An unexpected visit came one day from another predator of mice, a cat. This was an unusual creature, for though there were cats on the farm, there were no others quite like him. All light would disappear into his coal-colored fur, all but the noon sun, under which he would shine as obsidian. In the darkness all that one could see of him were his golden eyes, luminous as maple leaves just before the Fall. Though in body he was full-grown, he had only come into it recently, and in mind he was very young, very brash. He climbed to the dusty hayloft, a place not unfamiliar to him, but this time looked about in search of something undiscovered, some new adventure. His eyes almost immediately turned up, scanning the vast interior of the roof, finding and settling on those watchful eyes of the owl. The cat then sat back on his haunches, revealing a small tuft of white on his chest between his brawny forelegs, and wrapped his tail around his paws. As his ears faced forward, he cocked his head slightly and called up, �Hellooo?�
There was no response but for the swaying of the owl�s head on its neck. Like a reed blowing in an ever-changing wind, his face bobbed from side to side irregularly, looking the cat over from different perspectives, searching in vain for one in which the cat did not appear. But the cat remained, all implacable curiosity. The owl began sidling along his timber-perch, leading every step with his head, awkward when not stalking the spacious air.
The cat, knowing himself far too large for the owl to prey upon, called up again, �Hellooo!? I don�t have mouse eyes, you know. I can see you up there. Mama said you would talk to me.�
The owl, far up in the dust haze, stopped his clambering upon hearing this, paused, then took flight, simply spreading his wings and dropping off his perch. The sight of these hawk-like wings gliding far above was enough to make the cat start to bolt; however, he knew better, and sat again, though this time with the end of his tail wriggling pensively. The owl glided round and round, finally pulling up and landing on a lower timber, nearer the cat but still looking down from safety. His voice, breaking at first, remarked to itself, �You are the one they call Dexter.�
�You know my name?�
�I have watched many seasons pass under my perch, and always have I known of the lives of groundlings such as yourself.�
Dexter let the sighing speech digest, for it was new to his ears, and replied, �Do you have a mouth? A beak? I see only eyes!�
Something resembling mirth rumbled somewhere deep within the owl. He turned to show his side, and slowly stuck out his beak, his open maw, then relaxed to speak again. �The mice think of me as a pair of flying eyes! My feathers mask me.� The owl paused, looked about, appraised Dexter more closely. �Watch and I will show you something they have never seen.� As he said this, his neat, perfect mask began to wilt, to collapse on itself, until Dexter saw ordinary, flat feathers covering a more bird-like head, but only for an instant, for the owl fluffed them out once again. �My feathers are to me, what your whiskers are to you. I would be lost without them.�
Dexter flexed his many white vibrissae, sensing drafts, recalling the tunnels and hideaways his whiskers had led him through, the prey he had caught with their help. The paths they had led him through in the moonlit night. �Why do you never leave the farm?�
For a moment Dexter thought the owl would take flight, but then it seemed to freeze upright. �Why,� the owl managed, �Why do you ask such a thing?�
�I see you hunting at dawn and dusk, and you always go to the same places, never far away. I told my Mama, if I had wings I�d fly somewhere far away.�
�Is there something about the farm you want to leave behind?�
It was Dexter�s turn for surprise. �Well, no. I just thought that there is so much to see. If I had wings I could see it all.�
�Yes, I understand. When I was young, the world seemed vast and infinitely interesting. However, you must know that the world is forever changing, and to leave what is familiar is to lose some of life�s continuity. Surely you�ve noticed the changes of which I speak.�
Dexter chose that moment to examine a speck of dust near his paw.
�How many of your litter remain, now, after only one winter?�
The speck did nothing interesting. �Two, three if you count me.� He searched for anything else of interest, so long as it wasn�t in the direction of the owl�s eyes.
�In the seasons of my youth, owls of my kind fled the winter, following warmth and fresh prey. Such was my life, exploring, mating when it was time, sometimes roosting with others against the cold. But every Spring, upon my return, I met fewer of my kind, and searched harder before finding roosts.� The owl turned up his face to meet a sunbeam slowly working its way through the dust motes of the loft. �The high holes that once allowed entry for me, I began to find covered. My calls began to go unanswered.� The owl looked down, then to the cat. �I cannot remember when last I called.� He returned his gaze to the sunbeam, his dark eyes becoming mere slits in its brightness. �One Fall, I found this place. The prey were plenty, and there were such warm places that I felt no need to leave for Winter. I have never ventured far, since.�
�Do you think you�ll ever go south, again?�
The owl searched Dexter�s expression, wondered whether the young cat had understood the gravity of what had been revealed; then surprised himself with his answer. �My young friend, should I ever leave for places unknown, I shall cry out so that everyone will hear. And you, young Dexter? How will I know if you are leaving?�
Dexter stood, stretched, considered. �I don�t know. But I�ll come back. This is my home.�
�Be careful not to stay away too long,� warned the owl. The sunbeam now was leaving his face. �Observe the Sun�s movement across the wall. It moves swiftly; soon it will be dusk. Go now to your mother, groom her and tell her that as long as she is here, you will always return, for that is what all mothers wish to hear.� He raised his wings to leave, when Dexter interrupted.
�Do you have a name?�
The owl paused only long enough to confide, �The prey animals call me Palefeather,� and he flew to the upper reaches of the barn, his quiet wings disturbing only the dust sent spiraling in his wake.
Dexter stayed a moment to watch, for there was no end to his curiosity, before climbing down the stair and trotting outside. Most of the cats were gathering near the house, where one of the humans would soon set out a pan full of milk and food for them. Mama would be there, Dexter knew, but he was not hungry. He walked around to the other side of the barn, opposite the setting sun, his usual vantage point for watching the owl, amidst the rows of soy plants that began there. He watched carefully as the Sun faded and the world changed, conscious of it now. Dexter knew this place, loved it and knew he would always return here. But what of the owl? Where was his home?
There appeared an extraordinary shape perched on the top ridge of the barn�s roof, the owl�s outline in silhouette against the setting sun. It was an unusually visible spot for the owl, but it was an unusual day about to end, for the owl spread his wings and sent forth a shriek like no other. Dexter felt his hair stand on end, and felt a silence fall over the farm in apprehension of what the call may bring. The owl Palefeather then dropped and glided twice around the barn, showing himself to all as if for the first (or last) time, then flew silently southward.
All contents, except where otherwise noted, are copyright Andrew Lee Hunn.