Of a Feather Page 8

  * * *

  At the end of the day, the teacher lets us spend the last fifteen minutes of the period outside. Jaxon and I are just settling in behind our bush, our whittling wood poised for sculpting, when Jamie comes crashing through the brush.

  “Hi,” she says, all singsongy. She plops down beside Jaxon and hefts a giant book from her backpack. “I got this history of comic books out from the library. You’ve got to see the old covers for Captain Marvel.”

  She opens the book and Jaxon leans in, dropping his whittling in the leaves. “Cool,” he says, like we weren’t in the middle of something ourselves.

  Who is this girl to barge in with her comic book collection when Jaxon and I were perfectly happy whittling together in silence? I shove my whittling into my backpack and pull out the book on owls I took out. I try to flip pages loudly enough so that I can’t hear Jamie and Jaxon oohing and aahing over their stupid comics.

  “Hey,” Jamie says, “Maureen, look! There really is an Iron Woman.”

  “Rescue,” Jaxon says. “One of my mom’s favorites.”

  And a part of me wants to toss my book aside and lean in because I’m Iron Woman, I’m Jaxon’s mom’s favorite, but then the buzz whispers, Friends are dangerous. What happens if they ask about my mom? How do I explain that the only thing I’ve ever collected was addresses?

  “Huh?” I say, like I was so into my reading I didn’t hear a word they said, like what they’re talking about doesn’t even matter to me.

  “Oh, sorry,” Jamie says, her voice shrinking. “I just thought—”

  “I really need to read this,” I say. “It’s research.” I waggle the book so they can see how thick and imposing a tome it is.

  Jaxon gives me this confused look, then turns back to Jamie. They go on flipping pages, but there’s no more oohing or aahing. The three of us silently flip pages like it’s a punishment. I managed to suck the fun out of the entire world. Typical me.

  The bell rings.

  “See you guys tomorrow,” Jamie says, getting up.

  “See you,” Jaxon says, following her.

  “Sure,” I say.

  * * *

  The bus can’t drive fast enough. The farther I get from school, the farther I am from all the drama. Like I meant to ruin their conversation. Like I even wanted friends.

  I get home and burst into the kitchen. Beatrice isn’t home yet. I hear Rufus squawking. This drama I can handle.

  I drop my backpack, wash my hands, and crack open the door to the bird room. Rufus is chittering and chirping and clacking his beak.

  Owls are super noisy. I would not have guessed this going in with the whole rehabilitating-an-owl thing. But I’ve learned a ton. For example, I know this owl needs to pellet.

  I look out the side window, then the front. I have no idea when Beatrice will be home.

  Rufus squawks again, louder.

  I’m not going to make Rufus suffer.

  “All right, buddy,” I say, slipping on Beatrice’s leather work gloves.

  He’s shuffled into the center of the crate. His wings are tight against his back and he gives me a slow blink of his yellow eyes.

  I open the crate door and slip my hands in to grab his feet. But they’re hidden under his long chest feathers. Why bother digging for feet when I can just hold his wings? I get my gloves around him and lift him up. See? Perfectly fine.

  I probably should not be doing this without Beatrice—this is a step beyond feeding. But Rufus has stopped screaming. This is what he needed!

  I carry him to the other crate—his “barf- and bathroom,” as I’m calling it. I shut him inside, and lo and behold, he shuffles to the back, silently pukes up a pellet, and then poops. Owl poop is called “whitewash.” It’s still poop.

  See? I can do things. I’m a leader. Take that, Tony Stark.

  Rufus steps to the front of the crate and stands there staring at me. I open the crate door and get my hands around his wings. I decide to try reaching around his back, so I won’t have his talons facing my chest. I can just get my fingers all the way around his wings. Now, I’ll just stand and kind of turn Rufus and lift—careful of the tufts!—yes, up and out of the crate, and taking a step . . .

  My foot hooks the perch on the floor midstride and I’m tripping before I can even process what’s happening. My hands drop Rufus to break my fall.

  But Rufus doesn’t drop.

