Owl

by Jesse

the poem

William’s father owned a house, a crumbling wooden shack on stilts, located somewhere deep in the Australian bush. To get there, William’s father took the only road — a bumpy track of dirt that snaked through scrub for hours, with turns at random intervals. (A sharp right here to circumvent a spider’s lair, etc.) Just crickets, birds and horse-flies lived so far away from town.

In town, Will’s father, Mr Holt, worked at a desk, and William went to school nearby. Will’s holidays arrived more frequently and longer than his dad’s, and when they did, he mostly hung around his father’s work. Now he was ten, which was decidedly mature enough to occupy the house alone.

Today, as always, hit by morning sun, the shack-house groaned with great loud cracks like old men’s knees and Mr Holt fed birds outside while Will ate cereal. A brightly-coloured parakeet which Mr Holt was feeding swooped at him and pecked his finger, hard, then flew back to its branch and sat there, staring at the man with pointed disapproval.

“Ow,” said Will’s dad, coming in and sporting bloody fingers, ran his hand beneath a tap and took a bandaid from a drawer. “A bird bit me.”

“What sort?” said Will.

“Not sure,” said Mr Holt. “A parakeet.”

Another bird, a budgie William had named Toby, dragged its beak against its prison’s bars. “Want food?” said William. “Food?” he said, walked over to the cage and picked it up. He shook the bird’s cage up and down and swung it round as Toby screeched and flapped about inside. He loved his bird. (Yet if he put his fingers near the cage, then Toby bit and scratched them viciously. A feral animal.)

Holt watched as Will played helicopter games with Toby’s cage. He glanced outside, uneasily. The birds were watching — so it seemed to him.

“Don’t do that!” Mr Holt exploded suddenly. Will stopped. “My nerves can’t handle it today,” he said.

Then Mr Holt laid down the rules for William’s being home alone the day. And off to work he drove.

His father gone, Will loitered round the house. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath his walking feet. Particularly heavy walking caused the nearby furniture to wobble dangerously on its spot. Apart from that, the loudest sounds were crickets’ chirps and clock-hands’ ticks. So Will was bored. By afternoon he’d eaten anything remotely edible.

At four, he took the bird outside to demonstrate his football skills. He kicked the ball so high it crashed into the kitchen window. He stared, scared stiff by sound of smashing glass. He knew he had to call his dad and tell him. Better have him learn about the damage miles away than notice it himself, first-hand, un-warned. At dusk he phoned.

Meanwhile, his dad was giving Mel, a friend from work, a lift to hers. “Your phone is ringing,” Mel informed him.

“Can you grab it for me, please,” said Mr Holt.

Then three things happened simultaneously: first, Mel shimmied round to look for Mr Holt’s cell phone; second, Mr Holt turned right into Mel’s street at fifty-eight kilometres per hour; and third, a hungry owl, a Masked Australian, saw a mouse below and dove to grab it, but instead flew cleanly into Mr Holt’s left window. Pause. A super slow-mo, high-def action shot: the owl, the graceful creature, wings expanding, talons open, gliding through the window. Epitome of beauty – graceful even in death — or not. Inside the car, the owl then slammed head-first into the rolled-up window on the other side and flew about in helpless fright, unable to escape. Holt swerved the car, then lost control completely. Screech, went wheels. Car skidded sideways, wrapped around a pole and then became a silent, broken, smoking wreck.

When night had well and truly sat upon the bush, Will started worrying. Mosquitoes bit him (getting in the broken window). He went to his room and had a cry.

At nine o’clock he got a call. It was his father.

Mr Holt told Will about the accident. He left the dead owl part out of the story, wanting not to scare his son. “The car’s stuffed — I’m fine – Mel’s fine — couple scratches – miracle, really.” He didn’t sound fine.

William was about to press his dad for information on the accident, but then, remembering the broken window, he said, “Wait, Dad, ‘fore you tell me more, I need to tell you something. Um, this bird, today, it flew into the kitchen window. It, um, smashed it.”

There was no reply for ages. William held his breath.

“Our kitchen window — it was broken by a bird?”

“A couple birds,” said William quickly. “Big ones.”

“More than one bird tried to get into our house?”

“Well. Yeah.” He couldn’t tell if Mr Holt believed him.

“No,” said an astonished Mr Holt. Then: “No!” said an insane man. “My dear boy, the birds have gone quite mad!”

“I know!” said William, thnking that his father took the bait.

A lengthy silence. “Will — I need a favour, Will,” said Mr Holt. “Get Toby. Put him on the porch.”

“Okay,” said William slowly. Toby ran his beak against the bars as William grabbed the cage.

“Good boy. Now get my gun out of the cabinet. The key for it is in my sock drawer.”

“Why?” said William. There was no answer. Mr Holt was angry. Will obeyed. He’d never held a gun before, but now he took a pistol in his hands. “Now what?” he said into the phone.

“Now take my gun out on the porch. Good boy, I hear you are. That’s very good. Now – Will, I’ll know if you don’t do this – slip the barrel of the gun through Toby’s cage’s bars. All right? He’s biting at it like he would a finger?”

“Yes,” said William.

“Good. Now, William, can you cock a gun?”

“But why?” said Will.

“Because. A message needs to be delivered. Show the birds who’s boss here.”

“What?” said William.

“Do it now!” screamed Mr Holt.

And William screamed: “Dad, no! Okay! Look, I kicked a football into the window! Me! There were no birds!” He clutched the phone and sobbed for a good minute.

“Oh,” said Mr Holt. He seemed to wake a little. “Oh. Well, see what happens when you lie.”

“I do,” Will wailed.

“G-good,” said William’s father gravely. “I’ll be home tonight.”

Will hung the phone up, crawled inside and cradled Toby’s cage.