Medicine of the Broken Owl

Hearing the slow burn and crackle of his pipe was familiar and strangely comforting. Dark cherry and oak undertones always seemed to be lingering on his clothes, mixed with the scent of long days and fresh air. My Pa was sturdy like an oak tree and stubborn like a mule. I could only say that because these traits were mine too.

Pa always had this distant curious look on his face as he took a long steady pull from his pipe. He enjoyed swaying back and forth in the worn, wooden rocker that creaked like old bones against the concrete of the porch. His silence sometimes seems louder than the eerie sounds of the chair or the wind whistling through the window on the far side of the house. The small crack that rattled and sounded like a drunk bird, off tune and weary.

That side of the house butt up against the woods and always seems to be shadowed by the tall trees. From the front side where the porch was, you could see the old barn and the flagpole that chimed in with a rattle. Must have been some metal piece that clanked against the pole on those windy days.

It was an Autumn day like this, a day when the mulch of the fallen leaves and the last of the hardy flowers scented the air like an annual cologne. We always knew that there wasn’t too much time before the heavy snows and the icy fingers of jack frost would freeze our breath like smoke in the air. So we would sit on the porch and enjoy those last calm days of Fall, sometimes not even talking at all.

On this day, however, Pa had something to say. His low baritone voice, a little raspy with the years of that pipe, yet calm like smooth whisky. I always listened with my whole heart when he spoke. It was just him and I these days. We didn’t talk about Ma anymore because the story just made both our hearts break every time she was mentioned. We kept that story under the rug, but we still hoped one day she would magically return and scuffle her feet on that rug, wiping away all the sorrow.

Pa glanced at me from the corner of his eyes, those dark fearless eyes, not wanting to haunt me by looking at me directly. He took a long deep draw on the pipe and smoke curled around his words when he spoke.

“I’m gonna hafta leave ya for a few days, boss.” “ Mr. Furley down on the other side of the mountain has two calves and a foal ‘bout to be born and needs a hand.” One of the mares is a little sick, so Imma go help out.” “Feelin’ it in my bones that those babes are comin’.”

Pa was usually right. He had a sense about these things. He had strong instincts. I think it was that African blood. He didn’t want to talk about the stories of my grandparents or the path that led us way up into the mountains. “It was past.” He would say. We were happy with our simple life, but I always wondered about those speechless ghosts that were rarely mentioned. The stories that made him look a little older than he probably was. His beautiful woolen hair just barely kissed with some white around his temples. I felt like that was where my Ma kissed him. She loved kissing our forehead. Occasionally we'd fondly recall it, then quickly sweep it off our brow before it hurt too bad.

“I know, Pa.” “I gotta stay and milk Martha, she’s full.” and “Tess and Tommy need to be fed along with the chickens.” “They been causing a ruckus and not gettin’ long with each other.”

Tess and Tommy were goats, and Miss Martha was our milking cow.

I didn’t mind being alone once in a while. I preferred animals over people, truth be told. The animals loved me. Especially when Pa was away, I would sing my little heart out. I loved Pa’s blues records and jazz. Otis Redding and Robert Johnson, Ella Fitzgerald and Patsy Cline… they were better company than anyone. I liked to dance too, I never let Pa see me much. We were tough, and didn't want to ruin my reputation. Sometimes when I could no longer see the shadow, the silhouette of his truck as it disappeared down the road, I would skip right to the record player and slide around the room as if the music was my partner. My heart would jump, and I felt a sweet freedom.

I sometimes would play it for Martha while I milked her. I swore to Pa that her milk was sweeter when I did that. Pa’s face would crack with a delight he couldn’t hide. “You’re funny little, Boss.” he’d say.

He had packed a bag and kissed my forehead with his smoky lips. “Be back in a few days, Do good, boss.”

I watched him bounce down the road in his old truck. Somehow he always managed to keep it going, he loved that old truck. The sun was setting as I watched his head bounce with the music fading away in the distance. The light disappeared behind the trees and introduced a cool evening.

I heard the goats and Martha chomping away on their alfalfa straw I gave them. I filled their water and whistled a tune while I went. The air was quite chilly when the sun set. I decided to chop some extra wood for the fireplace before it got too dark. I walked to the chopping block between the barn and the house and picked up the axe. The first log split like butter with a clean break. The second log, as I swung the axe up, a huge mouse ran right over my toes! I lost the handle of the axe and followed it as if in slow motion. A large barn owl was swooping down to get the mouse as my axe cut it’s flight short. Pinned to the ground with the weight of it, my heart nearly leapt from my chest as I saw the strong owl left vulnerable and broken in a swift instant.

