Omen

In regard to owls, the folklore can be inconsistent. In some tales, they forebode storms, evil, and death. In others, they predict victory in battle, act as guardians, and are a symbol of wisdom. Are there members of an owl parliament more predisposed to dark powers, as others may be to light? Or is it that they see what we do not, the grey between the black and the white. The confusing, the unknown.

It's a cold morning in the foothills of Adelaide, frost still crisp on the grass underfoot. The fog is still lingering in the valleys, the sun just weak lightbulb in the distance. There’s a full day of consults on the schedule, so I ready myself and push through the door to the vet clinic and greet my nurse, Jackie.

“Good morning Jackie! Pretty cold this morning, wasn’t it?” I call out to her at the reception desk.

“Hard to drag myself outta bed, that’s for sure!” She replies.

I start to walk back to the treatment area, Jackie in-step beside me. “Someone has dropped off an owl for you to look at, she’s in the box on the treatment bench. Might want to check her before consults, she’s looking pretty flat” she says.

I put down my bags and shake off the cold air clinging to my clothes. The box on the bench is large and tattered, secured at the top with a flimsy piece of tape. I peel off the tape and carefully have a look into the box, to find an adult barn owl. She stares up at me from the inside of the box, lined with budget kitchen paper and a back-of-the-closet bath towel. Her dark eyes watch me from her peach-heart, pale face. Each move I make, she adjusts her stance, cowering in the corner.

“Member of the public found her on the side of the road and just scooped her into a box they had in the boot of their car” Jackie mumbles, peering into the box with me. Barn owls are common in the area, and often get brought into the clinic if they’re hit by cars as they swoop down to collect prey from the road-side brush.

“Righto, well she must be freezing – can you hand me a fresh towel?” I ask.

Jackie indicates to the pile of towels she’s just brought in from the dryer and laid on the treatment bench for me; “One just there for you Mel – okay if I leave the owl with you then? There’s a client on the phone looking for another repeat script of ear drops for her Cavoodle I’ve gotta have a chat to”.

“Yeah we’ll be fine, thanks Jack” I reply

“If I hear screaming, I’ll assume she’s feeling better and I’ll duck back out to help dislodge her talons from your arm” Jackie chuckles under her breath and walks back out towards the reception area, leaving me and the barn owl alone together.

It’s quiet. So quiet I can hear the ruffle of feathers as she breaths in-out, in-out, in-out. For at least a minute, it’s just the two of us, two pairs of eyes meeting across an ocean of tension. Hypnotized, terrified.

“What happened, hey? Lose your way in the fog? Tree jump in front of you?” I quietly ask the owl, trying to move slowly, speak softly. No reply from my patient – but there is an almost imperceptible tilt of her head. Listening. I take the time to watch her. Watching how much weight she places on both legs, examining her wing carriage, breathing effort, and looking for any obvious wounds. Birds can be so fragile, so scared, that just examining them can stress them to the point of death. Surely the worst way to go – scared to death. So, I take my time.

I wrap a towel around my hand and prepare to start my examination. I’m careful to make sure I get a good grip; too many times I’ve had birds fly out at me at the last moment, leaving me grasping just air and feathers, and a bird on the loose in the treatment room. Barn owls have large talons, able to kill prey mid-air, and certainly sharp enough to tear through my skin if I let her. I don’t have any gloves, so I’m hoping she doesn’t have too much fight in her. I place the towel over her back and around her wings, and then lift her up out of the box, tucking the towel around her feet and talons.

I lift her up to begin my exam. She stares at me, her huge dark eyes like mirrors, reflecting my own face, my own eyes full of wonder. A rim of ochre feathers outline her heart-shaped face, and a palette of forest browns dapple the feathers down her back and wings. They glisten in the fluorescent vet clinic lights, wet and smudged from the rain outside. Her belly is an innocent ivory, her downy feathers soft. Each tiny feather running down to her legs is so small and detailed, like tiny snowflakes. I extend each wing, feeling for broken or wounded areas across the body, stroking her feathers. I test each leg by letting her grip her talons into the towel, and watch as she flexes her toes, leaving small holes in the flimsy material.

I move my fingers across the skin covering her keel and note that it is not sliding smoothly as it should, but is tacky. She feels like porcelain; so fragile, and so cold. I’m worried I might break her just by holding her.

She’s a bit dehydrated and cold, but I can’t see anything else abnormal on her examination, so I gently place my little towel-wrapped owl into the humidicrib and set the temperature to warm her up. I dim the lights in the room and move the crib to the edge of the doorway, then start to type up some outstanding email replies from my desk. She watches me from her bed, wearing the towel like a shawl around her wings. I’m almost about to start making small talk with my new companion, when Jackie comes bursting back into the treatment area.

“How’s our little ‘omen of death’?” she says brightly.

