Of a Feather

by Dayna Lorentz

  I feel myself heading straight to fluffdom, but I calm myself, focus on the chill in my gizzard, on Mother. “What do you know about Mother?”

  “She’s trapped, just like you. But she’s in a cave of some sort, like that one there.” She juts her beak at the human nest. “I heard her hoots one night as I flew through a thin forest near the lights, the ones we were told never to fly near. What Father didn’t tell us was that there’s a whole world of rodents living near those lights, all for an owl’s easy picking.”

  “First,” I interrupt, sensing her brain flying off into the weeds, “what about Mother?”

  First rouses, relaxes her tufts. “Oh, right, yes. She needs our help to escape.” She begins to preen. “I came to get you to assist me with the attack. I can see now that was some wishful thinking on my part.”

  My first instinct is to rip a hole in the web and fly off to save Mother, but then I remember Red’s tweets from that first night in my old nest. I remember the last night I had with Mother, the awful monster that came growling out of that blaze of light.

  “I don’t think Mother is trapped, First,” I hoot quietly.

  “Of course she’s trapped,” she replies, finishing her preen and muting on my roof. “I heard her inside the cave.”

  “She’s hurt,” I chirp. “She was trying to help me learn to hunt. And she was hit by one of the furless creature’s rolling monsters. The furless creature took her inside the monster and the rolling monster grumbled away.”

  First’s eyes narrow to slits. “Furless creatures,” she growls. “They are the worst. They’re probably fattening her up like a turkey. No way that’s happening. I’ll perch in a tree right near that cave and swoop down like a fierce wind. I can get into that cave and rescue Mother.”

  “I was hurt by a goshawk,” I hoot. “The furless creatures helped me. And I think the furless creature was trying to help Mother when it took her that night. I don’t think Mother’s really trapped. Or if she is, it’s because she’s still hurt.”

  First’s ear tufts flip straight up again. “You like furless creatures?”

  I pull myself up to my most imposing posture. “I’ve made a family with one,” I hoot. “Furless creatures help owls.”

  First meanly clacks her beak. “Perhaps it is a good thing you are trapped, Second. You must have been out flying in the sunlight to have been attacked by a goshawk. Didn’t you listen to a single one of Father’s hoots? You don’t fly during the day, and you don’t go near the furless creatures.

  “The world is not kind to owls who don’t follow the rules.”

  My gizzard sours. “Furless creatures don’t eat owls,” I screech.

  “Maybe not,” First screeches back, leaning forward and setting her eyes to glow like stars. “But they have taken shots at me with their fire sticks. And they have chased me from my shadow perches, forcing me to fly out in the sunlight.

  “Furless creatures are not friends of owls. They are day creatures. They know nothing of the night.”

  With that, she lifts off into the black. “Goodbye, my tame brother. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay in there, fat and safe and alone, forever.”

  I stare after her, listen to her heartbeat become quieter and softer until it is finally just a faint breath on the breeze.

  “She’s not wrong,” Red screeches. “The one you call Gray Tail? She has tried to heal birds attacked by humans and the human things they place in the world. There are bad things about furless creatures. Good, too. But if you want to be free, you should take in her hoots.”

  “You’re not a dud,” I call to her.

  Red flaps around in her nest. I can only hear her now, not see her. She’s near the wall, though. Maybe she’s looking at me. “I feel like one some days,” she says. “But other days, I listen to all the shouts and cries in the wild and I am grateful for this nest, and for my partner, and for the quiet, safe life we share. Hearing your hatchmate, remembering those injured birds, I feel thankful tonight.”

  “She’s right about furless creatures?”

  “She is,” Red squawks. “But that is the way with all creatures. There are the kind and the cruel in every form of life.”

  I knew this, though. Who taught me this better than First herself?

  “I wish it wasn’t true, though,” I hoot.

  Red flaps deeper into her nest. “It would certainly be easier if the bad creatures all had bright feathers.”

  “Bright yellow tufts of feathers,” I hoot back. “They would stand out better. A giant plume of yellow feathers sprouting from between their eyes.”

