An unusual walk through the woods

It was a beautiful spring morning, and the leaves and twigs cracked underfoot, yet to be swept away from the winter before. The forest floor was dappled green by the sun shining through fresh growth on the trees. Birds were singing, and small mammals scampered about in the underbrush unabashed by my presence. A cool breeze caused the trees to dance, and kept the temperature just right.
Somewhere a stream was bubbling.
It was a perfect day for a walk.
The weather was perfect, the scenery was perfect, the ambience was perfect.
It was a perfect day.

Elsewhere in the forest the day was less than perfect. A man clothed in scars and rags was running for his life, agile feet pounding the dirt, heedless of rocks and brambles underfoot. Silence went before him, and followed behind, merging the shade he brought, like he was outrunning a cloud.
What he was so single-mindedly fleeing from was not readily apparent. Perhaps he was just chasing the breeze. Perhaps he left the oven on at home. Perhaps it was someone undesirable who left him in rags, and would be displeased to find him missing.
Whatever his motives, his path would soon coincide with mine, and interrupt the fragile tranquillity.

But before we get to that part, I need to tell you something else that happened on my walk. There was a dead sparrowhawk lying in the middle of the path. Freshly dead, no flies, no stink, no blood. The feathers weren't even ruffled. Naturally my first instinct was to leave well alone, but curiosity got the better of me. There was a band on its leg, marking ownership. So I thought, what would a nice person do? So I picked it up, put it in a plastic bag meant for litter, and took it with me.
My intention was to bring it to a vet, see if it was merely unconscious, or at least, track the owner down and give him the bad news.

As I was contemplating the dead bird in my pocket, the young man ran out of the bushes. I was so wrapped in thought that his thundering charge took me quite by surprise. One look at my frightened visage and he started laughing. An out of breath, insane, somewhat victorious laugh. If I had less control of my bladder I would've wet myself.
He hurredly reassured me, hiding behind me, curiously peering at whence he came. I followed his gaze, and saw shadows moving closer from tree to tree.
I wet myself.
This man was hunted by shadows. I told him so.
He laughed. A good natured laugh. One at odds with his predicament.
With his breath regained, he sprinted away, and the shadows disappeared after him.

Now that may sound farfetched, but that wasn't the strangest thing to happen. When I reached the end of my walk and sought the dead bird, it was gone!
It was most definitely dead. It had no pulse, no breath, It couldn't have escaped. It couldn't have randomly fallen out, it wasn't a small bird, and it wasn't a small pocket. Which leaves with a final option, the hunted man stole the bird, picked it right out of my pocket.
I have no idea why.


A shadow detaches itself from the wall under the windowsill, where a grandfather was telling his excitable grandchildren about his unusual day. The shadow materializes into a person dressed in a drab grey, and promptly pulls out a phone.
“Sanderson. Game over. Rodney pinched the bird from the walker, he's just playing with them now. Also, deduct marks from all of them, the old man saw them. What kind of ninjas get seen?”



         NOTE: The running man is a ninja from another clan, who was beaten up and set free for the novices to chase. If he got to the dead bird without getting caught, he was allowed to run free, although he wasn't meant to know that.
This was only meant to be a short story. A snippet. I will probably not continue. unless boredom strikes. the info here is just so the ending makes all kinds of sense :]