“Hm? Oh, the owl. Cold. And dehydrated. Possibly stunned. Can you chart her for a check in 2 hours? I’ll give her some fluids once she warms up. And can you pop some water in there for her? Be careful though, the heat might start thawing her off soon and she could get a little feisty”

“Sure, sure. Mrs Collins is early, she’s here for Bonnie’s recheck. Do you want me to tell her to wait until you’ve had a cuppa?” Jackie asks.

“No that’s fine, just keep an eye on the owl for me” I reply.

I spend the rest of the morning in and out of consults, peeking out every now and again to check on the owl. Each time she stares right back at me, like she’s waiting for something. I check on her again before getting lunch. She’s standing better but still seems unusually quiet. I lift her back out of bed and give her some subcutaneous fluids. She doesn’t even flinch as I inject into the skin over her patagial space, just stares right back at me.

“I’m starting to worry that you bumped your head pretty hard little one” I mumble under my breath.

“Do you want me to call Fauna Rescue for a pick-up? They have carers that can look after her tonight, get her into some rehabilitation if she makes it through” Jackie asks.

“Yeah sure, thanks Jackie” I reply, distracted.

I am midway through afternoon consults when I hear screaming and clattering coming from the reception area. I rush out of consult, worried about an emergency patient possibly coming through. Jackie and another woman are standing at the door, holding an empty, broken cat carrier, and staring out into the pouring rain outside.

“Oh my goodness what happened? Did your cat get out of the carrier?” I direct my question to the woman at the door.

The woman looks puzzled for a moment, looks down at the cat carrier and then back up at me: “Oh no, no, sorry, I’m Marcia from Fauna Rescue. I came to collect the barn owl – managed to get her into the cage alright but once we got to the door, she went ballistic! Thrashing around, clawing at the cage! It must have had a bung screw on it because the whole thing fell apart and she got out! We tried to grab her, but she was already feet in front of us flying out into the rain!” Marcia relays, still catching her breath from the excitement.

“Oh what a shame! I suppose she must have been feeling better! Thanks so much for coming Marcia, I’m sorry it became such a disaster”

“Ah that’s okay love, better she’s out there than stuck in a cage really”

The rest of the day passes uneventfully and I’ve pretty much forgotten about the owl by the time I get to my car. It’s already starting to get dark, daylight savings drawing down the blinds and tucking us in for the night.

“Bye Jackie, have a good night!” I call out across the carpark.

“You too love, drive safe!” She calls back.

It is only a 20 minute drive to get home, but it is through a hilly bush farming area, where kangaroo collisions are common. I keep myself vigilant, watching for wildlife with wide eyes. It’s starting to get late, the golden sunlight dripping down the trunks of the old gum until it’s dark.

I’ve just passed the last country town before my usual turn off when I see a white flash against the tops of the brush to my right. I slow my driving but see a second flash to the left, closer to the car this time. The white shape is translucent but seems to glow against the night sky and between the rows of dark tree trunks.

Again, right. Then left, right, left. Closer, closer, closer.

I panic. I’m not necessarily a believer in ghost stories, but when alone in dark scrub, they can be much more convincing. I pull over to the side of the road, flicking on my hazard lights and trying to slow my breathing. In-out, in-out. I squeeze my eyes shut and listening to the rhythmic tick-tick of the hazard lights.

I don’t know how long my eyes have been shut against the world when I hear a car pass in the opposite direction, which startles me back into animation. I peek open my eyes, and I see her. The owl. Her talons grip around a branch of a skeletal tree, ten feet above the car. The light from my headlights cast an eerie glow from below.

“You almost scared me to death!” I manage to breathe out, a nervous chuckle at the end. She tilts her head, listening. And then, quiet as a whisper, she flies off into the trees. I give myself a minute to recuperate, then start up the engine again. I drive carefully under the speed limit the rest of the way home.

I watch for the owl, but do not see her again.

I get to work the next morning late and blurry. I didn’t sleep well, dreaming of ghosts in the bush with deep, oily pools for eyes.

“Morning Mel!” Jackie calls

“Morning” I reply.

I walk down to the staff kitchen and make myself a strong black coffee.

“Did you hear about the crash last night?” she yells down the hall.

“Hm?” I am distracted, stirring the inky dark coffee with my spoon.

“There was a car accident last night down on Curtis Road – thought you mighta seen it on your way home last night. Poor guy crashed right into a gum tree. Dead before the airbags deployed. Cops think he must’ve swerved to avoid a ‘roo”.

“No, no…I didn’t hear anything” I mumble in reply.

I find myself lost in thought, a tangle of emotion and questions, remembering the events of last night. I give myself space to imagine that the owl was involved in the man’s car accident somehow. Certainly, it scared me enough to lose focus on driving.

But then if the owl was the omen, who was the intended victim?

Was I meant to be the one that had car accident?

Did she show me mercy as I had done her?

Or was I an accomplice - dooming the man by saving the owl?

I think back to the owl as I saw her last night outside the car. Regally perched above me, overseeing her domain. She would have seen me, as I had seen her, cowering in a box.

Hypnotised, terrified.