Otto was a young barn owl who lived in the roof of a barn with his sister, Nan.
Owls are famous for one thing above everything else. They fly without a sound. Their feathers have soft fringed edges, and the air goes through them instead of round them.
Otto's feathers had come in beautifully. His flying was another matter. His flying was loud.
Whoomph, went Otto off the beam. Whoomph, whoomph, across the barn.
Nan opened one eye. "You sound like someone shaking out a tea towel," she said, and closed it again.
So their mother took him out to the field at dusk, when the sky was still a little bit orange at the bottom.
"Try it slower," she said.
Otto tried it slower. Whoomph.
"Try it with your wings wider."
Otto tried it with his wings wider. Whoomph.
He landed on a fence post and did not want to try any more. The grass moved about in the wind. A moth went by. Far away a dog barked twice and then stopped.
"Everyone starts loud," said his mother. "I started loud. Your grandmother was so loud the mice used to sit up and watch."
Otto thought about that for a while.
Then he tried again. He did not hurry. He thought about the air going through his feathers instead of round them. He let go of the post and opened his wings the way you open a door when someone is asleep behind it.
There was no sound at all.
He flew the whole length of the hedge in silence. Below him a mouse carried on with its supper and never once looked up, which was exactly the point.
Otto was so pleased he nearly said something out loud.
He landed back on the post so lightly that the post did not notice.
"There," said his mother.
They flew home together over the dark field, two quiet shapes, and Otto went in under the tiles and landed on the beam beside Nan without making a single sound.
Nan slept through the whole thing.
In the morning he would tell her. But this was the part before the morning. Otto tucked one foot up into his feathers, and slept.