by Janet Grischy

Created on: July 06, 2009   Last Updated: December 02, 2011

The horned owl’s call is strange and startling, evolved to freeze its prey in flight. One called as the campers settled themselves with their packable glasses of red wine and bottles of craft beer. “The call of the owl is an omen of death,” blond, tan Tristan said quietly.

“Or it’s a sign you’re in the dang wilderness,” Greg replied. Thin uneasy laughter floated up through the trees.

Tristan ignored the interruption, ignored the laughter, and began his tale. “There were two boys once, young men really. This was about ten years ago.” He glanced around at the faces that the crackling fire threw into darkness and then high relief. “Actually, it will be ten years in seventeen days. One boy is a man now. One is dead.”

He stopped, and no one spoke. He had begun the story well enough, and the flickering fire and surrounding wilderness helped him create the effect he wanted. He could tell he had the circle’s full attention. Shifting his gaze from face to face, he continued.

“One boy was handsome and strong, tall and straight. The other was sort of, well, greasy.”

Will, a lawyer, spoke from across the fire. “You mean he was the camp loser.”

Tristan shrugged. “He was overweight. His skin was pasty, and his hair never looked quite clean, that’s true.”

“So nobody liked him.” Again Will spoke, but Tristan ignored him. The silent woman next to Will laid her hand on his leg, but whether to hush him or to egg him on, who knew.

Tristan continued, “Anyway, the adolescents were not friends. They had shared a cabin at camp, shared woodcraft classes, shared hikes through the long summers of their youth. Now that they were older, they both held junior counselor jobs. But they were far from friends.”

“It’s the sort of thing that happens at camp,” a dark slender woman on Tristan’s left said. “It’s the isolation or something. People club up. I was on the outside every summer.”

Tristan nodded. “Or these boys knew each other too well. It seemed to be more than a clique. It was malice.”

He looked around the campfire again, saw he had their thoughtful attention. It was something everyone had seen. “They were too alike, or too unalike, whatever, it’s common. It doesn’t matter why. I say one was a bully.”

Will said lightly, “Or he had taste.” He looked to the woman

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