by Colin Dann
One night, after the two birds had eaten frugally, Holly kept flitting from one branch to another restlessly. She couldn’t keep still.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Tawny Owl asked her testily.
‘I feel ill at ease,’ she replied.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. There’s something . . . Something’s going to happen,’ she finished.
Her unease eventually communicated itself to Tawny Owl. And there was something in the atmosphere. It was charged with a kind of menace. They noticed other birds – starlings and songbirds and suchlike who would normally be safely roosting – stirring from their sites and calling and moving about in a jittery way. The gregarious starlings bunched together as if for reassurance. But it didn’t help them to settle and they wheeled about, coming to rest around the roof-tops, then taking off again uncertainly. Sparrows chattered nervously. Small nocturnal mammals scuttled for cover deep inside their bolt-holes. They sensed a great danger was hovering and they instinctively tried to bury themselves away.
It began as a breeze that rustled the vegetation. It was a steady rustling that made the leaves and twigs of the Great Beech quiver. The owls listened. The breeze didn’t die away, then return in fits and starts like the usual night breezes to which they were so accustomed. It persisted, as if it were toying with a few ideas before really making its mind up. Then it stiffened, growing rapidly in strength until, with a sudden explosion of force, it roared with a malevolent snarling anger. The beech tree rocked and shuddered. Holly fluttered to a new perch. Tawny Owl could only cling on grimly. But the wind hadn’t yet reached its full fury. It expanded into a whirling, devastating violence that battered everything in its path, contemptuous of any resistance. The noise of it was terrifying – a high strident howl that every so often rose to a scream as a gust of unprecedented power tore at the landscape. There had never been anything quite like it before. It was a wind of hurricane force.
The human population of Farthinghurst awoke in darkness as their homes buckled and shuddered. Glass shattered, tiles crashed; fencing, sheds and outhouses were ripped to pieces. Chimneys toppled, roofs caved in and some old or badly constructed buildings collapsed entirely. Everywhere, through the roars and shrieks of the wind, was the sound of destruction. Human ingenuity counted for nothing in the face of this onslaught. Man-made things were as vulnerable as those of Nature’s making, rooted in the soil. All life, from the lowliest insect to human beings themselves, were reduced to the same insignificant level before such elemental ferocity. Each could only cower helplessly while it raged.
In the early hours of the morning the storm reached its height. Animal cries of panic were drowned by the deafening roar. Every building rattled and vibrated. Broken materials were bowled along or hurled through the air like pieces of paper. Small plants were flattened. Saplings whip-lashed demonically. Only bushes and shrubs with tightly-knit masses of twigs and leaves could partially withstand the blast. Into their midst burrowed countless terrified birds. In Farthinghurst there were no large trees remaining save the Great Beech. The beech bore the full brunt of the storm’s force. Its great branches with their heavy load of foliage bent and groaned and cracked beneath the weight. The roots, loosened by days of rain that had drenched the ground deep down, began to lose their grip. As the tree swayed and shifted, then leant before the assault, Holly abandoned it altogether. She was too frightened to think about anything except her own preservation. She knew the tree was no longer safe. As she left her perch she was caught up in the storm’s cruel grasp and tossed like a speck through the air. Her wings spread, she was driven along at tremendous speed until finally she was dashed against a tall hedge. Shaken but otherwise unhurt, she pushed herself into the hedge’s denseness like any tiny wren or tit.
