Owl Dust

I don’t think anyone has gone into the attic since we inherited Grandma’s house. Certainly no one has taken on the colossal task of sorting through the mountains of junk. There are cobwebs stretching from one rafter to the other, like the world’s grandest spider trapeze. Boxes upon boxes of old books and vinyl records—the covers all faded and illegible—line the walls. Garbage bags of hand-me-down clothes are ripped and threatening to scatter their contents in a deluge of mothball-scented fabric. (I’m pretty sure these have since become the super-hotels of visiting mice.)

Yes, this was my playground, my kingdom, growing up. Whenever my cousins and I came to visit Grandma, we’d spend hours up here lost in imagination. With the squeamish ones, we’d hold contests of who could sit alone the longest with the lights turned off—I always won that game. For those more brave, we’d chase each other through the labyrinth of ancient boxes and furniture; though no one ever dared to move anything or open a mysterious crate out of fear that it might release some hidden curse.

But as the years passed, the fear of lingering magic housed in dark places was replaced by more mundane terrors, like teenage heartbreak and college tuition. The attic lost its mystique. I think I am the last person on Earth who still comes up here. It hurts Mom too much to see Grandma’s old things, and Dad dares not allow that sadness to invade the house below.

I like the attic. I think it’s peaceful; I come here when I want to be alone. As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned to appreciate the things in the attic as more than simple obstacles in a game of hide and seek.

One corner, in particular, intrigues me: Grandpa’s corner. He died years before I was born, so by the time I was toddling around Grandma’s house, most evidence of his existence had been expunged. Of course, there were photos and a few, select souvenirs of his life, but it’s not like he lived in the house. What Grandma felt like keeping moved to the attic, and there it remains to this day. A lot of it is typical “grandpa stuff”: a baseball cap of his favorite team, a warped fishing pole, a medal and a few photos—scant reminders of a war he hoped to forget. But most of all, I am drawn to his art. Grandpa was an avid woodworker and specialized in engraving. Next to a small chest of tools sits a crate of his best work. It is full of tableaus, wooden slabs of all shapes and sizes, stacked vertically, allowing you to page through them like in an art store. Paintings without paint is how I like to think of them. Where one artist creates shades and textures with oil and brush, Grandpa chipped away the finest details with knife and chisel. There’s one of a lighthouse, stained mahogany red to mirror the muse’s candy stripe; another depicts a garden scene with flowers exploding from the leafy backdrop; then there is my favorite: a little owl perched atop a rock. It’s not the largest or most intricate of Grandpa’s carvings, but there is something special about it. It speaks to me in a way that the others do not.

Like any good piece of art, previously unnoticed details stick out each time you look at it afresh. However, today, something quite literally stuck me. My finger brushed a sharp bump on the back of the carving. A splinter, I thought. Had someone damaged it when I was away, or was the old wood finally cracking with age? Neither: it was a tiny clip, no bigger than the tip of a pen. It held in place a false back, a thin panel of wood inset into the main body like a picture frame. How could I have missed this? To my knowledge, none of the other carvings have hidden compartments; although, some do have ridges cut along the perimeter of their backs, but those are either false starts or a way to mount the art. Maybe I had written this secret off as something like that and never considered it again.

While the logical part of my mind debated the plausibility of mistakes and wallhangings, another part awoke and was gaining force. A sense of childlike wonder sprang from somewhere deep inside me. Could the false back have simply appeared? More importantly, what could be inside?

I tried picking at the metal clip with my fingernail, but it would not budge. I reached into Grandpa’s toolbox and took out a chisel. Prying the clip open, I felt like a master thief picking a lock. When I did release the clip, the false back stayed put, and there was no space to squeeze my nails or the chisel. Gravity would have to do the work.

With my fingers gently holding the back in place, I flipped the owl over so that it looked up at me. A quizzical glance, the bird seemed intrigued by my curiosity. Nobody had been invested in itself like this in a long time. Slowly, finger by finger, I released my grip, and the back fell an inch onto my legs. A puff of dust rolled across my lap. The owl was framed in apparent smoke, like some Mayan treasure in a vine-covered temple, or a golden lamp, ripe for the plucking in a sultan’s tomb. There was still magic here—I knew it. That unforgotten feeling of time spent in the mystic attic welled inside me. I could not contain my excitement any longer—I raised the owl, and…

Nothing.

The plate of wood sat on my legs. The haze had dissipated. No secret treasures waited for me, only a thin pall of white dust. I looked on the underside of the owl, hoping that the prize was stuck there. Again, nothing—how disappointing. Maybe I was not the first to raid this vault; maybe it had always been empty. Who knows?

Grandpa, that’s who.

I sighed, feeling the excitement melt away. I turned the owl to face me again. I swear it blinked. I rubbed my eyes—the attic’s dust sometimes played tricks on the mind, not to mention the trapped powder I had just unleashed. As I pawed away, a wave of emotion swept over me. A strange exhilaration mixed with childish fear and anger—like how I had felt opening the owl—except alien, distant.

When I opened my eyes, I saw him.

***

A young boy, maybe ten years old, stands at the border between forest and farm. It is that bleak time in mid-December when the picturesque snow has yet to fall, but all the flaming shades of autumn have since disappeared. Everything is cold and dead. The boy is bundled in his winter clothes: the hat, coat, and scarf make him seem twice as large as the scrawny frame underneath. In one of his gloved hands, he carries a BB gun—a favorite gift from his birthday just a few weeks earlier. A single crisp leaf, drained of all its color, floats by on the breeze.

