Feathers and Lances

Charles slept nary a wink since he and most of the other feathered residents of the Royale Rookery had unceremoniously been relocated to the Gainesville Fairgrounds on Friday, two days previous. The rookery arrived just in time for the annual Hoggetowne Medieval Faire and to participate in Jerome’s sorry excuse for an avian show, grossly entitled, “Birds of Prey”. “Birds of Lame” somehow sounded better in old Charlie Boy’s head, and the barn owl chortled to himself at his own wit. Of course, the chortle came out more as a series of shrill chirps, making the peregrine next to him flap her wings and find new purchase on her perch with those razor-sharp talons of hers. The falcon then eyed Charles in the most disapproving manner.

“Oh, Margaret…Mags, Luv. Don’t get your tail feathers all in a bunch. It does this horrible thing to your bird face when you scorn me. Twists your expression up, makes you look positively vulturesque.” The falcon screeched at Charles in outrage before she whirled herself around so he could only see her posterior.

The vulture stationed at the back of the tent also gave a short, angry noise that could only mean that they had overheard what Charles just said, in bird of course, and decided to take great offense, as all vultures have the tendency to do. The barn owl refused to make eye contact with the flying dump truck he had just insulted by proxy, and instead concentrate on staring lasers into Margaret’s back, trying to will her to face him again using only his mind. Which… did not work one damn bit, but the owl continued to stare and strain regardless. From this angle, it appeared to Charles that the female peregrine’s molting was not going smoothly this season and he quickly decided that now was not the time to point that detail out to her, as she already wanted to rip him to shreds and it showed.

No, now was the time to worry about when he’d actually get sleep, being after all, nocturnal, and having already been forced to stay awake for days. Also, possibly, maybe apologize to Mags, as she was one of the few birds friendly enough with the mouthy barn owl, and Charlie Boy needed as many friends as he could get these days. That, and he selfishly wanted all matters dealt with before that afternoon’s jousting tournament, as he wanted to give this special event his complete and utter attention.

“Margaret, darling. My apologies… I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry that I’m such a fussy hatchling when I haven’t gotten my beauty sleep.” Margaret did not turn around to face Charles, but cocked her head gently to the side in a manner to show that she was listening instead. He took this as a good sign that she was close to forgiving him, and he dipped his adorable, heart-shaped owl face down and closer to his friend, all in an attempt to get her to relent. “Mags, you know I think that you’re beautiful. I don’t know what comes over me sometimes and makes me behave like such a …”

Just then, Jerome the Trainer came swooping in with a heavily-gauntleted hand to grab at Charles’ feet, nearly knocking the smallish owl from his perch. Charlie bit at Jerome for as much the manhandling as the interruption to his heart-felt apology to Mags, and he was quickly reprimanded for his antics by the mountainous and swarthy beast that was their caretaker.

“No, Charlie Boy! No! Oh, be a good bird for once! Just once, that’s all I’m asking!”, exclaimed a very frustrated Jerome.

‘The nerve of some humans!’, Charles fumed to himself, as he picked at the two pinion feathers on his left wing that now jutted out at even more awkward angles than before, as he simultaneously attempted to balance on the big man’s glove. That wing had been giving Charles absolute fits since the onset of this ordeal, just as much as the trainer and his moronic niece had. Anne, playing at being Jerome’s assistant, was a thorn in the side of every bird on team at the event. With their brusque bedside manner and jostling of Charles and his comrades, the barn owl mentally put both people on his, ‘More Pigeons Should Poop on Them’ List.

“There, there… crawl up to your favorite spot and stop being such a pill, Charlie.” Jerome motioned to his shoulder with the hand that was not holding Charles. Not wanting to seem too overly eager to comply with the trainer’s request, the owl crawled carefully up to the big man’s left shoulder. Once he was settled, Charles nipped excitedly at Jerome’s ear, as he knew where he was being taken: To the lists!

Jerome waved goodbye to his bored niece and strode confidently over to the arena and stadium where the jousting was to occur. All around them, large, beefy horses paraded around, each of them wearing the colorful pennants of their knights, with equally garish and cheerful banners being carried behind them by scrawny squire-types. The stamping and neighing of the impatient equines, the deep, booming voices of their riders, and the raucous laughter and hollering from those seated in the stands all blended together to make the most intoxicating music to old Charlie Boy’s little bird ears. Well, the closest approximation to ears a barn owl could have, anyway.

“Feeling lucky today, Jerome?”, asked one of the event workers dressed as a Fat Friar as he sidled up to the bird trainer’s side and peered up at Charles questioningly.

“You know how I do this. How we do this, Matt. I don’t wager on anyone or anything without ole Charlie Boy having a say in the matter.” Upon hearing that, Charles immediately retracted all of the hateful things he had been thinking about his trainer for, oh, days now?

The barn owl also quickly picked out whom he wanted as his champions: A very rugged man with a great, ginger beard who sat astride a pitch-black Dutch Warmblood named Heathcliff. Both Heathcliff and his knight were draped in layers of royal blue and black satin pennants with a chevron design over their armored plating. Yes, the knight’s steed alone looked like the horse version of a competitive body builder, with thick veins running along hard muscle, under that shiny, coal-colored hide.