Even the mouse seemed to pause in astonishment at the play of events. Quickly and tenderly I walked to the startled owl. And lifted the axe. “I’m so sorry”, I pleaded to the owl. Disoriented it tried to get to its feet and winced at the pain of it’s broken wing. I wasn’t sure exactly what to do so I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and asked for help.” Please Ma, please forest…how do I help the owl?”

The owl was startled and studying if it could move or not, it looked at me with confusion and a vulnerable tilt of it’s head. The mouse was long gone and the confidence of the bird scurried away with it.

I took another deep breath and went to find an old towel. I picked up the bird as gently as I could and brought it to the warm corner of the barn. I remembered watching a bird rescue on a show once and the mention of containing the bird in a box to keep it safe and protected. I found one big enough, even though the bird seemed so small without the expanse of its wings for size. After making a bed in the box, with the straw and an old towel, I left the bird and quickly went into the house. I remembered Pa had a book somewhere about helping injured animals. I had no way of reaching Pa right now, so I would have to do my best until he returned.

I looked through my Ma’s books hoping to find something that would guide me. My Ma loved to read. I think my Dad kept all those books hoping that I would love them like she did. He would use them for quick reference sometimes, but mostly they were just a decoration in the corner of the room, a kind of altar left out of respect for the beautiful mind of my mother.

I searched the titles quickly and saw a title called “Owls, Myth and Mystery”. I took it from the shelf and skimmed through it. Looking for something practical, but it only had stories and legends, nothing about wing repair.

I tossed it haphazardly onto the table and laid on the hard floor for a moment, feeling defeated and unsure what to do. “What would Pa do?” I thought. “What would Ma do?” “Oh geez, what was I going to do?”

My heart was racing, it felt like it rattled the old wooden floor as I laid there briefly. I shot up from the floor to my feet, almost feeling the pain and panic of that innocent bird. “I wonder what my ancestors would have done?” I thought, as my feet took me as fast as possible back to the barn.

Looking at the frightened bird who looked tired but it was still breathing. I had to get the wing sturdy, wrapped or something so it wouldn’t get more injured and it could heal. I had a quick cry as I imagined what the bird was experiencing, then I pulled myself together. Gently lifting the bird with the towel, I maneuvered it so the wing wouldn’t be further agitated.

Instinctually, I knew that cleaning a wound is necessary so I swiftly carried the bird toward the spring on our property. The air was crisp and the sun was already down. I grabbed the torchlight from the hook on the wall and walked down into the valley through the dark woods.

I could hear the song of other Owls stating their presence. I wondered if it was family, maybe prayers for their kin.

I heard things scurrying in the darkness as the light unveiled the path to the spring. On the way we crossed a patch of comfrey that was withered back from the cold but not completely gone. I talked to the plant, like my Ma taught, and asked for it’s help with healing the owl. Funny as it may seem, I always felt the answer. This time it was a definite ‘yes’. I felt it in my heart.

I took the comfrey leaves and folded it into my pocket as I hustled to the spring. The bird kept it’s eyes closed. I kept praying it would live and wondered if it was imagining flying or maybe catching that mouse except without this abrupt outcome.

We made it to the spring. The mud was more like a thick clay than soil around where it gushed from the source, creating a stream that meandered through the forest into the larger stream that carried it into the lake.

I carefully propped the torchlight on the rock nearby and unwrapped the owl, like a delicate package. There was blood and some broken feathers. I used my hand like a cup and lifted the water from the spring onto the wound. I felt like it had to be immersed to get clean. The owl stayed still, making my mind race in fear that it wouldn’t make it. I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. I spoke to the Owl with my inside voice, the voice that comes from our heart. I told him/or her (I didn’t know which) that my intention was to help. I asked it to forgive me, as I gently let the spring water pour over the wound and clear away the loose blood and clean the feathers. Carefully keeping the bird still, I took the leaves from my pocket. I lifted the owl from the cold water and gently wrapped the leaves where it was broken. Pulling back the thin carpet of moss from the river bed I took a handful of dark clay soil from underneath and layered it over the leaves. I looked around for what cloth to use and decided to use my old undershirt that was a thin cotton.

The bird was still on the towel, which was peculiar. As if it anticipated the next steps, either that or it was dying. I prayed for it’s healed life, as I gently wrapped it’s broken wing in the threads of my old shirt, offering to the wind words of hope, hope for a miracle.

