Owls in the Choir Loft

Miss Lavernia and her colony of cats lived quietly in a remote section of woods beyond Lighthouse Point.  It was said, although discreetly and usually not above a whisper, that she had been born into witchcraft.

She was an overly tall stick figure of a woman, gangly and uncommonly awkward with steel wool hair and hard eyes.  She moved slowly, barefoot and with a distinct limp, the hem of her plain black dress often dragging in the dust.  Sometimes she carried a broom fashioned from corn stalks, sometimes a makeshift crutch.  A regular herd of cats was always at her heels and more watched from the unpainted porch.  Yellow eyed owls with massive wing spans lived under the eaves – they had been known to carry off children who didn’t mind their parents, Nana assured me – and although I wasn’t sure I completely believed this, Ruthie and I had seen pictures of great horned owls in one of Cap’s nature books and we decided to respect the possibility.

Miss Lavernia rarely left her little patch of land but sometimes we would see her hunting herbs or gathering firewood up into her apron or bent over in her desolate plot of garden.  We never approached her – Nana had also warned us that the old woman could hear butterfly wings as far as a mile away – but would watch from what we hoped was a safe distance, always listening for the flutter of an owl’s wings even during the daylight.   Sometimes she would stop what she was doing and look around, peering intently in our direction as if she knew she was being watched and giving us both the ungodly shivers.  Once she actually put down her hoe and took several steps toward us and  though we were both foolishly curious and determined children, we ran in terror like a pair of blind field mice.  When Ruthie snagged her collar on a low hanging branch and started screeching that the owls had her, it nearly stopped both our hearts.

I wouldn’t like to think,  Nana said with a frown as she painted our scraped knees and elbows with iodine, that you’d been somewheres you wasn’t allowed.

It wasn’t a question – not exactly anyway – and while neither of was brave enough to meet her eyes, we were both smart enough not to confess unless pushed.  She found her mending basket and sewed Ruthie’s torn shirt and we studied the floor while waiting to be dismissed. 

What I would like to think, she finally said, is that you both know it ain’t fittin’ to spy on folks.

My heart sank at this and I heard Ruthie swallow hard but Nana just sighed and sent us on our way. Feeling a little shamed and way luckier than we deserved - now that we were out of danger on all fronts, both feelings would pass – we shuffled out.

Curiosity killed the cat, she called after us, I b’lieve I’d keep that in mind, girls.

We absolutely meant to but children have short memories and the idea of a witch among us was so deliciously tempting it soon became irresistible.  When the story of our encounter with Miss Lavernia came back to us, as all such stories do, it had grown considerably.  It hadn’t been a branch that had snagged Ruthie’s collar but a low flying owl with talons and evil yellow eyes.  Miss Lavernia hadn’t been working in the garden but rather burying bodies.  The cats were all accomplices, the herbs for wicked spells and we were doomed.

When bits and pieces of this reached my grandmother, Ruthie and I were unceremoniously plucked from the playhouse and tossed into the back seat of the old Lincoln. 

Trespassing and spying!  Nana scolded, Killer owls and witches!  I declare, I never heard such nonsense in all my born days!  Why, Lavernia Pyne and I’ve been friends for fifty years and she’s no more’n a witch than the man in the moon!

Ruthie and I cowered and began to cry as we realized where we were going.

Waterworks ain’t gon’ do you a bit o’ good, Nana continued coldly, You’ll both apologize and hope for the best or I’ll tan your hides into next week!

But Nana, I protested through a flood of tears, You said the owls…..

You just never mind ‘bout anythin’ I said, my grandmother snapped, Reckon we’ll sort that out later. Right now you best be thinkin’ how to say you’re sorry!

But then her knuckles on the steering wheel whitened and she veered the old car to the side of the road and stopped.  She slowly turned to face us, looking surprised and suddenly a little sorrowful.

I said the owls carried off bad children, she said and closed her eyes, her chin sinking to her folded arm, And you believed me.  There was silence in the car and for a moment I thought there might be a glimmer of hope.  Then she sighed and beckoned us into the front seat.  Lavernia, she began, is a private person and she don’t much like most folks.  I said that so’s you wouldn’t be botherin’ her and that was wrong.  So.  She paused, turned the key in the ignition, gave us a weak smile.  So, ‘pears we’ll all be apologizin’, don’t it.

And so we did. 

We found Miss Lavernia on her front porch with a lapful of kittens, hardly the picture of a witch.  A single small barn owl slept peacefully in the shade of the roof and the window sills were littered with cats.  Nana took both of our hands and led us – still a little reluctantly – up to the old cabin and as we each stumbled our way through an apology, the old woman in the dusty black dress shaded her eyes and smiled.  Then my usually prideful and stubborn grandmother explained that she’d planted the idea in the first place,  So you see, Vernie, I really feel like I’m to blame more’n the children, she said unhappily.

No need, no harm, Miss Lavernia said with a dismissive wave of one bony-fingered hand, Worse things in this old world than witches and Lord knows I’ve lived long enough that gossip don’t bother me none.

But now, them owls…..she added with a meaningful glance up at the shadowy eave and the silent, sleeping barn owl,  Well, you never can tell what mischief they git up to.  They’s independent minded creatures, I reckon and you know, girls, I jist cain’t do a thing with’em. 

It wasn’t near as thrilling as what we’d imagined but it was as near to witchery as we were going to get.  The plain fact was that up close, Miss Lavernia looked less like a witch than a thin, tired, wrinkled old woman.  Her flesh hung on her elderly bones and her smile sagged slightly on one side of her mouth.  When she spoke, her voice was raspy and cracked with age, her hands so parched and frail they seemed translucent.  It seemed as if a strong wind – never mind an owl – might’ve carried her off without half trying. 

Frances Lavernia Pyne passed on the following winter.  At 94, so The Courier reported, she had been one of the oldest island residents and had no known surviving family.  She’d been known for her kindness to cats, the obituary read but there was never a word printed about the small, silent owl everyone saw in the choir loft during her funeral or later at her grave.

Is it true?  I wanted to know when I heard.

Praise the Lord, my grandmother said and winked at me, and pass the whiskey bottle if it ain’t.

Which like witches and so many other childhood mysteries, was no answer a’tall.