As he observed them, Charles took note of the fact that Redbeard did not speak to any of the other competitors, preferring to observe and scan the crowd and the competition from a slightly removed position on the far side of the arena. That knight was all business, a detail that was not lost on Charles in the least. When Jerome started pointing out the knights to his bird one by one, Charles nipped excitedly at the trainer’s ear when he gestured towards Redbeard and Heathcliff. Jerome nodded and motioned to the friar, passing him folded money when the man approached them.

After some fanfare from the Master of Ceremonies, the knights began taking all of their worldly frustrations out on each other, each elimination narrowing the list down to its greatest competitors. It quickly became apparent that Charles really had one heck of an eye for talent, as contest after contest, Redbeard unseated and vanquished every one of his opponents, slamming into them with his lance and sending them flying into the dirt time and time again. Money passed back and forth during this time between Jerome and the friar many times, the wad increasing in size at every pass. Each time Redbeard entered the arena, Charles practically jumped for joy and danced around on Jerome’s shoulder, quite swept away by the energy of the battles.

Towards the end of the lists, when it was but Redbeard and Heathcliff facing their final opponents. At the far end of the enclosed arena, a large bay stamped impatiently at the uneven footing of the field. Upon the giant beast’s back sat a loud, possibly mead-drunk, and incredibly arrogant knight in black and yellow. Charles had to hide behind his wing as he could not watch this showdown except from between his feathers. The suspense was just too much for his little bird heart to take!

While the confidence of the knight on the bay destrier made him victorious thus far, his time in the Winner’s Circle had come quickly to a close. Redbeard and Heathcliff ran him down harder than any of the other knights, as to hesitate at this juncture would surely have been their downfall. A great, booming, “HUZZAH!” rose up from the crowd in the stadium as well from the knights that gathered to see who would become today’s champion. The knight in yellow went down hard onto his back and did not attempt to get up, obviously winded and his ego bruised. He was carried out on a stretcher by the paramedics waiting in the wings as Redbeard was declared Champion amongst much upheaval and celebration from the spectators.

Jerome’s deep belly laugh rang out with utter merriment as the final determination was made by the Royal Court sitting as judges for the tournaments. He started making a path directly to where the Fat Friar had posted himself at the entryway to the arena, slapping the shorter, rounder man on the back in a friendly, consolatory manner until two large fistfuls of currency were reluctantly handed over to him. Charles was then given his favorite treats from Jerome’s pockets and petted on his little, painted head.

Just then, the two men and Charles were interrupted by none other than Redbeard and Heathcliff. The friar frantically dug into his robes at that moment before he thrust two even larger wads of paper currency up to Redbeard, shaking almost uncontrollably as he did so. Upon seeing the larger wager pay out, Jerome was curious and maybe a tiny bit miffed, as he was certain that he had won the larger betting pots for the day.

“Pardon me, wonderful show of talent you gave us all today.,, Congratulations on your big win!” Jerome had his most charming smile pasted on his face as he engaged Redbeard in small-talk. “And what huge winnings, too, if you don’t mind my pointing that out.”

“I don’t mind, but I am in a bit of a rush. Can I help you with something?” Redbeard was obviously a man of few words.

“Oi, this is the fella I told yous about. He lets his owl pick the winners for him…”, Matt the Friar started explaining.

“I figured as much, as he’s the only one with an owl on his shoulder and winnings in his pockets nearly the size of mine.” Redbeard said all of this as he looked carefully at Charles from his vantage point. A small smile spread across the champion’s mouth and Charlie Boy felt a huge sense of pride. He could not help puffing out his chest feathers as he made eye-contact with the knight. “You don’t think you’d be in the market of selling your little, gambling owl, would ya?”

“Oh! Oh, no! I can’t say as I am! I’m so sorry to disappoint.”, Jerome stammered out quickly.

“That’s fine, I understand. He’s quite the treasure and would be an asset to anyone, surely. Tell you what, I have one of these tiny flags with our colors on it. I’d like the little guy…”

“Charlie Boy, er, Charles the Barn Owl.”

“…Charlie Boy, I like it. Heathcliff and I would like Charlie Boy to have this tiny pennant of ours.”

Charles’ chest puffed even further out then, and his heart fluttered, feeling like it was going to burst wide open any second. Redbeard reached into one of the small saddlebags and handed a tiny black and blue cloth item to Jerome, who in turn showed it to Charles before tucking it into his pocket.

‘I am going to insist that hang from my perch IMMEDIATELY!!”, screeched Charles, but no one understood him because they were not fluent in bird.

“And you don’t need help with winning your wagers… Say, what’s your secret? You already know mine.”, Jerome asked in a rush before Redbeard could depart.

“Oh, that’s easy.”, said Redbeard. “You always bet on your bird, and while it’s a little nuts, makes more sense to me now. It works for you.”

“Yeah, and what works for you?”

Redbeard hesitated a second, chuckled, then said, “The difference is that I only ever bet on myself.”

Jerome took a long moment before speaking again. “That’s it?”

“Yes, sir, that’s it.” And with that, Redbeard made a salute-like gesture to the two other men and the barn owl before turning Heathcliff around and heading for the stables.

As Jerome and the friar repeated Redbeard’s statement over and over between themselves, marveling at the simplicity of the warrior’s creed, Charles just watched in utter bird-admiration for his favorite knight and steed. He thought to himself then, ‘Wait until Mags hears about THIS! She can’t possibly stay angry with me once I tell her this story! I have bragging rights for years!’