The Night Owl

If Purple Urkle is your strain, this is your sign: the Night Owl. The fallen redwood, after moonrise, the lantern lit, and one more book than can be finished before dawn.

The fallen redwood, after moonrise. Lantern, map, telescope, and the slow turn of the page. Five seconds of a long night.

If Purple Urkle is your strain

You keep late hours on purpose. It is not that sleep is unwelcome; it is that the best things come out after everyone else has gone to bed, and somebody has to be awake to write them down. You are cozy and bookish and you button your cardigan one button wrong, and you have decided that is a feature.

You notice what is missing, and then you do the rarer thing and notice what is actually there. The star is not missing; it is behind the tree. You are the one who draws the tree onto the map, and the map is better for it, and you write that down too, in case it turns out to be true.

At your best you are the lantern on the log: a small warm light that the whole hollow is the color of for a few hours a night. You finish things slowly and well. You forgive the moon for being late. You are excellent company for anyone who does not need to talk.

Your flaw is chapter nine. You have started it twice. There is always one more book on the stack than can be finished before dawn, and you keep finding good reasons to look at the parts of the sky that are already done.

What you need is a fallen redwood with a smooth part halfway along, a telescope with one lens that fogs, and nobody asking who planted the grapes. Give you that, and dawn is somebody else’s problem.

Your hour: After moonrise
Your place: The smooth part of the fallen redwood
Your object: A star map with one blank corner
Your tempo: One page at a time
Your weather: Damp enough to roll the map
Your flaw: Chapter nine, twice

Your people

The Daydreamer (Blue Dream)The Daydreamer keeps the other end of the night, with the other notebook. You hand the sky to each other at dawn.
The Aurora Keeper (Northern Lights)The Aurora Keeper is one hollow over, under the same sky, waiting for hers while you chart yours.
The Funky Gourmet (Blue Cheese)The Funky Gourmet is loud and you are quiet, and you are both the ones still up at two with something worth being up for.

Notes in your margins

Star missing at 2:10. Not missing. Behind the tree.
Finished chapter nine. Started chapter nine again.
Moon late tonight. Forgave it.
The grapes are lower than last week.
Drew the tree onto the map. The map is better now.

A scene from your world

After everyone else is asleep

The Night Owl keeps late hours on purpose. It is not that sleep is unwelcome; it is that the best stars come out after everyone else has gone to bed, and somebody has to be there to write them down. So at moonrise the owl climbs onto the fallen redwood that has lain across the hollow for longer than the oldest book in the stack, lights the lantern, buttons the cream cardigan one button wrong, and unrolls the map.

The map is a star map, hand-drawn, and most of it is finished. There is a blank corner in the northeast where the trees are too tall and nobody has charted what is behind them. The owl has been working on the blank corner for three winters. Progress is slow, because the owl keeps finding good reasons to look at the parts of the sky that are already done.

Tonight the telescope goes up on its brass legs, two draws out, the lens wiped with the end of the berry-red scarf. The owl checks the map, finds the star that should be at the edge of the blank corner at this hour, and looks. It is not there. The owl checks again. It is not there again. The owl makes a note in the margin, in careful letters: Star missing at 2:10.

Then the owl does the thing that separates owls who finish maps from owls who do not, which is to stop looking through the telescope and simply look. A redwood, the tallest in the hollow, is standing exactly where the star should be, with its top in the way. The star is not missing. It is behind the tree. It has probably been behind the tree for three winters.

The owl laughs, a small sound that lifts a bat out of the grapes overhead, and takes the pencil and draws the tree onto the star map, right there in the blank corner, roots and all. The map is better now. It has a tree in it. Every honest map should have at least one tree in it, the owl thinks, and writes that down too, in case it turns out to be true.

By four the lantern is low and the book on top of the stack is open to chapter nine, which the owl has started twice, and the grapes are hanging lower than they did last week, and the moon is late and has been forgiven for it. The owl’s eyes go from wide to half-closed. The map rolls itself up a little in the damp. Dawn is somebody else’s problem.

The hollow

The fallen redwood: It has lain across the hollow longer than the oldest book in the stack. The owl’s seat is the smooth part halfway along, where the bark gave up.
The lantern: Lit at moonrise, low by four. Everything in the hollow is the color of its light for a few hours a night.
The telescope: Brass, two draws, one lens that fogs if the owl breathes on it and gets wiped with the end of the scarf.
The grapes: They hang from the branches over the log. Nobody knows who planted them. Nobody asks. They are lower than last week.
The stack: Always one more book than can be finished before dawn. Chapter nine has been started twice.
The blank corner: The northeast of the star map, where the trees are too tall. Three winters of work. It now has a tree in it.