  He flaps and shrieks, then kind of glides to the floor. He begins screeching and pulsing his wings. He gets some air and now I realize why Beatrice has been so careful. Rufus is actually quite large, like an umbrella come to life. An umbrella equipped with sharp and powerful talons.

  A distraught owl flapping and squawking and bumbling about a small enclosed space is terrifying. I hit the floorboards and cover my head with my gloves.

  “What in the—” Beatrice stands in the doorway.

  Oh no.

  She quickly closes the door behind her and pulls on a glove.

  She warned me . . . What will she do? The buzz cranks up to a deafening roar. I should have waited. I’m such an idiot. My eyes sting.

  Rufus lands on the arm of the couch and screeches. Did he hurt his wing? He glares at me, and I totally deserve that.

  Beatrice pauses against the wall. I am frozen on the floor. A tear drips off the tip of my nose, splatting on the floorboards. This is all my fault. What if Beatrice sends him away? What if Beatrice sends me away? The buzz roars.

  Rufus turns his head, considers the room, the two humans. He bobs his head a few times. Then he fluffs his feathers out until he looks like an upended dust mop and begins nipping at them with his beak. He slides his beak over each feather, like he’s smoothing the seams of his jacket.

  He’s okay. I didn’t hurt him. He’s okay . . .

  “He’s preening,” Beatrice whispers.

  “I dropped him,” I confess, still not moving from the floor.

  “You should have waited.” Beatrice sticks by the wall.

  “I know,” I whisper, then add, louder, “But he sounded really mad. He cast up a pellet the second I put him in the poop crate.”

  “You should have waited,” she repeats, a bit more sharply.

  I bang my forehead on the floor. Of course I should have waited.

  Beatrice appears beside me, having tiptoed over, silent as a ghost. She places a palm on my shoulder. “Look.”

  I drag my head up; it’s like hefting a stone.

  Rufus finishes his preening and settles into his perch. His lower eyelids slide up—he’s sleepy.

  “He can perch,” Beatrice whispers.

  “He’s feeling better?” There’s a tiny lift inside me.

  She gives a little shrug to say, I dunno. “But he can perch.”

  Rufus poops down the arm of the couch.

  “And mute. Both good signs.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She nods. “I know.”

  The buzz inside quiets. We sit there for a while, just watching Rufus snooze. Then Beatrice unfolds her legs. “I should get dinner started.”

  “What about Rufus?”

  “If he’s perching, he doesn’t need to be in the crate, which means he needs anklets and jesses.” She considers Rufus, who twitters softly. “I need to eat before trying that.”

  We creep out of the bird room together, careful not to disturb Rufus. I sit at the kitchen table while Beatrice throws something together to eat. I can’t believe how chill she was about me almost killing Rufus. How cool she is about it—no yelling, not even now that we’re away from the bird room. I decide to offer her something in exchange.

  “I have a project at school,” I say. “We’re in groups, researching something about Vermont that’s important to us. My group is doing hunting.”

  “But you don’t hunt,” Beatrice says, shaking some spices into the pot.

  “Yeah.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.

  She stirs the whatever-she’s-making. Then s
he puts the spoon aside and comes to the table. “I’m betting your part of this project is about falconry?” She looks me right in the eye. I nod. “I bet there’s not one person in your class who’s even heard of the sport. It’s a great project.”

  A little smile quirks up the corner of my mouth. It’s not like I care what she thinks about the project, but, I mean, it’s nice to hear that she—or anyone—thinks it’s great.

  “You hunt with Red, right?” I ask.

  “That’s part of my deal with Red. I scare the prey out of the brush so she can catch it.”

  “Even though you’re vegetarian?” I ask, remembering Jamie’s complaint.

  “Red eats the meat.” She goes back to the stove to tip her spoon in and taste her creation. “It’s just nature running its course. Bird of prey eats prey.”

  “Can I interview you?” I say it quickly, forcing the words out. Asking for favors is not my thing. “It’s for the project. I have to interview a hunter.”

