Companions In Flight

A faint coo echoed through the distant forest. The feathers of a wide, and beautiful winged creature cascaded to the dirt of the earth. A dejected, injured howl escaped into the night. It could not speak, but it could try. Hopefully, there would be someone, somewhere to save him. And maybe, just maybe, he could save them.

Miles and miles of trees, shrubs, and mossy grounds filled the spaces around the quiet woodland home. Emma laid in her bed, wishing she could toss and turn as she did in her dreams. But only her arms moved and swayed as she skipped and hopped around the dance floor she envisioned. She could only imagine the sensation of adrenaline, the fear of falling, and the pain of exertion. However, like every other ballerina, it was all worth it for that final clap; that final cheer. Emma raised her arm to the sky and reached for her trophy.

“Emma?” Her mom, Fiona, slowly combed her blonde fringe from her face. “Emma?” She whispered, her voice so sweet and faint. Emma’s eyes began to open and her dream became a distant memory. She perched herself up against her pillow and saw her real dance floor. A homely room with a bookshelf, a little wooden desk, and the centrepiece – her wheelchair. “It’s time we have a shower,” her mother suggested, lifting little Emma from her bed and carrying her through the corridor. Her parents lived every day with her as if it may be her last. Unbeknown to their caring and bright child, life was short for many but even shorter for others.

As customed, Fiona took Emma to give her father a morning hug. “How is my little woodland princess?” He announced as he reached in to hold her close.

“I had a dream, Papa!” Emma reeled from the excitement of sharing her nighttime visions. “I was the most beautiful ballerina!” She said, twirling her arms in elegance.

“I’m am certain you were the most beautiful ballerina to set foot on that stage,” Her father said, looking into his daughter's wide, beady eyes. Behind him, resting on the window seal, an innocent pigeon recouped its breath.

“Look, Papa!” Emma squealed. “A bird!” Not sharing her excitement, her father placed her on his seat and gruffly stormed to the window.

“Get gone!” He shouted; his voice as intense as a winter storm. His daughter watched as the little pigeon raced away to somewhere safe. “Hate those darn birds. Make such a mess they do,” Her father growled.

Fiona reached down and took her daughter away to shower. But Emma’s eyes remained fixed on the window, on the pigeon that was now long gone. He’s flying, she thought. He is high in the sky, she dreamt. If only she could grow wings and fly with him. But, of course, Emma reasoned that her father might never allow her to befriend the birds. His undue hatred would always get in the way. Her only company in the isolated forest was the dog, Buck and the woodland squirrels he so eagerly chased.

As her mother gently poured the boiled water over her daughter’s cold skin, the sensation began to return. Her legs however still laid dormant, like an accessory she could not use. Emma had never forgotten the day she traded her wings for fun. Following her friends so high into the tree. “Get down now!” Someone had shouted. In fright, her leg had slipped and she tumbled to the grass. People stood around her, shouting frantically. Her last vision was of the sky and a beautiful bird with wings as wide as a vast river, soaring gracefully through the air.

Her parents did not speak of that day or the move out of the suburbs to an isolated, and archaic way of life. She had heard her father say it was really for the best. But Emma had always wondered what was so brilliant about total silence. Surely, one day, she would find out.

Her day went along as ordinary as ever. She read a book, wrote about the book, and then was wished away with her mother to peel potatoes in the kitchen. In all the silence, any outward sound was unmissable. “Hoooo,” she heard faintly. A deep, groaning sound echoed through the kitchen window. “Did you hear that?” She asked her mother.

“I did not hear a thing,” Fiona replied confidently. “Must be a sound in that imaginative head of yours,” her mother giggled.

Emma remained uncertain. I swear I heard something, she told herself. Keeping her ears attentive, she peeled potato after potato and yet, nothing made a sound anymore. There was only one-way Emma saw fit to dispose of the idea that something was out there. She would have to go find it herself. “May I go play outside?” She posed to her mother.

“Finish one more potato and I’ll allow it,” her mother replied.

Not having to repeat her command twice, Emma peeled her last potato swifter than ever. Carefully wheeling herself down her ramp and out onto the grass, she tirelessly pushed her chair. Emma wished she had never taken for granted the ease of legs and how wonderfully they moved. Her moment of self-pity was broken when she heard that sound again. “Hoooo,” the groan was growing closer.

“Hello?” Emma whispered. She had reached the boundary of her little home and would not dare go any further. “Hello?” She cried out even louder. Again, silence. “Do you want me to find you?” Emma huffed into the dim-lit forest. Realizing she was not being heard, she spun her chair around and proceeded to go elsewhere. Huffing and puffing over her failed mission, she had stopped focusing on what was around her until…

A howl rose from the darkness! Emma spun her head in the direction of the boundary. Emerging from the darkness, a haunted figure flew into the open space. Emma screamed frightfully as the clawed creature came into view. “Papa! Papa!” She cried out at the top of her lungs. Before her father could reach her, the erratic bird toppled to the ground like a shot-down plane. Emma hushed her voice and sat in shock.