The forest was quiet on the way back. I could only hear the crunching leaves underfoot, the thunder of my heart, and the frosty exhales of my breath. The owl in my hands was now looking at me. A deep haunting stare. It reminded me of my mother’s deep brown eyes. Those kinds of eyes that make you feel like they see through you, from the depths of the earth to the center of your soul.

We made it to the barn and I placed the owl back in the bed of straw, in the box, up off the floor. The moon was peaking through the window high up from the loft. It was bright and consistent, uninterrupted by the happenings in my little world below, it blanketed the inside of the barn with a soft glow.

I realized I hadn’t finished chopping the wood, but didn’t want to stay out too much longer in the dropping temperatures. I picked up the armful that I already chopped and headed inside.

After turning on the small lamp, I huddled next to the fireplace gathering what was needed. Like clockwork in my tasks, I built a cozy fire and boiled some broth that I put in a cup to sip.

Looking up from the table was the book of the Myths and Legends of owls. After putting on a vinyl record, which was a compilation of jazz artists, I sat down to explore the book.

Apparently Owls have stories that spread over many continents, time periods, and cultures. Flipping through the pages, something caught my eye, a picture of an elegant woman in white garments. Athena, in Greek mythology, was associated with the owl. A symbol of higher wisdom. On the other hand, some cultures associated it with something dark and evil. Ranging from fertility and reincarnation, to bad omens and death. Extremely opposite interpretations depending on culture and perception.

Misunderstood, I thought. That owl in the barn, whatever it was, was good, in my book. Near the back of the book, a loose paper waved my attention again and I paused. It was my mother’s handwriting, so delicate and graceful. It said;

Medicine of the Owl

Wisdom that shines through the night like the moon,

Messenger of grace or maybe that your going home soon,

Eyes shine like the reflection of the sun,

Sight beyond most, chasing goals until they have won,

They sing to the dark loyal and clear,

Good or Bad, I like when they are near,

Some say it’s bad luck, other’s a heavenly gift,

Whether in passing pages or in the air, your spirit will lift,

Offer understanding and push past fear,

Owl Medicine helps us while we are here.

In the passing hours while the sun is down,

Let the chorus of night messengers remind you, grace is always around.

M.M

I smiled after reading that perspective that I also gathered through my own senses, yet my Ma articulated so nicely. Thanks, Ma.

My eyes got heavy as I thought of my Mama and the owl and those stories from the past.

Before I knew it, I drifted off to sleep.

I had a cot by the fireplace, since that was the warmest spot on cold nights. It was also within hearing distance from Martha and the goats if anything happened in the night.

To my surprise I felt the balance shift on the cot, feeling the weight of someone sitting on the edge, woke me. My heart started racing when I opened my eyes to a woman sitting next to me. As if my voice had been taken and no longer available and my limbs were made of lead, only my heart and mind could jump and rattle with questions for what was happening.

She kept looking back and forth, slowly, like her movement was suspended in molasses. She wore all white and was hooded, only permitting silhouettes and assumptions of her face. All I could do was watch and breathe. It felt like I was wearing one of those lead drapes they use when taking x rays at the dentist. Heavy, cumbersome weight. My breath felt light in my chest though, I felt my fear settle and slip through the floorboards. She looked at me briefly and intensely. Eyes black, like soil in the rain, reflective and haunting. Her features were familiar somehow but softened by a glow. Maybe it was the moonlight, maybe it came from her, I don’t know.

She turned towards the door and walked slowly and elegantly. Suddenly, the weight was lifted and I could move. Slowly I found my feet on the floor and slipped into my boots next to the fireplace. Every floorboard creaked as I tried to be quiet. Her pace was steady and smooth and I don't remember her opening the door, but it opened. The moon was bright and we could see easily, however, her unusual glow might have been enough.

She nearly floated to the barn. Going straight towards the owl. None of the animals made a sound. There was a clear and present silence. We were all just a witness.

Looking down at the owl, her eyes seemed to change color. The owl opened its eyes, and her green eyes that looked like mossy water reflected in the owl’s. It seemed that each vein of every feather was glowing a little. The hardened clay, like paste over the leaves of comfrey, started to crack and fall apart like an organic glass. She unwrapped the makeshift bandage from my old shirt and it was as if the brokenness was pulled out of the bird and into the bandage it shattered onto the floor. Piercing the silence like chimes.

I woke up startled, “Oh my goodness, It was just a dream!” I thought. From jumping up so quickly, I knocked the mug from my broth onto the floor and it broke. “Ok, I’m definitely awake”, I thought.

