Little Treasures

The grounds of the house became unmanageable this time of year. I took to the habit of hiring local labor since Donald’s passing, but finding someone able and trustworthy wasn’t always the easiest task. He was a well adjusted boy, it seemed. Well-kempt, dressed appropriately with his shirt neatly pressed, cleaned, combed, with all things tucked in their proper place. Not yet the age for shaving, but I got the sense that he’d keep that in order once the time came. All to say, he didn’t look like the other boys in the neighborhood, or speak like them either. His speech was calm, polite, and almost eloquent for his age. It was void of the garish drawl accustomed to these parts and rightly paired with earnest eye contact. The result of good parenting, I suppose.

“No need for the ‘ma’am’ talk boy, Mrs. Gurley will do just fine.” I instructed as I took his coat. He responded with a nod, and a “yes ma’am.”

“Settle in there on the davenport and I’ll fix a tea for the two of us. You do drink tea, don’t you? Or would you prefer some milk? I don’t have any of those sugary drinks I see you kids always gulping outside the market. Its bad for your teeth, and your belly. You’re still young, but I’m sure your mother won’t appreciate you getting a head start on a bloated gut. Go and sit, I’ll be back momentarily.”

The boy silently and slowly shuffled to the sofa. His head pivoted as his eyes shifted around the room, landing on all my treasures. And there were admittedly many. Donald and I loved to pick up little things here and there on our travels. Some more elegant and extravagant than others, but all held some sentimental value. We both cherished things and since Donald’s passing, looking upon them every day bore one of the few sources of pleasure remaining in the house. Antique lamps, ships in bottles, statues, paintings, tapestry, taxidermy, things made of lace, and leather, and crystal, and stone, all carefully adorned and inhabited every level and shelf and vacancy of space. A delicate white marble statue of Vishnu the Preserver from our time in Mumbai sat upon the mantle of the piano. Another of Gbekre, the God of Judgement, from our time in Cameroon, along with two beautifully ornate porcelain figures of Nuwa and Fuxi from our year in the Henan Province. We did love to travel and were lucky Donald’s profession required it.

“Donald was intrigued by mythology. My late husband, Donald. It’s the result of being raised without religion, I suppose.”

The boy sat gently on the sofa and turned to look at me as I entered with the tea tray Donald and I had acquired in Morocco. It was an unexpected gift from a young woman we stayed with. The boy’s hands rested together on his knee, his back was straight, and legs crossed at the ankle. He seemed to be listening, but I wouldn’t be disappointed, nor surprised, if his attention was at least pulled momentarily to the beauties the donned the room.

“I assume your parents are God fearing people? Most are around here, though I do see some faces about town I don’t recognize from service. But if everyone was a follower, there would be no one left to save. Or smote, for that matter. I did not bring any sugar because it’s far late in the day for that, but there is a bit of cream. Which one is your favorite?”

“Cream is fine, thank you,” the boy said as the cup rattled on the saucer.

“No, no, no. Ha! You are a child after all. I mean in here.” I motioned my arms, signaling his surroundings. I was sure he’d point to the elephant. All of the children were fascinated by the elephant. “I assure you, none of the beasts were felled by Donald himself. I wouldn’t have it. And though he often posed tough, I never thought he had it much in him either. That we rescued from some ungracious poachers outside of Johannesburg. Have you ever been?” I nodded to the elephant busk on the far wall as I seized the saucer from his hands, relenting the rattle.

“It’s really big,” the boy said, eyes following my direction.

“Well of course it is, boy. It’s an African Elephant!” I laughed and stood and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Come, take a closer look.”

“I like that one.”

In his first instance of defiance he slipped his shoulder from my grasp and pointed to the top of the far bookshelf in the corner. Perched above an overwhelming collection of first edition classics, pushed to the far right edge, dusty, out of place, and untouched for some time sat a small, no larger than 6 inches, faded brown and tanned white owl. Dead of course, stuffed, albeit quite incompetently. Only having kept its perch for so long solely because of the height of its placement. It was ordinary. It was ugly. It was no elephant.

“That? But that’s merely a common barn owl, boy.” I was taken back, and continued to nudge him toward the elephant.

“I’ve seen one before. There once was a family of them that lived in the large oak behind our house.”

“Well of course, they’re as common as a canary, boy. I believe Donald received that in a bet he lost! That horrid creature has been looking down on this room for too many days. Three years before his passing it was! Knowing my distaste for it, Donald would always taunt, ‘he’ll look down upon you much after I’m gone!’ I have the right mind to just get rid of it, I assure you. But at my age stepping up a stool just to throw that fowl in the trash isn’t worth the risk.”