This is my Grandpa.

He chases after squirrels with that BB gun. He never does hit his target—though the dirt and rocks suffer under his eager trigger finger. This frustrates him, his lack of marksmanship; however, over time, a fiction takes root in his mind that this is the point: he never actually intended to harm the little creatures, and the goal has always been to get close but miss by a hair. In this regard, he is an expert.

That day his lucky streak of unluck continues. Every critter he pursues, escapes him, but he follows them deeper and deeper into the woods. This is tame country in rural Pennsylvania; there are no bears or wolves to harm him, so he does not fear the forest—although, his imagination often pits him against wild beasts, and part of him is always prepared for a duel.

His most recent target has darted behind a wide oak. As the boy rounds its trunk, he comes face to face with a deadly hunter, but this is no snarling wolf.

A tiny barn owl, white as alabaster against the drab earth and no larger than a football, perches atop a dead squirrel—perhaps the same one the boy has been following. Sensing his presence, the owl’s gaze lifts from its quarry. It stares at him, the black pools of its eyes rippling against the frozen, feathered backdrop. Instinctively, the boy raises his gun, but the owl does not flinch. Their eyes lock.

Scenes from mythology and fairytales flash through the boy’s mind: images of beautiful gods and people cursed—or blessed—to inhabit the form of woodland creatures, always testing the honor and goodness of mortal folks. Has a princess come to visit him? Is this Pallas Athena here to reward him for his skill of unavoidable mercy? The owl cocks its head. The boy understands: the enchanted being is waiting for him to make the first move.

He feels the cold metal of the toy weapon radiating through his gloved hand and laughs. In the moment, the standoff has escaped his mind. Threats never work in the stories, he thinks as he lowers the gun. The owl responds by returning its head to an upright, noble posture.

“Okay, now we can chat,” says the boy in little more than a whisper, certain that the bird can hear him, and should any response come, he will hear its gentle words too.

The owl continues to stare silently.

“My name is Ronny,” he says. “What’s yours?”

Silence.

“This is my forest… well, it’s my family’s. We live just over there, beyond the trees.” He motions with his free hand, careful to keep the BB gun at his waist. “Do you live here? Where do you come from?”

Hearing some hidden predator or imperceptible change in the winds, the bird looks up, through the trees and to the heavens above.

“Oh… you are special,” says the boy, interpreting the owl’s sign. “Listen, I don’t really know how this works. When do you become human, or a god, or an angel? What must I do?” He takes a step towards the bird—not even. Just the shifting of his balance catches its attention, and the owl’s wet eyes snap back with that avian economy of motion: no extra adjustment, just point A to point B, quick as lightning. The boy freezes, mid-step.

“Don’t be afraid. Please. I just want to know who you are.”

Like a porcelain statue, the owl does not react. Only staring, only waiting.

“Please can we be friends?” The boy’s voice verges on hurt. A tightness is growing in his throat, and icy tears well at the corner of each eye. “Please.”

Nothing.

“I-” He speaks stepping forward, and the bird is off.

In a heartbeat, he raises his gun and fires blindly. The pop of the toy gun breaks the still winter afternoon, louder than any explosion gunpowder could ever muster. Abruptly, the bird jerks and changes course.


“No!” The boy shouts, fearing that his first kill, an accident, would be such a magical creature.

But he has not hit. True to form—ever the master marksman—the boy has missed, but the lead ball came closer than ever before. Just barely grazing the space between bird and air, the shot has loosed one, downy feather from the owl. The bird is gone, disappeared into the canopy maze, but its parting gift drifts lazily on the breeze. It dances an aerial ballet for what feels like hours. The boy watches its entire flight, transfixed in a flurry of disappointment, anger, and awe. Eventually, the little bird’s little feather comes to rest on the mud-brown body of the squirrel. In its haste, the owl has left behind its meal. Now, the feather struggles to be free. Caught in the minuscule cage of fur, it rocks back and forth in the wind, as though urging the squirrel back to life. Its efforts are fruitless, and as Grandpa approaches, shielding the drama from the wind, the feather gives up entirely.

He kneels to look at the feather despite his fear of the dead animal. Gently, like a surgeon, Grandpa lowers one hand, directly from above so as not to touch the squirrel, and plucks the feather with his thumb and forefinger. Taking it in his palm, he watches as the slight breeze tries again and again to steal his prize, but he will not let it escape. His young mind cannot make sense of the scene; however, he knows this tiny piece of fluff is something to treasure.

***

Looking at the wood carving now, I’m not sure Grandpa ever truly worked out the significance of that moment. It stuck with him his whole life—haunted him but in a good way, if that makes any sense—a little bit of magic to offset the terrors of war and the grind of daily life.

You can see it in the way that the wooden owl looks to the sky, its head pitched in an aesthetic, three-quarters turn. Or in the way its perch, meticulously carved, is too fuzzy to be just a random rock. There is mastery, precision in this art, and yet something is amiss. A hidden beauty, an entire world of wonder lurks beneath the surface, but it is untouchable. To feel so near to Grandpa, I know his pain. Something at some point was secreted away in this owl, a hidden prize, but it is gone now. In my mind, I follow the trail of a BB, shot haphazardly through time. As always, it comes effortlessly close to majesty—close to connecting Grandpa, myself, and an owl’s gift turned to dust—only to miss by a hair.