Tawny Owl, talons locked as best they could on the splintering branch, waited for the end. The great tree which had withstood scores of lesser storms without damage seemed to heave a last great sigh. Then slowly it gave way. It was as if a giant hand had been plunged into the beech’s glossy green hair and was pulling and tugging at it until the whole body underneath lost its balance. The tree toppled, the roots torn from the earth and, with a mighty crash, the last survivor of Farthing Wood prostrated itself on the soil that had nourished it for so long. Tawny Owl was hurled to the ground, yet the force of the wind blew him away from the colossal weight of the beech. As his body struck the soft earth the breath was driven from his lungs. But the brittle cement that had trapped his wings and talons was shivered into pieces. Bruised and gasping for air, it was some time before the bird realized he was free. He lay like a piece of rubbish himself amongst the miscellaneous debris scattered by the hurricane. At last he stirred and instinctively struggled to his feet, flapping his wings as he did so. His shackles had been unloosed. He found he could fly once more. Yet, ironically, flight now would put him into greater peril than before. He scurried for shelter, bumbling into a small conical cypress that grew in a corner of one of the neighbouring gardens.
Towards daylight the hurricane passed, leaving a scene of destruction in its wake. There was damage everywhere and the countryside round about was changed forever.
Thus the last vestige of Farthing Wood was finally obliterated from the map. Now the Wood only lived in the memory of those who had known it.
14
Dependency
TAWNY OWL’S FIRST thought, as he nestled amid the thick feathery foliage of the cypress, was for his friends in White Deer Park. He wondered how they had fared during the great storm. Now he knew he could fly back to them, he was eager to begin the return journey and this led him to his second thought which was for Holly. He was glad she had left the Great Beech in time, and could only hope she had managed to find safe shelter somewhere. The wind gradually eased and Tawny Owl looked out through the greyish light at a bruised and battered world. The beech lay motionless along the ground like a slaughtered Goliath. Only the dead leaves on its boughs rustled in the strong air currents that were the aftermath of the hurricane. People were already out of doors, surveying the damage to their property and their neighbours’. Tawny Owl decided to quit his refuge.
He flew up and away and began to call for Holly from the wing. Fragments of cement still clung to his plumage and talons but he was oblivious to them. Soon his cries were answered and he saw Holly emerge from her hedge and fly up to meet him. They were both filled with relief to see that the other had survived. Holly began to question Owl about his miraculous return to flight.
‘I have the storm to thank for that,’ he told her, ‘but there’s no time to explain now. We mustn’t loiter here any longer. We have a journey to make. Follow me.’
Holly willingly tucked herself into his slipstream and they flew away from Farthinghurst and its shocked and dazed human occupants. Tawny Owl led the way back to the countryside, high across the roads and the marsh towards the place where he had conversed with the squirrels. Everywhere there were changes. Everywhere trees were down; others leant at crazy angles against sturdier neighbours; others again had remained upright but with gaping wounds where huge branches had been ripped off by the butchery of the storm. Tawny Owl couldn’t recognize the tree where the squirrels had had their home. It may have survived; it may have fallen. It was impossible to tell. He wondered how much White Deer Park would be altered.
The birds continued to fly throughout the early part of the morning. Tawny Owl wanted to press on while there were not too many humans around. Their numbers were increasing all the time as the morning grew lighter. Tawny Owl knew he and Holly would have to hide themselves away before too long. He was able to steer them towards the orchards, despite the changed aspect of the terrain. Many fruit trees had been uprooted or damaged. The two owls sailed overhead. Neither passed a word to the other. Tawny Owl needed to concentrate on navigating their route. He was searching for Rookery Copse. Holly was content to be led for the moment. She had no regrets about leaving Farthinghurst and considered they
had both been very fortunate to emerge from the ordeal of the storm without mishap.
The first clue Tawny Owl had that they were near the copse was in the sky itself. Ahead of them in the distance a dark cloud of uncertain shape moved erratically, now in one direction, now another. It didn’t take Owl long to realize that the cloud was made up of birds. They were rooks, dispossessed and disorientated by the events of the night. They wheeled about uncertainly, crying their harsh cries of distress and lament. And soon Tawny Owl saw what was left of the copse. At least half the trees in which the rooks had faithfully built their nests season after season were flattened. The old regular outline of the group of tall trees was punctured by great gaps where the storm had wrought its work. The rooks were in turmoil. Their world was turned inside out. Some of them from the living cloud landed briefly on a branch here and there but took off again almost immediately. The others would follow suit and this descending and ascending and wheeling about went on continuously. The rooks were caught up in a mass panic where none of them knew what had happened or what to do. Rookery Copse had become something different and it was something they didn’t understand.
