by Fokion Triantafyllidis
The Wizard
‘The Sleepless Owl
The Second Tale’
by Fokion Triantafyllidis
at radio highway pirates
Many seasons had passed since the little owl had left the forest of her youth.
She had crossed mountains where snow never melted, flown above towns where men raised their hands in prayer and anger alike, and perched upon towers that once had been temples but now were ruins.
Everywhere she went, she sought the light the wizard had spoken of.
Yet the farther she flew, the dimmer it became.
She saw kings grow proud, priests twist holy words, and lovers betray one another for a handful of gold.
She tried to speak, to remind them of gentleness and hope – but humans seldom listen to an owl, even one born of magic.
And so, slowly, sorrow made its nest in her heart.
She could no longer tell where night ended and dawn began.
One winter’s evening, weary and hollow-eyed, the little owl returned to the forest that had once been her home.
The tower of the old wizard still stood among the dark firs, though its windows no longer shone with light.
She landed on the sill and peered within.
There sat the wizard, older than time, his hair like drifted snow, his eyes dim with memory.
When he saw her, he smiled faintly.
“My little owl,”
he whispered,
“you have flown far, and I see the dust of many roads upon your wings.”
The owl bowed her head and said,
“Master, the world is heavy. You spoke of light and compassion, but I found only noise and cruelty. I have forgotten how to rest. I cannot sleep.”
The wizard’s gaze deepened, and his voice was low like the rustle of leaves.
“Then you have learned the hardest lesson of all – that wisdom without peace is a burden, and compassion without rest becomes despair. Sit with me, my child. Let the night speak instead of you.”
He placed before her a bowl of still water, clear as glass.
“Look,”
said he,
“and tell me what you see.”
The owl gazed into the water and saw her own reflection – weary, trembling, her eyes shadowed by all the grief she had witnessed.
Then the surface began to ripple, and from its depths rose images:
the faces of those she had helped, the hearts she had comforted, the souls she had guided out of sorrow.
“These,”
said the wizard,
“are the lights you kindled. They are small, but they live. The world will never be rid of shadow, but each act of kindness pushes it back for a moment – and that moment is enough.”
The little owl trembled, and for the first time in many moons, her eyes softened.
“Then why, Master,”
she whispered,
“do I still feel the darkness?”
The wizard smiled sadly.
“Because you are still alive. And all living hearts must carry both day and night within them. Sleep, my child. Let your tears fall, and they will water the seeds of peace.”
So the little owl closed her eyes.
The tower grew silent except for the crackle of the fire.
When morning came, the window was empty, and a single silver feather lay upon the sill.
Some say the owl took flight once more, carrying the calm she had found.
Others say she became the spirit of the forest itself, guiding lost souls to rest.
But on still nights, when the stars tremble above the trees, travelers hear a soft voice whispering through the wind:
“Cry, if you must. Then sleep. The world still needs your light.”
by Fokion Triantafyllidis