If only I hadn't sneezed.
The morning after I ran away, I woke up in the hay loft with only Randall, the barn owl, for company. Once my eyes adjusted to the patchwork-like mixture of light and shadow in the eaves, I could see him plainly, perched on a beam and seamlessly rustling his feathers. Most likely asleep, I told myself, remembering that Uncle Bryon had told me owls were nocturnal, flying only at night and only dangerous if you happened to be a mouse.
Randall fluttered, spread his wings slightly, shook himself. Yellow eyes and a curved beak swiveled slowly in my direction. The hay loft suddenly didn't seem as snug and cozy as it had a few moments before.
"Best hunters you've ever seen," I belatedly remembered Uncle Byron had also said, "Fast, accurate, deadly."
I was close enough to see those hazy yellow eyes blink slowly, as if he were considering the situation from all angles. One wickedly talon-ed foot flexed lazily then sunk back into the soft wood. He hooted, an eerie sound that carried a low, pretty much spooky kind of echo and sent a mild chill up my backbone. Then he seemed to settle, wrapping his wings around his small body like a cape. It was then I heard the cowbell and sneezed. A moment later, Uncle Byron was calling my name and Randall took flight, soaring even higher up in the eaves and making one graceful circle before landing silently somewhere out of sight.
"Old owl don't take much to trespassers in his barn," my bachelor uncle called to me, "You might oughta be comin' down 'fore he changes his mind."
I heard the metallic clanking of the milk buckets as they hit the floor, the sound of the milking stool being dragged into the first stall. I knew if I crawled to the edge I'd see my uncle in his faded flannel shirt and longjohns, suspenders hanging loose over worn out denim overalls, an older-than-dirt feed cap set on his wispy hair. He'd have been pulling on his muck boots and speaking softly to the cows, his long-ish and somehow melancholy face reddened from the sun and patchy with remnants of the skin cancer he'd fought and beaten long before he'd even told anyone about it. He'd have given me a crooked grin with tobacco stained teeth and this early in the morning he'd have needed a shave. He was firstborn of ten, the only one who had chosen to stay at home and an old fashioned farmer to his very core.
"Easy, Rosie," I heard him say softly to the cows in between splashes of milk hitting the metal buckets, "Easy does it."
The cows shifted in their stalls and answered with long, drawn out, plaintive moos. Next door in the stable, the old plow horse whinnied and stamped his feet impatiently.
"If you've a mind to," I heard my uncle call, "I could use a hand. Providin' you don't have anythin' else to do. Buck's hungry and breakfast's waitin' once we're done here. I b'lieve your Nana's making bacon and blueberry pancakes."
"Am I in trouble?" I called back, brushing straw and hayseeds from my hair and making my way toward the ladder while keeping a wary eye out for Randall.
"Ain't likely," my uncle said good naturedly, "Less you wake that ol' owl up."
I wasn't sure if it was hunger or the thought of of some old yellow-eyed owl carrying me off with those claw like talons, but I scrambled down the ladder in a hurry, missed the last rung and landed on my tailbone with an awkward, painful thump. Uncle Byron gave me a casual, over-the-shoulder glance, determined I wasn't hurt, and nodded toward the horse stall.
"Oats in the bin," he said mildly, "I'll finish the milkin' and we'll head for the house."
And so we did with Buck lazily clip-clopping ahead of us and Rosie - her brass cowbell clanking with every other step - and her sisters spread out and trailing behind us like a troop of dusty, disorganized soldiers. My daddy was in the yard, tossing feed from an oversized and discolored aluminum pan to Nana's chickens while the nameless old tomcat watched from his perch on the woodpile with an indelicate and greedy gaze.
It made me think of Randall and I was glad not to be a mouse.
I was close enough to see those hazy yellow eyes blink slowly, as if he were considering the situation from all angles. One wickedly talon-ed foot flexed lazily then sunk back into the soft wood. He hooted, an eerie sound that carried a low, pretty much spooky kind of echo and sent a mild chill up my backbone. Then he seemed to settle, wrapping his wings around his small body like a cape. It was then I heard the cowbell and sneezed. A moment later, Uncle Byron was calling my name and Randall took flight, soaring even higher up in the eaves and making one graceful circle before landing silently somewhere out of sight.
"Old owl don't take much to trespassers in his barn," my bachelor uncle called to me, "You might oughta be comin' down 'fore he changes his mind."
I heard the metallic clanking of the milk buckets as they hit the floor, the sound of the milking stool being dragged into the first stall. I knew if I crawled to the edge I'd see my uncle in his faded flannel shirt and longjohns, suspenders hanging loose over worn out denim overalls, an older-than-dirt feed cap set on his wispy hair. He'd have been pulling on his muck boots and speaking softly to the cows, his long-ish and somehow melancholy face reddened from the sun and patchy with remnants of the skin cancer he'd fought and beaten long before he'd even told anyone about it. He'd have given me a crooked grin with tobacco stained teeth and this early in the morning he'd have needed a shave. He was firstborn of ten, the only one who had chosen to stay at home and an old fashioned farmer to his very core.
"Easy, Rosie," I heard him say softly to the cows in between splashes of milk hitting the metal buckets, "Easy does it."
The cows shifted in their stalls and answered with long, drawn out, plaintive moos. Next door in the stable, the old plow horse whinnied and stamped his feet impatiently.
"If you've a mind to," I heard my uncle call, "I could use a hand. Providin' you don't have anythin' else to do. Buck's hungry and breakfast's waitin' once we're done here. I b'lieve your Nana's making bacon and blueberry pancakes."
"Am I in trouble?" I called back, brushing straw and hayseeds from my hair and making my way toward the ladder while keeping a wary eye out for Randall.
"Ain't likely," my uncle said good naturedly, "Less you wake that ol' owl up."
I wasn't sure if it was hunger or the thought of of some old yellow-eyed owl carrying me off with those claw like talons, but I scrambled down the ladder in a hurry, missed the last rung and landed on my tailbone with an awkward, painful thump. Uncle Byron gave me a casual, over-the-shoulder glance, determined I wasn't hurt, and nodded toward the horse stall.
"Oats in the bin," he said mildly, "I'll finish the milkin' and we'll head for the house."
And so we did with Buck lazily clip-clopping ahead of us and Rosie - her brass cowbell clanking with every other step - and her sisters spread out and trailing behind us like a troop of dusty, disorganized soldiers. My daddy was in the yard, tossing feed from an oversized and discolored aluminum pan to Nana's chickens while the nameless old tomcat watched from his perch on the woodpile with an indelicate and greedy gaze.
It made me think of Randall and I was glad not to be a mouse.
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