“The mother died,” the boy said with a cryptic horror trembling his young vocal cords. His eyes remained fixed on the owl.

“I beg your pardon? Of what mother are you speaking?” His insistent fixation on the bird was becoming graceless, and to put it without sugar, a bit annoying. My grip tightened on his shoulder as I was forced to yank him in the direction of the elephant. “The man we got him from said he was very old. It brought a bit of relief to the purchase and made his demise at least a bit more swallowable. You can see on the tusks the scratches, the striations, bits of chips taken out? From fighting I suppose. Every beast, no matter their size, has an enemy. Those that wish to break their skin and bone.”

“The mother owl. It died.”

“Well haven’t you become disagreeably chatty!”

“My father found it behind our barn. It hadn’t been shot or hurt or nothing. It was just dead.”

“Yes dear, time brings all sorts of miracles and misgivings.”

The boy growing more and more impolite, shrugged his shoulder from my hand. Stepping toward the bookshelf his eyes remained fixated on the ghastly bird, mirroring the lifelessness of its capture. It wasn’t wonder nor inquiring.

“I asked my father if we could save her, but he said she was already lost. Just dead, he didn’t know how. But there were more, there were babies.”

“I don’t see what has you so enamored, boy. While a sad story, all that pass leave something or someone behind. But truly, they are a pest to say the least. I never wanted that, that thing to reside here as long as it did. Donald insisted though, I can only assume as a joke for which I was the brunt. You learn to pick your battles over the years, and once he befell ill, I never thought the time was satisfactory for such a conversation.” The boy continued to step cautiously toward the bird. “Come on back here, there are other more suitable things befitting your affection, I assure you.”

“They all died. One after another. I begged my father to feed them but he said there was no use.”

“Your father sounds like a reasonable man. Let’s not disappoint him with this sort of behavior. Come sit!” I noticed the anger in my voice begin to intensify. I hadn’t the time nor tolerance to be ignored by a child.

“Six baby owls, all died. They weren’t shot or killed or nothing.”

The boy arrived at the bookshelf with his head tilted upward and gaze glued to the animal. It was surely out of his reach but he lifted his arm anyways in an attempt to retrieve it from its perch.

“Now you just stop that this instance! I said come here and sit! I will not tolerate being dismissed in my own home. You leave that disgusting creature where it is.” I now sat on the sofa where the boy was when he first arrived. An overwhelming weight bore down on me making it impossible to move an inch or raise anything but my voice. I felt a permanent fixture of my own environment, woven amongst the paisley pattern of the couch. Stuck in place without the ability for recourse.

The boy now pressed up against the bookcase with his hand clasped around the third shelf, raised his leg, planted and pushed his body upwards. Now clinging to the bookcase, suspended, as he struggled to climb the necessary three extra feet to reach the top where sat the owl.

“You must get down immediately!” I yelled, still incapable of action. “You will scratch the varnish and I know your father will not have the money nor proclivity to repair or replace! This instance you terrible little boy! This instance!” I felt my cheeks tremble with every word, the tops of them wet from tears with a black trickle of mascara running down the side. My hands clenched the fabric around me, my knuckles turning white with rage, and fear, and disgust. “Why must you hurt me, you ungracious little pest!”

“They eat mice and rats.” The boy struggled to eek out as he reached for the final platform of his ascent.

“Oh no no no. You must leave the owl be. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.” The tears fell harder than before forming darkened droplets on my gown. My head hung, I could no longer watch this vulgar dismantling proceeding before me. The boy was obsessive, set on disregarding my commands.

In one final effort the boy stretched his arm out as far as his body would allow, pushing off with both feet, nearly leaping to reach the top. His arm swung, knocking the owl from its perch. As the boy fell clumsily to the floor he let out a pain filled yelp as the owl fell beside him. As it struck the ground the owl’s head cracked and popped clean off like the lid of a jar, unevenly rolling beneath the chair beside the case. My initial fear subsided and I can only assume my natural motherly instincts turned on to release me from my seat. I hurried to the boy, still laying on his back, looking up toward where the owl once sat, and reached down to help him up.

“Don’t touch me!” He yelled as he rolled over and struggled to his feet. “Your house is scary, all of these things are haunted!”

“I assure you, boy, nothing is haunted. I tried to stop you from — please just sit.” I reached for the child, but he rediscovered his strength and ran from the room, out the front door.

“I suppose it’s time to finally say goodbye to you,” I said reaching down to pick up the newly decapitated body of the owl that sat too long upon the case. As I grabbed its body, out from the hole formed where his head was once fastened, tumbled out six stones. Perfect, shiny, little treasures.