  Beatrice frowns, eyebrows raised. “I’ve never been interviewed before.”

  “I’ve never interviewed anyone before,” I say.

  She shrugs. “So we’ll learn together.” Her smile coaxes one out of my own face.

  We chow down on pasta and some vegetable sauce. Human of earth eats plants.

  Once we’re done, Beatrice and I head back into the bird room. Rufus cracks open his eyes, sees it’s us, and goes back to sleep. Beatrice stops at the little table and begins sorting her tools. She snips leather, picks out some metal rings she calls grommets, then pulls out these long strips with knots at one end—the jesses.

  She places her hands on her hips, surveys her collection. “I’m going to need you to hold him.”

  “I can hold him,” I say, my voice a whisper. The buzz rages: What if I fail again? What if this time, I drop him and he breaks a bone?

  “Hey,” Beatrice says, looking straight into my eyes. “I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I didn’t think you could.”

  I nod. She thinks I can handle it—maybe I can . . .

  “Let’s do this.” She hands me a towel.

  We both put on work gloves and walk calmly over to Rufus so we don’t startle him. Beatrice gently grabs Rufus around the legs and wings. His eyes flash open, the feathers along his back lift, his beak gapes, and he starts hissing like an angry snake. Beatrice jerks her chin, which is my cue to toss the towel over Rufus’s head. It lands on him and the hissing stops. His claws dig into the couch, but Beatrice just holds him steady until his talons release, and then she carries him to the table.

  “Get a good grip on him,” she says, shifting her hold to let me get my hands around his body.

  I hold him on his back on the table. Beatrice slips off the bulky gloves and grabs his legs between her fingers to keep from getting slashed by a talon. With a few quick movements, she slips the leather, smooth side in, around Rufus’s leg, punches the grommet through the strip and cuts the ends, then does the same thing on the other side. In another thirty seconds, long jesses dangle from the grommets. Beatrice holds them out, judges their length against Rufus’s tail, and then snips them.

  “I’m done,” she says, stepping back and wiping her forehead with her sleeve.

  “That was incredible,” I say. She moved so fast, like a robot.

  “This is not my first bird,” she says. She’s smiling, though. I think she’s a little psyched she did it so well.

  Rufus clacks his beak. He probably does not like being on his back. I lift him upright.

  “Whoa,” Beatrice says. She slides on her gauntlet, gathers the jesses in her glove, makes a fist, and puts the gauntlet right under Rufus’s feet. His talons grab on.

  I let go.

  And it happens. She’s holding Rufus on her fist.

  “Can I . . . ?” I begin, arm already drifting toward his talons.

  Rufus flips out. He drops backwards off Beatrice’s fist and starts flapping madly as he dangles from the jesses. The towel falls off and I see his bright yellow eyes and pinhole pupils. He is not happy.

  But Beatrice is cool as a creemee. She scoops Rufus up by the chest and sets him back on her fist. “That’s called bating. Perfectly normal.”

  Rufus seems confused but also grateful to be right-side up.

  He looks at her, shuffles his feet. Looks at me. Ruffles his feathers. And then just stands there.

  Beatrice smiles.

  “He’s doing it,” I say.

  And then he jumps off her fist again. And she sets him right again. And I realize that this is going to be a long road that’s full of potholes.

  10

  Rufus

  The furless creatures have made me a part of their nest. They have tied strips of animal skin to my legs, which I assume is an owl-adapted version of the funny animal skin bladders they wear over their talonless toes. I would have preferred if they had asked me formally, perhaps presented some choice bit of food, but then again, I did roost in the cave they provided for me, so maybe they were confused.

  I’m not actually against the little strips, as they do have a shiny bit that sparkles, but I am rather upset about the tails that dangle from the shiny bit. The tails get tangly and then I end up hanging like a bat.

  Even the Absolute Worst Great Horned Owl in All of Owldom is above a fruit-sucking, bug-scarfing bat.

  At least, I would like to think this is true.