  “Good night, Hatchling,” Red twitters, restored to her usual state of meager Good Feelings. “Dream of dangers, clearly marked.”

  Night noises crowd around. It’s warm, and the last crickets of summer take wing on the dried stalks. A beetle crawls on a starflower just outside my nest. A toad croaks from a mud puddle in the woods, then snaps a gulp of food. A screech owl cries out, dinner in its claws. A fox yips. A bear grunts.

  All of them are hungry, or longing, or dying. The wild world is full of dangers, and it is cold and cruel. Even the ones you think you can trust might turn out to be the bright-feathered sort.

  Dawn pokes dim talons of light into the darkness. The door of the human nest creaks open. The Brown Frizz’s heartbeats warm my gizzard. She stays by the human nest, but I feel her watching me. I pull my feathers in, stretch my wings, and swoop down to a perch. If I tip my head all the way over, I can peek at her through the strips of wood that make up the walls of this nest.

  She tiptoes down the steps and turns like she’s going to pop into my new nest for a bit of a hoot. But then she stops. Instead, she clambers on top of a perch in the meadow, then stands, wobbling like a newly hatched chick on the strip of wood. She stretches her featherless limbs out like wings, closes her eyes, and tips her head back to face the fading stars.

  Little songbirds dart out of the woods. The very air sighs, and droplets shake out onto the leaves. The cool breeze sends a shiver over my feathers.

  The wild world is full of life and beauty and surprises. The Brown Frizz feels it. I heard it in First’s hoots about hunting near the lights, in the happy screech of that fed owl, in the grumble of the mother bear to her cub, in the fox’s joyful pant as it trotted through the tall grasses.

  Am I going to hide between my wings, fearing the figments my gizzard conjures, or am I going to dare to fly out into the wild?

  27

  Reenie

  All Monday morning at school, we practice our presentations in the cafeteria.

  We all read our parts. Mr. Brown is totally impressed by Jaxon’s drawings. Jamie and Jaxon do the fake debate—he says a good thing, Jamie chimes in with a bad. Jaxon doesn’t frown too much. I present my interview with Aunt Bea and talk about falconry and how it helps hawks survive.

  “Was that awesome or what?” I ask once we finish and sit down.

  “We were awesome,” Jaxon confirms.

  “I feel like I messed up on my delivery,” Jamie says, picking at the sides of the poster board.

  Jaxon puts a hand on her arm. Jamie nearly jumps out of her skin. “You were awesome,” he says.

  Jamie flushes through every shade of pink. “Thanks.”

  “We are ready for Friday,” I say.

  “We should celebrate,” Jaxon says, pulling back his hand like he just noticed whose arm it was lying on.

  “Definitely,” I say, trying to help them through this adorably awkward moment.

  “My house? After school?” Jamie says, trying to get her blush under control.

  “I’m drinking all the chocolate milk,” Jaxon says.

  “Not if I don’t first,” I say.

  “I don’t think we have any,” Jamie says, apologizing in advance.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jaxon says. “We can just hang out.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Perfect,” Jamie says, grinning brightly.
<
br />   * * *

  Mom calls Tuesday. “Randi’s working miracles,” she says. “I have a few places to check out in Branford.”

  “That’s amazing!” I say.

  “It’s going to be different this time, Reens,” she says.

  “I know,” I say. Because it already is different. Because I’m different.

  * * *

  On Wednesday, Dr. Cho comes by after dinner to check out Rufus. Aunt Bea throws a towel over his head, less to keep him calm than to keep him from seeing me in the bird room while the doctor examines him.

  “You did it,” Dr. Cho says, finishing up her exam. She pulls off her gloves. “That’s a perfectly healthy owl. Which means . . .” she says, trailing off.

  “It’s time to say goodbye,” I finish for her.

  Aunt Bea smiles. “It’s time to say goodbye.”

