Great Bay Forest – October 26th, 2022 – 1:05 PM
Pocket’s Private Journal:
Author: Pocket Montgomery
After weeks of researching, planning, and hunting, I, Pocket Montgomery, had finally done it! I found a fabled weir feather.
| A weir is a rare supernatural bird. Nobody on the Neighbourhood Watch has ever seen one until now. Maisel thought she did, but admitted later that it was likely just a kite. |
I held it delicately in my hands and stared in awe as it shimmered brilliantly, even in the shade of the pine trees. I had no doubt that this prize was one of my greatest accomplishments.
I told my friends, Maisel, Sasheen, and Murlocke, that I could do it, but did they believe me? No. Of course they didn’t. WELL, now they would think twice about doubting me. Not only would they need to take me more seriously, but they would finally have to forgive me for accidentally destroying our clubhouse. (See The Tooth and Nail Incident from a month or so ago.)
In my defence, how was I supposed to know that you couldn’t train a snarf?
| A snarf is a sorta squirrel with a beak. Pretty cool looking. It makes this really awful sound, like a woodchipper mixed with a popcorn machine. I wanted to train one, but it turns out they don’t like humans… Like at all. |
Before I go into detail about how I accomplished this amazing feat, I need to address Sasheen directly. Sasheen, if you’re reading this: First, stop reading my personal entries and second, sucks to be you. I’m not telling you how I tracked down that weir, only about how I got the feather from its nest.
If someone other than Sasheen is reading this, then it’s best to assume that the weir got me. In that case, you should know that my name is Pocket Montgomery, and I’m the captain or, no… the cadet or… what was it? I can’t remember my title. But I’m one of the members of the Neighbourhood Watch— Harrington’s local supernatural response squad. We’re sort of a big deal; we show up and sort out whatever supernatural mess is currently happening.
Assuming I’m “missing,” here is some helpful information for the side of the milk carton: I’m quite dashing for an eleven-year-old. I have a broad smile, cheerful eyes, and a mop of dirt brown hair. Murlocke’s mom once said I looked like a “vag-rant” on account of the hole in my shirt, my chipped tooth and my missing shoe. I wasn’t sure what “vag-rant” meant, but I thought it was a compliment.
<— Me (Pocket)
If you’re not part of the Neighbourhood Watch, please give this journal to Sasheen, Murlocke, or, if you can’t find either of them, my sister, Maisel. (Please, please, please, don’t give it to her unless you have no other options. I can already hear her saying:
“Oh, Pocket lost his journal again. Great work, Pocket. This is why I’m the leader and you’re not.”
I don’t know if she would say that last line, but she would think it. On second thought, I think Sasheen would say something similar, so just give the journal to Murlocke.)
Anyways, back to the mission. I had been hunting this weir for a while, and I finally found its nest; waaaaaaay at the top of a pine tree deep in the Great Bay Forest, north of Harrington. The Great Bay Forest is gigantic. You could spend your whole life exploring it, and you probably wouldn’t see everything.
Despite the weir’s nest being at the top of a pine tree, I had no problem getting there, because I happen to be a pro-climber. Getting the feather from the nest was trickier than I anticipated, though, as the weir was sleeping in its nest at the time. As quietly as I could manage, I climbed over to the nest and grabbed a feather. As I was pulling my hand back, the bird woke up, and what do you know? Weir’s absolutely do not like having their feathers taken. I tried to explain that I only needed one feather and would be on my way, but before I could even get the words out, it started pecking me. I tried to move out of pecking range, but I lost my grip on the tree branch and fell. Did I hit every branch on the way down? Maybe. Did every part of my body hurt while writing this entry? Absolutely.
Once I hit the ground, I managed to hobble away from the tree. I don’t think the bird followed me.
The fall was worth it to get that feather, though; it was so cool to look at. It reflected different colours in the light, like a rainbow. We (Sasheen, Maisel, Murlocke, and I) always assumed these weir’s feathers were magical, partially because of how elusive weirs are, but also because that one old guy, ALFRED, wrote that they were in his book. (It was something like “Guidebook to the Supernatural and Nonsensical.” Maisel barely lets me read it, so I can never remember.)
Everyone had a different theory about the kind of power weir feathers hold. Maisel thought they allowed the holder of the feather to float, rather than fall, to the ground. Sasheen and Murlocke had similar ideas; Sasheen thought that they could cloak the person holding the feather, and Murlocke believed they could make you invisible, hence the reason we could never find any weirs. (I could now say with 100% certainty that they were all wrong.)
That felt so good to write. I can’t wait to tell them in person about how wrong they were— And all I had to do was fall out of a tree!
I thought that the feather made the holder a bit luckier. I wasn’t sure how I could test my theory, but in that moment, I already felt lucky. So, I’ll count that as a point for me—
You know how I mentioned that I didn’t think the weir followed me? Well, I was wrong. As I was writing this entry, the bird swooped out of nowhere, and I had to dive behind cover. I’m hiding a few feet away from it and am going to make a run for it as soon as the bird turns away.
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