his stomach had been tightened its limit, but each time he would be proved wrong. As the hawk finished his prey off, Ben would remain tense, for now that Dietrich had finished his first meal, he would move on to his second. Once again, they waited for an age, before the hooked talon once again made for another animal, this time a weasel. Like the squirrel, he too panicked, and struggled to escape the scene, but surrendered the fight as those around him scrambled away, forming a clearing around him. A hawk snatched him up, and the resigned mustelid lolled from under the bird, before tumbling onto the porch. He did not bother to get up, only to scrunch his eyes shut and hope for a quick death. Dietrich must have noticed, for he certainly made an effort to make it long-lasting. Eventually, seemingly finding the animal’s suffering to no longer be amusing, he released the weasel, and proceeded to devour him.


Ben noted, sourly, that Dietrich occasionally made an effort to bring suffering to his prey before he ate them. The fat bird had, among other things, utter disregard for his subjects; he would deal with them as he pleased, stirred solely by the whims of the moment.


On the stubby branch, the smallest of the Sons shifted uneasily. On the branch across from his, another Son with long features that carried an air of dismissive arrogance glanced over the gathering with a bored eye.


The time once more ticked by, and Dietrich did nothing. With deliberate sluggishness, he smugly contemplated what next do to. Dietrich held complete authority over the animals before him. He knew that not a single one would do anything without his say so. He had decided to enjoy that power, for just a bit… The time marched forward, but everyone knew it’d only take a moment for him to bring about the end of one of them. Of course, though, it wouldn’t be themselves. How could it? With so many here before the hawk, their chances of being choses was virtually nothing. It was impossible to be chosen! It was this certainty that made the Hunts bearable, knowing nothing bad would ever come out of it, not for themselves! But…for three of them, the impossible would happen. The possibility that three were not to be eaten was as impossible as the odds of being eaten, for the hawk always had three meals.


Throughout the whole event, Ben had scarcely moved a hair’s breadth. He had been too terrified to dare to stir so much. His eyes had been firmly glued to the ugly hawk the entire time. All of a sudden, the Hawk, with a despicably gleeful glint in his eyes, jutted forth a claw. Oh how Ben’s hair stood up and reached towards the emerald leaves above as he traced the claws direction! The long, curved scythe of a claw that possessed such a sharp, cold edge, pointed directly at him. A grave chill flushed over him, paralysing each limb as it ran over it with numbing dread. Ben stood perfectly still, completely straight, and utterly petrified.


Me, I’m the prey…Me, prey, that’s—No, no, no, this is all wrong! Wrong…Not possible, I—I need to start moving. I need to go now! NOW!


Ben snapped out of his terrified thoughts, and fought against his solidly rooted legs to start running. Already two hawks had leapt from the tree, and were soaring towards him, including the one with the long, arrogant face. He found that being late to the Evening Hunt did have one advantage—he was at its edge, and didn’t have to fight to get out of the crowd. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him—and that wasn’t enough. He was just passing the second tree from the circular mass of critters, and by then the hawks were already upon him. He leapt to the side, and into the thicket around the base of that tree. The hawks weren’t expecting that. They were forced to abruptly pull up from their dive, just narrowly avoiding slamming into the ground and massively overshot Ben. He continued to run.


Ben’s round eyes desperately sought about the familiar ground around him for a potential escape from his current predicament. He found none. Even as he looked around himself, the hawks had already spun around, and were once again accelerating towards him. He despaired at the hopelessness of it all. Then it came to him: a hawk can’t fit inside a burrow! In a last ditch effort, he dived into the nearest burrow he could find. He was scantly inside as the haughty hawk slammed into the burrow. The other landed with comparatively more grace. Ben scrambled away from the entrance on all fours. His heart beat rapidly inside his chest and his breaths were deep and frequent.


I—I’m alive.


He let that sink in. He was alive! He had survived Dietrich! Even as the hawk’s son fought to jam his snapping beak inside the opening, he allowed himself to laugh at his good fortune. As he pushed himself upright, he could hear the animals assembled at the Evening Hunt cheer for him—until Dietrich furiously shut them up. Now there was silence. Even the hawks outside the burrow became silent and suddenly still. From within the unlit tunnel, Ben could hear wings beat. They got louder and louder, until a heavy thump shook the burrow and knocked Ben back to the ground.


“Imbeciles!” Bawled the baritone Dietrich of Whitemoor at his sons. Both cowered and bundled themselves small. “I’ll deal with you two later. Now flee, lest I deal with you now!” The two hawks were only too willing to comply, and hurried away with fluttering wings.


For one minute he was exuberant, now Ben was once again petrified, not daring to risk a breath. He lay upon the ground, clutching it for dear life. With a thud, the hawk stamped his heavy foot down. The burrow shook again. Another thud from the foot, and more of the ceiling crumbled off and down to the ground. With horror, Ben realised what the Hawk was doing—He was causing a cave in! As thud after thud echoed from the Hawk’s persistent stomping, Ben scrambled down the corridor, and down towards the lower, sturdier levels. With a final bash against the burrow’s roof, the doorway gave in, closely followed by the rest of the corridor. Ben dove forwards, and prayed for the best.


As the dust settled, Ben found himself in another dilemma. He was trapped, buried underground, with no way out.


Worse, unsettling sounds from things surely unpleasant came creeping from a newly created opening.


Out of the frying pan and into the fire, it seemed.




The above text is the copyright of Cobthorn, © 2019, protected under the Intellectual Property Laws of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. All rights reserved.

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

The convenience of the high trees!
The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth's face upward for my inspection.

My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads -

The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.