  Aunt Bea places Rufus inside a cardboard box. The three of us crowd into the truck; Rufus and his box are strapped in the truck bed. The sun is already behind the trees, so we drive through deep shadow beneath a still-bright blue sky decked out with strips of gold and pink clouds. We have to release Rufus as close as possible to where we found him. It will give him the best chance of surviving, of finding his home territory, wherever that is.

  I sit between Dr. Cho and Aunt Bea and try to keep from sobbing like a baby.

  It’s insane to be sad when this is the best outcome possible. When Rufus is healthy and hunting and ready to go back home to the wild.

  But how do you let a part of yourself go?

  We rumble down the dirt road, the same one we drove down to set the trap so many weeks ago. Rufus is quiet in the back of the truck. Is he scared? Is he carsick?

  Aunt Bea pulls to a stop beside a big tree. “We can walk in a bit from here.”

  The first star glitters in the sky—not a star, but a planet pretending. Everything wants to sparkle when offered the chance.

  Aunt Bea gets Rufus in his box from the truck bed. We walk, her holding the precious cargo, through the brush until we find a meadow. The sky is deep blue now, a rim of gold and pink visible through the trees to the west.

  Aunt Bea holds the box out to me. “You should do it,” she says.

  Dr. Cho nods.

  I take the box, careful not to jostle Rufus. I walk with him out into the grass.

  “This is it, buddy,” I whisper to him. “You’re home.” My voice chokes.

  Rufus scratches inside the box, chirps something.

  I set the box in the grass. We watched some videos on YouTube over dinner, to see how it’s done, so I know what to do. I just can’t do it.

  What if he’s not ready? What if a giant eagle swoops down and tears him apart before he even gets in one free flap?

  Rufus scratches again, screeches.

  I choose to believe.

  I unhitch the cardboard flaps, pull them apart without looking in, and tip the box forward. Nothing happens. I tip the box farther and Rufus flops out onto the grass.

  He stumbles a bit. Looks around. Notices me. He lifts his ear tufts.

  I haven’t seen him in days. I think he’s grown bigger, I think he’s gotten more wild. Then it hits me that he’s simply returned to what he was, the bird king from weeks ago, all healed up and ready to rule.

  “You can do it,” I whisper. A smile warms my cheeks, a real smile, because I know he can.

  Rufus looks away from me, lifts his wings, and flaps once, twice, rising into the twilight, and then he’s a shadow against the stars, a dream.

  A hand drops onto my shoulder. “You did good,” Aunt Bea says.

  I nod, afraid if I say anything I’ll explode.

  She hugs me to her. The tears come. I’m smiling and crying, happy and sad, so many feelings, all real, all at once. It feels good. The whole world sparkles through my tears.

  We turn as one and walk back through the brambles.

  Somewhere, deep in the night, an owl hoots.

  I like to think it’s Rufus, saying goodbye.

  28

  Rufus

  The furless creatures made up their minds a bit sooner than I expected. I was in a box and now I am in a field and it is wide open and exposed to all the wild things of the night forest.

  The Brown Frizz stands holding the box. Her eyes lock on to mine. I lift my tufts. Will she hoot a warning? Advice?

  But she merely whuffles something in Furless Creature–ese.

  She believes I am ready.

  I turn my ears to the wild. A map of heartbeats rises from the shadows, life pulsing through the grass, out of the darkness. I am ready.

  I open my wings, press on the air, and rise up, up, hit a current of heat, and glide into the bent talons of the trees.

  “Goodbye, Brown Frizz!” I hoot to her. “Thank you, partner!”

  She’s already walking away. But that is how it must be for furless creatures. Help a hurt owl, heal it, move on to the next.

  I circle the trees, fly higher, higher, and see the perch meadow below, not far in the direction of the sunrise. I swoop down and land on Red’s roof.

  “Red!” I hoot. “I’m free!”

  “Then be free, Hatchling,” Red screeches.

  Red flaps down to a perch, and I swoop onto one of the dead trees in the perch meadow so we can look each other in the beak.

  “I just wanted to say goodbye,” I chirp. “And thank you.”

  “Survive,” she says. “Say goodbye to me in the springtime.”

  I bow to her. “I will,” I hoot.

