Under the Cover of Darkness

The air that leaks from the cracks of my window is cold, I can feel its icy breath down the back of my neck as the heater in my room broils below. It is a multi-sensory experience, like the hot waters and cool pools of a Russian bath, at least I think it is.

It is all about balance.

I get lost in the abrasiveness of winter as one does, until a cat's tongue rasps me and again I am in my room, and my cats are hungry. I often think about the view from my window, it is not great and I don't love it, but for every scenic thing it lacks, it brings me a sense of connectivity with the rest of the world, or at least my surroundings.

I tell you this because I dream about that view more than anything else; there is a tree branch directly outside of the glass pane, and when it snows it collects on its bare, feeble branches holding only as much as it can tolerate. I am this tree branch, we are the same.

Alas, something curious is afoot lately and I am unsure if it is a sentiment within, or the recent sighting of an owl on my tree.

Owls have a lore about them in many cultures, admittedly I am not one for tall tales or superstitions, even so, I can understand their presence to be unsettling for others, they are after all, keen predators. When it comes to Owls, I am reminded of Ambrose Bierce and his work "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" and I often wonder if my own mortality will include a grand escape though death itself.

Now about this Owl, I've seen it every day for a week, perched on my branch letting out an occasional hoot.

When I was a girl, I’d chase birds with my sister trying to identify them by color or sound and though I’d describe myself a novice, I can identify this particular type of bird to be a Barn Owl. His plumage is robust and the color of coffee with milk, a full face of alabaster and eyes of coal piercing, looking not at you but through you. I can see him and I know he sees me.

We have become good friends, me and my owl, who I've recently decided to name Ambrose. As I have been on a steady regimen of rest and relaxation at the behest of my doctor, a remedy for general malaise and a recent attempt at taking my own life out of sheer curiosity, relegated to the confinements of my home. To keep my sanity, I talk to Ambrose and when he's away, I miss him, my little Barn Owl.

This causes me great distress however, because I am unsure of how to feel about missing him when he is away, I believe this is due to my propensity to be indecisive, and so I often solicit advisement from my husband, he is very good at making decisions. He tells me that like the bond I formed with my cats, I have too developed a bond with Ambrose, but that it is nothing to worry about, so I don't.

Ambrose consistently visits me just as the sun sets; he has been here for 6 weeks now, listening as I run the gamut of topics to converse over for each new dusk. I appreciate his input, as much as I appreciate his presence, we can talk for hours while my husband is away for work, under cover of darkness, which gives our parley a certain mysticism.

I increasingly spend more time alone, which has not been as much of an adjustment as I thought it might be. The whole world seems frozen, a thick layer of tundra encasing everything in its path including people, including myself, but not Ambrose. I am aware that this is merely an illustration to describe the state of all things lately, regardless it seems appropriate.

It's been months now that Ambrose and I have been friends; the first thaw of spring paints the view with shades of green and yellow, I can see sprouts in the garden down below flourishing, vibrant once again. It is miraculous. The tundra that stopped time is however, still intact. I've noticed too, a change in my Owl friend, his face seems more intense, the whiteness in his plumage is more brilliant than before, yet it is a change that goes deeper than appearance, intrinsic even, though I could not tell you what it is.

My husband is away on business for a month though it feels longer. Still, Ambrose keeps me company, he told me he is molting when I asked about the change in his feathers, so perhaps that's what’s different about him lately. I’ve grown tired of the walls in my home, uninteresting, frozen in time. I find myself meandering most days around each room, looking for something stimulating, looking for my little Owl friend. I take solace in knowing that he’ll greet me, soon as the sun comes down. He is incredibly consistent which I attribute to his curiosity, but that could be just something I tell myself.

I can't wait for my husband to meet Ambrose, surely he too will become enamored by his grace and perspicaciousness, perhaps they will be fast friends. I am excited by this prospect, it has always been important for me to include my husband in every activity while he is home to make up for time away; I miss him terribly when he is gone in the same way I miss Ambrose when he goes wherever he goes.