“What is It, Emma?” Her father said, rushing to her side.

“Look… Papa,” she mumbled softly. The unsettled forest resident turned out to be, not a winged demon, but a humble owl. It had a golden shimmer in its feathers and sweet, deep black eyes. “He’s beautiful,” Emma said, still frozen in shock.

“A darn pest he is. Careful, he’ll give you a good nip if you get too close,” Her father asserted, reaching over to see if the bird was still alive. The unfortunate owl had become tangled in a vine – a pretty vine at least with vibrant blue flowers. Emma’s father, a knowledgeable man of the woodlands observed the wounded bird. “He needs to be put out of his misery,” He suggested.

Emma’s eyes grew teary. “Please don’t hurt him!” She cried. “Can’t we help him?” Emma begged. Fiona stood on the deck watching the commotion. He looked at the droopy eyes of the bird and the glum look on his daughter’s face.

“Fine,” He grumbled. “You can nurse him back to health and then he’ll be on his way. I want nothing to do with it. And he has to stay in a cage. Won’t have him hurting no one.”

Emma spun around to her mother, who shared the same excitement she did. “Thanks Papa. I promise I’ll do all the hard work,” Emma insisted. And she was true to her word in every way from dressing his hurt wing, to finding him of cuts of meat to eat. In all facets, Emma was an excellent carer and her new friend strangely did not oppose the help. “Dad said you’re going to eat me one of these days. Thanks for not eating me,” Emma giggled to the owl.

One night, when her mother and father were asleep, Emma wheeled out to the living room to see her feathery friend. “Hello,” She whispered into the cage. The owl peered back – his tender eyes shining in the darkness. Emma reached in to gently pat the top of his head and for the first time he consented. “Thank you,” Emma uttered softly. Looking at his bloodied and bent wing, pity rose inside her little soul.

“It’s hard when you can’t do what you used to do, right?” She told her patient. “You have wings but you can’t fly and I have legs but I can’t dance. I know how you feel,” A small tear trickled down her face. “I wish,” she paused, “I could fly with you one day.” Her owl friend only cooed softly in reply. Emma didn’t know what he wanted to say or if he had anything to say at all. The eyes of the sleepy child became heavy once more. Emma leaned her head against the hard-wooden table and drifted off to sleep.

When she awoke, a cold lump rested in her lap. “Owlie?” She said tiredly. “Owlie?” She patted the owl’s head. Emma shook his body a little harder. “Wakey wakey,” Her tone became more and more desperate. “Papa!” She hollered. Her father immediately rose to his feet.

“What has that cursed bird done now?” He yelled before seeing the true scene.

“Owlie won’t wake up,” Emma cried, as the barn owl lay curled in her lap.

Her father’s expression softened and he crept down to her level. “He’s gone, my dear,” He explained. Emma’s mouth buckled and a hoard of tears raced down her cheeks like a rainstorm.

“Owlie!” She cried, stroking his head ever so gently.

“At least, he had someone by his side,” Her father reassured her, wiping her tears with his handkerchief. Once Fiona had woken, Emma’s father went outside to make a grave for the avian friend. Digging a little hole, her father gently placed the cold body in the grave.

“Goodbye,” Emma cried. All night, she could not sleep. How terribly she missed her sometimes scratchy friend. She missed his strange noises and the funny way he gobbled up mice. She missed that funny turn he did with his head. She thought of him, tucked away in his grave – wings by his side but unable to fly. “I wanted us to fly together,” Emma cried. “Now none of us can fly.”

“Hoooo,” She heard off to her left. “Hoooo,” went the winged phantom. Emma’s tearful moment was broken when she turned to her side and saw by her window an unmissable sight. Another owl, a mother owl this time, sat tall and proud on her window seal. “Hello,” Emma whispered, unable to move closer to her. The mother owl and Emma stared at each other until the mother bird made the point of her visit clear.

Plopping down a vibrant blue flower, the owl cooed one last time and flocked away into the darkness of the woodland. “Owlie,” Emma cried, reaching as hard as she could for her flower. Falling from her bed, she moaned in pain. “Owlie,” she whispered. Closing her eyes, Emma’s body began to sink further into disarray. Slowly, her sleep consumed her and she was no more.

As Fiona laid down by Owlie’s grave that morning, she reflected on her daughter and the strange blue flower by her window sill. “Is she flying with you, Owlie?” Fiona pleaded with the sky. A faint owl’s purr reached her ears. “I see,” She uttered, falling into a heap of tears.

“Take care of my baby.”