After getting the broom and cleaning up the mess, I boiled some water for tea and got a different mug. I silently assured myself I’d be more careful this time.

The sun was making its way through the trees and the rooster was singing to it. I knew the animals would be ready for some hay and I was thinking of what owls eat for food? I don’t have any live mice handy so it will have to settle for seeds and nuts. I wondered if they ate that.

I gathered some water and hauled the bucket to fill for the animals.

Walking into the barn I dropped the bucket and it sloshed all over the floor when I saw the ripped bandage from my shirt dangling from a nail on the rafters like a thick spider web waving in the air.

That wasn’t so much startling as the shiny green gems catching the light and dangling from it and all over the floor. The box where the owl was resting was empty and tilted on its side. A few feathers were left but not much else.

I picked up the shiny green gems that sparkled in the morning light, dancing reflections all over the walls and the eyes of the mystified animals. They looked like emeralds. I roared so loudly with laughter that the animals jumped back a little. The barn seemed to jiggle with my laughter. I gathered all the mysterious gems and put them in a small leather bag my Pa gave me for my special stones. I had no idea what to make of all this.

I decided all I could do was carry on with the day. Remembering how much she liked it, I hauled the record player from the house to the barn and played some Billie Holiday for Martha as I did the milking.

It sure did make her milk sweeter. I did my chores, distracted by the events of the morning but feeling joyful. My young 15 year old mind not knowing if my Pa will even believe me if I told him. He wasn’t expected back until the next day, so I talked to the animals who were always more interested in the food than the conversation. I didn’t mind though, it helped me sort through things to speak it aloud.

“Did I dream the whole thing? And the emeralds, where did they come from?”

That afternoon, I heard the faint engine approaching. Sounded like the tones that came from Pa’s truck. The long shadows preceding him down the drive, his head nodding with the rhythms from the radio. A big satisfied grin swept across his face as our eyes met. I was out chopping wood for the evening fire. No interruptions but him this time round.

Pa climbed out of his blue truck and took me into his arms and gave me a strong hug.

“Good to see you, Boss.”

I smiled, and rested my head for a moment on his strong, broad chest. Immediately he pulled his pipe from his old jeans, I reached in his shirt pocket and took the matches to light it for him.

“Animals born ok?” I asked.

He smiled again, “ ‘of course, they good.” “Born right when I got there, instincts on point. Stayed an extra day to keep look out for the sick Mare but she done show some great improvement.” he said, in his version of English. “How you? Holdin' down the fort, ok?”

Yeah, I’m good. Chores done. Just have to haul this wood in for the evening fire. Pa said, “Let’s go on get that fire started and cook some sup. I brought some fresh bread if you want to get some eggs from the hens and make some of that herb broth you like. Catching up is nicer with a full belly,” he said.

We ate with gusto and with all of our attention on our food. After we soaked up the last of the broth with the delicious crust of bread, we cleaned up and dragged the rockers in from the porch to sit near the fire.

Pa toked his pipe and I added a log to the fire. He said, “Something I’ve been meaning to give you…” “ I know I don’t talk much bout’ your Ma, and you don’t have much to remember her by, but I have something she wanted you to have.” His eyes filled with water, and he took a deep breath and reached in his pocket.”

He pulled out a wooden owl. Carved with great detail. He said, “Did you know your Ma loved owls? She said they were misunderstood and she could relate. “Your grandma loved em too, she wore an owl feather in her Sunday hat.” As a matter of fact, He said, she wrote a whole book with the quill of an owl feather.”

Astonished, I said “Really!?”

“Yep,” he said. “Someone stole that book from her and it became a bestseller, she never got a penny.” “ I truly believe there is balance in the Universe though, '' he surprisingly interjected.

Listening, I was tracing my fingers over the details of the carving, unable to believe the coincidence. I looked directly at him, and he said “ Your Ma said, she wished that owl was made of emeralds, something precious, like your beautiful soul.”

I burst into tears, and he brought me close against him, as I let go, sobbing like a small child.

I told him the story from when he left. He listened and drew from his pipe. I paused when I got to the glistening emeralds this morning. I wasn’t sure he’d believe me, so I took a deep breath and reached in my pocket, sliding my finger into the bag of stones and pulling out several of the emeralds. I wrapped his fist around them and finished the story. His head shaking in slight disbelief. Both of us cried for a moment unapologetically for the first time as he loosened his grip.

We wiped our eyes.

I said, “So what did they name the foal?”

“Athena,” he replied.

I laughed, and we both went to bed, healed.

written by: Maja Mojo