  Her eyes gleam in the last glimmers of sunset. “Then go do it,” she tweets. “This bird is finally going to be able to get a full night’s sleep.”

  I bob my head, lift my wings, and flap off, hooting as loudly as I can, just so she won’t forget me.

  The night is cold and dark. I fly high, look down on the rivulets of light that cut the darkness. Somewhere down there is Mother. Only one owl can help me find her.

  First.

  I swoop through the breeze, my feathers slicing the air currents, splitting them into eddies of silence. I was so afraid to fly high before. What was I afraid of?

  The rivulets lead toward rivers of light, which pour into a vast lake of brightness. First will be there, hunting along the shores in the shadows. I glide lower, begin hooting for her. It doesn’t take long for me to sense the shadow diving down, talons out.

  I dip and swerve to avoid her attack.

  “You’re out!” First cries, wheeling around.

  “Take me to Mother,” I screech.

  First pulls up in front of me. “You dodged my attack.”

  “I’m not an owlet.”

  Her tufts lift. “Oh?”

  She swoops toward me and I dive, then twist around, talons out. We lock talons and beat our wings, pulling each other in a circle. Our ear tufts are straight up, our eyes fierce globes glowing.

  This is and is not the same game we played in the nest. Now, I’m bigger. And I believe I have a chance.

  First releases me. “I guess you have grown,” she hoots, ear tufts lowering. She flaps away from me and then glides down into a hummock of trees between the lights.

  I follow her into the shadows.

  First has set up a perch for herself between the forking trunks of a tall evergreen tree. Discarded remnants of furless-creature stuff tumble across the scrubby grass and dirt below. Furless creatures’ monsters roar by, flashing their lights like lightning through the branches.

  “Why do you perch here of all places?” I chirp, landing on a small branch above her. We may have made peace, but who knows when First will break it.

  “I told you,” she says, “the lights attract rodents.” She rouses, begins preening her feathers. “Also, I don’t have to fight any other owl for the food.”

  “Did you have to fight other owls in the woods?” This is news.

  First finishes her grooming and pulls her feathers in. “Even Father warned me off his territory.”

  My giz
zard turns cold. “Father did?”

  “I told you to stay where you were. The wild is cold and cruel.” First looks away, down at the shadows below.

  I want to hoot something comforting to her, but I sense there is no comfort to be had. Father was never a gentle owl, but perhaps that is because there can be no such thing.

  “I’m sorry,” I hoot.

  “I’m not,” she chirps back. “Better to have it honest. Better to know the truth. And I have found my own place. I hunt here at night. During the day, I perch near a lake in deep woods.

  “You will find your place, Second. If you fight for it, you will.”

  “I have to find Mother first,” I say.

  First dives down from her branch, landing like a stone on a tuft of grass. Then she flaps back up, a vole between her claws. She gulps it down whole. “I’ll take you,” she chirps, wiping her talon across her beak. “But you should grab a meal before we fly.”

  I raise my tufts. “You don’t mind sharing your territory?”

  She twitters, tilts her head. “You beat me at Talons,” she says. “I’ll let you share my territory tonight.”

  I bob my head. “You’re too kind.”

  “What’s a hatchmate for?”

  “Apparently, one night of hunting.”

  “More than you’d get from any other owl.”

  She has something there. I focus on hunting. It’s instinctual now, getting my feathers in line. The heartbeats glow in the darkness. I dive, catch a mouse. Dive again, just miss a vole.

  First really has found herself a prime hunting spot. Even if you do have to swoop through garbage to grab your meal.

  Once we are both fat and happy, we rest in the tree. The busy world of the furless creatures slows to a grumble in the deep night, and I close my eyes. When the half day breaks through the darkness, First hoots to me softly, “It’s time.”

  We pellet, then dart beneath the branches and fly out into the dim gray light. First leads me over the black expanses of the furless creatures’ paths, over their caves and meadows. I wonder which of them are like my Brown Frizz and the Gray Tail and which have the fire sticks. I wonder which is the kind that has Mother.