Sawdust

The bag was still warm when the boy brought it into the shop.

Ben looked up from his work table. ‘Help you?’

The boy held up the bag, an old canvas satchel with a draw string. ‘Can you take a look at this?’

‘Depends on what it is. You poach it?’

‘No, I didn’t poach it. I found it.’

‘You found it. Right. Well, let’s have a look.’

Ben moved his tools to one side and laid out some brown paper.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Set it down here.’

The boy came forward and plonked the bag down on the work bench. ‘Heavy,’ he said. ‘Heavier than I thought it’d be.’

Ben loosened the drawstring of the battered bag. It was stained crimson at the bottom. ‘Hunt a lot, do you?’

‘No, not really, like I said, I just found it at the bottom of a tree out in the woods by the creek.’

Ben reached into the bag, slid the warm body from its folds.

The owl was limp in its hands. He cradled it like a baby and muttered something the boy couldn’t quite hear. Then he laid it gently on the table as if it was only sleeping.

‘What is it?’ the boy asked.

‘It’s a barn owl,’ the old man replied. ‘You’re sure you didn’t kill it.’

‘No. Like I said, I found it on the ground. Thought maybe it fell out of the nest and broke its neck. What’s the difference anyway?’

‘Well for one thing, it’s illegal around here to kill an owl. And for another…’ Ben cleared his throat, ‘some people believe it’s an omen of death.’

The boy smirked. ‘I’m not worried. So can you stuff it?’

‘I can,’ said the old man. ‘But it’s not cheap. Cost you roughly 750.’

‘Seven hundred and fifty dollars!?’

‘That’s right.’ Ben covered the owl with a towel and moved back to the project that was laid open on the table, its belly stuffed with a bag of sawdust. Just a rabbit, nothing to fear. He could stuff it them in his sleep.

The boy took in his surroundings. The sharp tools, hooked knives and scalpels lined up on the table just so. The glass eyes of the squirrels and coyotes and rabbits that were on display suddenly seemed alive in the confined space of the shop. A raccoon stared at him, its teeth bared. For the first time since the boy had entered the shop he felt a shiver run up his back.

‘Kind of creepy in here,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’

‘I’m used to it,’ Ben shrugged. ‘Nothing there but sawdust and thread now.’

‘Why do you do it?’

‘Out of respect. I don’t preserve things that have been murdered. Everything in here died of natural causes. There spirits are free.’

‘I’m sorry but that’s just frickin’ weird. They’re animals. Dead is dead.’

Ben looked up over his glasses and fixed the boy with a cold blue stare. ‘Is that right?’

‘Besides how would you know anyway. If someone brought you a coyote and said it was lying in a field or hit by a car, how would you know they hadn’t done it on purpose?’

‘The animal knows.’

Ok this guy is obviously nuts, the boy thought. He’d just wanted a stupid owl stuffed so he could put it in his room. But he wasn’t about to pay $750 dollars for it.

‘I changed my mind,’ he said reaching for the owl.

The old man grabbed his arm. ‘Are you sure you want to do that?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I’m going to ask around, maybe I can sell it. Thanks anyway.’

He stuffed the bird back into the sack and pulled the string tight.

Ben watched him go and went back to his bench. People never learn, he thought. A life for a life. He pulled the shotgun from underneath the counter, shrugged himself into his old corduroy jacket and stepped out into the darkness.

The boy pulled up the collar of his jacket. The night suddenly had a chill to it. The bird hung heavy at the bottom of the game bag. He’d walk along the creek, he decided, put the owl back where he found it.

Ben trudged on in the dark, his gun in the crook of his arm. The moon was full, and somewhere an owl called out into the night.