Not a moment too soon my husband has returned from his trip, he looks sturdy but worn, there are little lines on his face that weren’t there before. In anticipation of his arrival, I prepared a loaf of fresh bread with hand churned butter made from the sweetest cream from the finest dairy and the fattiest piece of pork because tonight is a special night as I’ll finally be introducing him to Ambrose.

I can hardly conceal my zest as my face flushes.

After all the food is eaten and the wine drunk, I take my dearest by the hand and lead him up to the bedroom, warm from the heat that’s traveled upward into our quarters, as we make our way to the window and wait for Ambrose. Dusk has fallen for some time now, and Ambrose has not come to greet my husband and I, there is an air of sheepishness emanating from my demeanor as I express my disappointment. Surely it is an isolated aberration, and I know full well that despite his absence this evening, he will be there tomorrow.

Another night passes, and then two more after that, waiting for over a week for Ambrose to return to my tree. It is evident that something is off, there is a disquieting impression around us; the air is thick lately and something acrid wafts from an area I cannot point to. My husband contends he does not smell what I smell and has dismissed both my foreboding feelings and relationship with my little Barn Owl as figments of imagination, spectres of great stress and mania he says. I consider myself a good woman, a godly woman, pious and dutiful, but I have nothing but severe contempt for him.

Each night when we lay to rest I wait until my husband is fast asleep and sit in the window waiting for the moment Ambrose returns. His absence has caused me great torment, but I have faith that I will not wait for him in vain for much longer; I just have so much to tell him.

The foul smell has grown stronger drifting from the place I cannot point to, and it would seem too that we have an infestation of sorts in the pantry, aggravating but manageable. I am committed to my wifely duties, so I do what I can to stave off the smell and kill off the vermin, but it has little effect and I’ve grown resentful of my husband's criticisms. With each passing night I find myself increasingly frantic waiting for my friend to show himself.

And as if by pure divination, on a cool evening, the earth still warm from Summer’s brutality well into the night, I see Ambrose. As I come closer to the window I can the results of a transformation, what was once a blend of coffee and milk has turned into an onyx plume with silver tipped wings, his face is sharp and pale, and he is two times as large as before, he is as daunting as he is magnificent.

I turn to wake my husband, but Abrose stops me “it is too late for him, do not bother” he tells me, his voice has dropped an octave and it sends a chill running from top to bottom of my petite frame.

“Won’t you come out with my dear child” I am petrified by the resonance in his tone, but I feel a sense of comfort.

“Is it the smell that kept you away?” the stench stronger than ever, choking me as I try to speak.

“No, child, I was just waiting for you to ripen, I see in you what I have looked for in others.”

I beg him not to go again, my heart pounding tight in my chest.

“I will never leave you child, so long as you accept what I put forth” bestowing upon me a task that creates discordance in my very existence, but his allure is so strong and I cannot lose him again. I step lightly as I look on at my husband asleep, a mask of shadows distorting his appearance while I fondly reminisce of our marriage, our life, and certainly there is no evading my duties as a wife, because I am a good wife.

I grab his axe from the entrance of our home, and as I make my way up, the acrid smell rushes back more intensely, and through the light from the window I can see him clearly. I see maggots spill from his eyes, a beetle burrows from his mouth, his flesh torn and putrid revealing to me the origin of the fetid scent.

Bizarrely, I feel light, the axe bears no feeling in my hands as I drive it down onto the neck of the corpse before me, but no sooner that the blade contacts the flesh of my dearly departed I hear shrieking and the feeling of something warm spilling onto my feet. What had been a corpse just seconds before was once again my husband, I felt panicked. Ambrose, who is larger now than moments ago, consoles me but contends it was a necessity, and it was now time to register myself into his book as promised.

I look at his eyes, jet black pools with crescent-shaped pupils, and no longer is he an Owl, but the very incarnation of the Morningstar, Lucifer. I prick my finger as I drag it across the page I find myself rife with a sense of obscene pleasure that I have never known before. I do not fear flying with my little barn Owl perched upon my tree branch, and as I hang a rope around it and then again round my neck, I remember the Bierce story, and take comfort in knowing that where he fell, I flew.