Mindful of his reception there on his previous journey Tawny Owl decided to leave the troubled birds to their own devices. Despite his rough treatment by the rooks he felt a tremendous sympathy for them. All over the countryside, he now realized, wild creatures would find their homes destroyed; their territories strange and unfamiliar. Now, more than ever, he longed to reach White Deer Park again. He was afraid of what he would find but he knew he wouldn’t be able to rest properly until he saw it with his own eyes. A little further on he flew down and landed in a dead elm which, killed long ago by disease, had with a strange irony withstood the blast of the hurricane when so many healthy trees had succumbed. Holly perched beside him.
Tawny Owl spoke first. ‘You may as well discount what I’ve told you about White Deer Park,’ he said, ‘because it will probably look quite different now.’
‘Yes,’ Holly agreed. ‘I’ve been thinking the same thing. Unless the storm missed it?’
‘I don’t think we can depend on that,’ he answered morosely. ‘How I wish we could!’
‘It’ll still be a Nature Reserve, though. Won’t it?’
‘Oh yes. That won’t have changed.’ Tawny Owl was about to add that his friends would still be there, too, but he choked the words back. How did he know if they would be? He had been away a long time. And the hurricane must have claimed lives wherever it had passed. ‘I’m eager to get back just as quickly as we can,’ he told Holly instead. ‘But it’s a long journey and we have to be wary, because there are bound to be many humans about. I think we should look for a place to roost soon; then we can continue when it’s dusk.’
‘I’m not a bit tired,’ Holly informed him. ‘We can fly for as long as you like. I leave it to you as the senior.’
‘How very diplomatic,’ Tawny Owl remarked wryly. ‘Well, come on, then.’
The two birds left the bleached skeleton of the elm tree and continued their flight. Tawny Owl was bemused by the tortured features of the scenery. He felt as if he were flying over a new land. He tried to ignore the devastation beneath them. He knew they were on the correct course for the river: he had been able to gauge their direction from the ruined copse. But every so often the cries of wounded or homeless beasts and birds could be heard as the owls travelled past. Sometimes they saw bodies crushed by the force of the storm, lying where they had been hurled. He saw a badger who had been trapped by a fallen tree. And birds – birds everywhere bemoaning their lost nest sites and broken communities. It was then that Tawny Owl feared for his friends and wished fervently that he had never left them. For, whatever horrors they had suffered during the storm, at least he would have been there to share them. That was how it had always been. They had shared all kinds of experiences and hardships and had been able to help each other through their difficulties.
Holly guessed the content of his thoughts every time they became witness to some fresh tragedy. She had no-one to mourn for; she had lived a generally solitary life. Companionship was a new enjoyment for her and the more she appreciated it the more she understood Owl’s concern.
‘Look out for a likely spot to rest,’ Tawny Owl called behind him. He knew the river was not too distant. They were flying over meadows.
Holly scanned the area. There were few trees of any size. But she spied an elder tree which, though not tall, was festooned with a thick cladding of ivy. She thought this might suit their purpose. She flew alongside Tawny Owl. ‘Down there,’ she indicated. ‘There’s plenty of cover.’
‘Perfect,’ he said and they skimmed down together.
There was plenty of space amongst the thick tendrils of the creeper to hide themselves, and they were confident they would be secure. Not that there were any humans in the vicinity. It wasn’t a time for people to be out sauntering and taking the air. There were far more important and pressing concerns that day for everyone.
Tawny Owl could hardly wait for dusk. For the first time in many weeks he was looking forward to hunting for himself. Holly had fed him like an invalid for so long he had come to feel quite subservient. He dared not tell her that after their long flight he was well-nigh exhausted. His wing muscles ached abominably. But he told himself he would be more than ready after a good rest. So Holly’s next words came as a shock.