  The creature with the brown frizz is asleep on the soft rock-shaped mound near the wall. The Gray Tail put a fluffy skin over her—I have determined that these are female mammalian creatures, perhaps large furless, tail-less descendants of squirrels? Regardless, I would like to run my beak through that fluffy skin covering her, but these tangly tails on my new leg sparkles are tied to an even longer vine, which is attached to this perch.

  I tried to fly a little when the Brown Frizz first fell asleep. I ended up beak-first in the dust.

  BAH! This is so boring.

  The Brown Frizz shifts under her skin.

  “Come here and give me that skin!” I squawk.

  The Brown Frizz opens her soft, pink, beakless maw and grumbles.

  I peck at the perch, try to give her some hints. “Skin!” I hoot. “I want to peck it.”

  The Brown Frizz shuffles out of the room but leaves the skin on the soft rock.

  “You forgot the skin!” I screech.

  These furless creatures are not the brightest.

  She comes back with a dripping warm mouse. Well, now that food’s here, I am up for eating. I chomp that mouse down in one gulp. The Brown Frizz looks surprised. What, she didn’t think I could eat a mouse whole? Just because I haven’t had many opportunities for such feasting doesn’t mean I can’t do it.

  “Now, about the skin,” I chirp, trying a slightly different tone with the creature. “I would like to rip it to shreds. Would you be so kind?”

  The creature blows some air at her head fur. That’s an odd display.

  I stretch my ear tufts. Maybe she’s trying to communicate.

  The creature’s face lights up. She waves her naked little wing-toes up by her head fur.

  Is she trying to look like a great horned owl? Because she is failing. Miserably.

  I screech for her to stop this silliness. “The skin,” I snap. “Bring it here.”

  The creature looks around the room. How is she not understanding me? I am being very clear! She crawls across the floor to a corner. But wait—are there other skins?

  “I am open to an offer of other skins if you would like to keep yours,” I chirp.

  The creature crawls back. She has a longish, fattish root in her wing-toes that has tufts of fur dangling from either end.

  What an odd little root.

  The creature waggles the root. It squeaks.

  Is there a mouse in that root?

  “Creature, give me that root!” I squawk, and then hop off the perch. The creature drops the root and shuffles away from me.

  Good—she knows
her place.

  What a fascinating root! And so wonderful for shredding. I clench it in my talons—it is very squishy, and—ho there! It squeaked again!

  I dig into the root with beak and claw. I tear the tiny tendrils that make up its fibers. It is so satisfying to shred.

  I am a great horned owl and I shred you, root!

  I tear that root to tufts. But there’s no mouse in it. The squeaking came from this strange foul-tasting bladder, which I spit out.

  The Brown Frizz has fallen asleep again, this time on her featherless wing on the ground. I would wake her up to get me another root with an actual mouse inside, but she does seem like a tired creature.

  I hop onto a rock that the Gray Tail placed near my perch and mute, then hop back down and stomp into the little pool of water she left for me to cool my talons. Then I flutter up to the perch. Around me lie the ruins of the root. I have done well.

  I fluff my feathers and give them a straightening with my beak, getting everything back in order. Moonlight sneaks in through a crack in the wall of the cave, and I can hear night noises: crickets scratching their legs, bugs buzzing through the dark, a rabbit munching in the grass. And then I hear the call of an owl. Not a great horned, but a big bird, a barred owl.

  A threat.

  But the threat is on the other side of this cave’s walls.

  I shuffle my feet to get a better grip on the perch. Warm currents of air flow from the creature, and I concentrate on the thumping pulse of her heart.

  I know I’m not supposed to like living here, but an owl has to admit: this nest is snug.

  11

  Reenie

  Beatrice comes sneaking into the bird room to wake me up. My head weighs a thousand pounds and I drooled all over my arm. But then I see my happy owl, perched above the shredded remains of the rope dog toy, sleeping with one foot tucked up under his fluffy chest feathers.

  “I thought I left you on the couch,” Beatrice says.

  “Rufus wanted to play,” I say, yawning. But then my heart jumps. “That’s okay, right? I didn’t touch him. I stayed outside the tether.”