Training to Fly Free

The embers were tired. The ebbing glow warmed her gaze and a marshmallow, but was no match against the cold wind that slipped down the mountainside and joined the scathing words swirling around her. She pulled the blue fleece collar around her ears and tucked in her face to the cheekbones. Little crystals quickly formed where her breath met the polyester. The din of veiled cruelty continued and passed through the fabric as easily as the wind.

With a calm tone, he educated her again why it was her fault he hadn’t left his wife. In the past six years, she’d failed to prove her love sufficiently for him to take action.

She stared into the embers. The wood grain was visible, the charred remains just moments away from settling, in finality, to ash. Soon they would be completely devoured from without.

She was 18 years younger. He was her boss.

The wind gusted. The fire breathed and brightened momentarily. Buried in the sound of swaying trees and cracking branches was another sound. A flapping that didn’t belong. She cocked her head to listen and peered off into the darkness as if watching the fire detracted from her ability to hear.

She fought the emptiness pressing into her.

She feared the consequences of another failed attempt to escape.

She accepted feigning love and faking orgasms, using stall tactics to replace other unsavory decisions.

Woosh! The bird swooped between her and the fire. She throttled backwards, falling off her log seat, her legs flying skyward. The bird darted across the moon and perched on a low pine branch on the other side of the iron fire pit. She righted herself. It was a barn owl. Its black eyes flickered in the orange light, unflinchingly staring at her as she dusted the snow from her jeans and reclaimed a seat on the log.

She’d seen a documentary about barn owls recently. Fascinating creatures. “Barn owls in captivity can be trained to fly free,” she said absent-mindedly, more to no one than anyone. Certainly her travel companion indicated no interest in anything she said.

She signed, emitting a secret plea to the universe.

For the first time, she returned the owl’s gaze.

The wind whistled to a halt. The fire stopped flickering, and emitted a steady, hot light. The smoke sat in unwavering tendrils, suspended before her. The trees did not sway. She turned in astonishment to her travel companion.

“Did you see…?” she started. His condescending expression froze mid-sentence when time stopped.

She looked back at the owl, her eyes pleading to find any living organism with whom to share this odds-defying moment. She probed her mind for a memory or experience to anchor her to reality. Her heart and breath accelerated. The bird’s intensely curious face perked up. It clicked its tiny beak.

She looked at the embers to see whether they remained animate. They too were locked in time. But something else was different. No longer did their glow emerge from a flame that slowly suffocated them to gray fluff. Instead, they appeared to be made of glass with internal fires setting them alight.

She raised her eyebrows. Her forehead crinkled.

The owl turned its head to her inanimate partner who was poised awkwardly and unmoving. Its wings shuddered. Its gaze returned to her. It blinked.

He may have a charming, heart-shaped face, but don’t be fooled. There is no love in that heart.

She stared, mouth open. No one was talking. Certainly the bird was not talking. Who had been privy to her thoughts? She looked around sharply, seeking the origin of the whispered words. Her travel companion was motionless. She saw nothing else move. Her gaze hesitantly returned to the owl, as if to look at it again confessed her insanity. Her head remained turned, the firelight painting a beautiful chiaroscuro across her features. The shadows failed to hide her disbelief.

For the first time in hours, she felt warm.

She felt calm.

While his eyes are striking and bright, should you dare pass through those windows, you will be consumed by a wicked darkness.

She averted her gaze. Was it dangerous to look into this owl’s eyes?

He is a hunter. In the night, he sniffs out rats and toys with lemmings. Yet he is a victim, borne from a crucible of shame.

She studied the words as they formed from a distant resonance or echo. She felt as if she were at the bottom of a cone, the syllables forming like dew drops on the outer rim and sliding down to her, the center of gravity, becoming comprehensible only for a moment then dissipating into space.

But why were words converging upon her about a barn owl?

She gazed again at her human companion.

He flaunts his strong, tawny back and white breast from working on the farm. He creates and knows his own beauty. The brown marks around his torso make him distinctive. He is as common as a barn owl, but refuses to believe.

“Wait a minute,” she thought.

She sucked in her breath. The scowling male face suddenly looked less menacing and more humorous.

He puffs his chest feathers to exaggerate his existence and draw the awe others, yet slinks in shadowy crevices to keep prying eyes at bay.

She studied her motionless companion. She understood. Her heart leapt to her throat and a whimper escaped.

While his long, harsh screams deter intruders from what is his, only knowing onlookers recognize the fear and defensiveness. Empathy does not lift his wings skyward, only the desperate flapping of another.

Her sighing plea had delivered insight.

The narcissist will not fall until he dies. Choose your sacrifices carefully.

She looked at the owl. His eyes were smiling. While the words did not emanate from his beak, the message of salvation arrived cloaked in feathery allusion.

The wind resumed. The tree branches quickened. The embers popped and flickered. The snarling face came to life, unaware of the heavenly pause. The bird was gone.

“No,” she said. She stood up.

The angry chatter stopped, surprised. He jumped up.

“This is the beginning and end of training to fly free,” she said, the palm of her hand pressed into his chest. “Whether it’s your training or mine matters not.” She turned on her heel, and walked into the evening. She could only see a few steps in front of her, but it was enough.

He stared after her. “You’ll be back,” he muttered.

The words did not find her, their escape hampered by the boundaries of the memory that already had ended.