‘I’ll carry on being the provider,’ she announced. ‘You don’t need to pretend any longer to be a bird of prey.’ It sounded as if she thought he had become actually incapable of hunting.
‘But – but –’ he spluttered, so taken aback he couldn’t find an adequate response.
‘No “buts”,’ she said firmly. ‘I can easily catch enough for both of us, as you know. You need all the rest you can get. It’s a wonder a bird of your age has come through such experiences as you’ve had at all.’
Tawny Owl was dumbfounded. He couldn’t conceive that Holly spoke from kindness and suspected she was insulting him. This was not the sort of association he had wanted to impress his friends with. Why, it was worse than solitude.
‘Look here,’ he finally managed to say, ‘I’m not quite in my dotage yet, you know. I’ll admit I’m very tired. It’d be surprising if I weren’t. But my hunting days aren’t over by any means.’
Holly was amused. ‘It’s all right,’ she insisted. ‘I understand how you feel. It must have been a humbling episode for you in the beech when you couldn’t fly. But it really doesn’t matter. I don’t mind in the least. I’m younger, fitter, and I can do all that you used to do.’
Used to do! What did she think he was – senile! Oh no. He’d show her. But he smothered his indignation for the present. He decided actions were more telling than words. However, in a short while, both he and Holly were asleep.
Holly awoke first and left the mantle of ivy without disturbing Tawny Owl. It was quite dark and she spread her wings and began to search the meadows. A light shower of rain was falling. Eventually the raindrops which penetrated the ivy aroused Tawny Owl. Realizing his companion was absent he pushed his head out of the creeper and looked for her. At that moment Holly was swooping on a shrew. Tawny Owl saw her pounce and he struggled free of the ivy tendrils and launched himself into flight. He wanted to get clear away before the female owl might return with her kill.
He was surprised to find his flight muscles were painfully stiff. After such a long period of disuse, he had overtaxed them on the first lap of the journey from Farthinghurst. But he bore the aches and soreness with determination. He had to make it clear to Holly at the outset that he could resume catching his own food. The trouble was, his whole body felt incredibly tired and feeble. It was as much as he could do to flap his wings occasionally, merely to keep airborne. So how was he to hunt? He had no speed now and no agility to rely on. Even if he saw some likely prey he doubted if he could direct his exhausted body with sufficient accuracy to make a kill.
‘This i
s absurd,’ he spluttered, angry with his physical shortcomings. ‘Am I to remain dependent on another? Unthinkable, unthinkable . . .’
He had to try. Fortunately his eyesight had lost none of its sharpness. He flew over some fields well away from where he had seen Holly pounce. There was no dearth of small creatures running on their habitual paths through the grass-stems. He looked hard for an animal that might be a little slower, a little older, a little more accessible. The diminutive creatures scurried about busily, pausing occasionally to sit on their hind legs to nibble at a tasty morsel or to look and listen for danger. Tawny Owl flew up and down, unable to decide on his target. His wing-beats became more and more laboured and gradually decreased in frequency. His body dropped steadily nearer ground level. And the nearer to the ground he became the more detectable was his presence to the voles, shrews or wood mice he was hoping to catch. He soon realized that, unless he selected his quarry quickly, he would lose all opportunity of a capture. Most of the animals were running for the shelter of their tunnels. He did see one, however, who was very absorbed with some particularly appetizing seeds. Tawny Owl lowered his talons and plunged towards it. The wood mouse seemed unaware of his approach. Tawny Owl struck it, grasped it in his beak and prepared to take off again. The mouse was dead. He had made his kill and he was filled with a mixture of pride and relief. But now he found his wing muscles were too stiff for him to achieve lift-off. He needed to beat his wings quickly to get airborne, using what air currents were available to do the rest. But the muscles were so tired and sore that he could only manage a couple of quick beats and these were no use at all. Tawny Owl realized he couldn’t get off the ground.
