The Owl's Call Read online



  The Owl’s Call

  B. Jetschko

  Copyright 2012 © B. Jetschko

  To Danny

  A great man and a tough role model to live up to

  Title Page

  Second to Last Day

  Last Day

  The End

  Notes

  Owls have always been subjects of legends and myths, sometimes only represented by their call.

  Most of those stories identify that call as a sign of forthcoming death, but there are a few noting it as an omen for new life; although the line between the two has always been blurred.

  -

  She packed her bags and was on her way to Ottawa.

  Outside she stopped. She was going four hundred miles north by bus; all by herself. She had to take a look back.

  It had rained the last night and its remains till hung in the air. She breathed in. The birds had started to chirp and no one else was around. Maybe a cat or two were passing the streets into shrubs, but apart from them, this certain time only belonged to her. She breathed out.

  She snuggled a little tighter into her jacket and reached for her traveler bag, when she heard it: A high hoot, monotone repeating every few seconds. In those seconds all singing birds seemed to have been struck silent, relinquishing the time to the little raptor.

  She turned around and her eyes found equally surprised pupils, surrounded by yellow, staring back at her. Another hooting was released and the bird turned its head to the side. It was a small animal with a thin face and very distinguished long ears.

  The hoot ended and the face turned back. The sun reflected from the retina in that moment and she was reminded of how much she loved night-active animals and how she got reminded of herself by them. But the look was different from the way her cat looked at her. This animal seemed to know – it seemed to know time. She shuddered. This look was ancient; the bird knew what was going to happen. She turned away and pushed off the last bits of icy uncanniness from her back. It was time to leave.

  The owl’s stare followed her.

  -

  Many people never fill their waiting time. They just sit around watching others, who share their fate, boring each other on the line. Some people always carry a book or two with them – well, those who hate boredom, anyway.

  She practiced the harmonica. A habit which had taken a lot of courage and breath from her and required not to care about strange or appreciative looks anymore. At the moment she worked on the solo of “Hey Bartender”, her breath condensed in the air. Before taking the instrument out she had to put her red wool gloves on.

  Some smiles and frowns passed ignored during her play. She started again, now more concentrating on the technical errors and repeated several passages. Knowing that most people would not bother anymore, it surprised her that one gentleman continued watching her.

  She stopped; didn’t even have to raise her voice before the bearded man answered her mute request for an answer.

  “That’s by Dixon. Floyd Dixon, 1954, right?”

  “No, I covered it from Mr. Ackred.”

  “Ackred…oh that comedian. Yeah, yeah nice performance, but the original is by-“

  “Why is that important?”

  But before the astonished gentleman could answer, the bus already rolled up and she got into the vehicle.

  Inside she thought of a Ray Charles tune to whistle. Of course she knew that the solo she had practiced was originally by Floyd Dixon, or Jay Riggins Jr., and was indeed recorded in 1954 under Atlantic Records subsidiary Cat Records, but it was Ackred she wanted to imitate. She had already admired him ever since she was a little kid.

  About ten years had passed since her little girl ego had imagined her and Mr. Ackred on swings on a playground, talking. This fantasy had long been buried but unveiled again by a personal crisis she had gone through: Her first Twenties Crash.

  Since a Twenties Crash has got a lot in common with a Midlife Crisis, she desperately tried to get herself out of this personal down by remembering what had made her happy in her childhood; for it was the only time she could draw from.

  It had started to rain, while she had taken a trip down Childhood Lane.

  “Now ain’t that love.” Hey eyes gazed rain drops racing down the bus window. “Oh, ain’t that love.” How bigger ones took up the smaller until they were big enough and started to move, challenging each other in an abstract racing game. “That I feel.” She tipped against the glass to get some stuck contestants a chance to win whatever there was to gain. “In my heart for you…” Her song turned into a low whistle again and finally vanished against the glass.

  She felt cold and got her fuzzy blanket out of the bag. She carefully covered her legs and then tried to get even tighter into her jacket. She still had some hours to go. But the rain preserved her morning hours just a little longer.

  She sunk into sleep with a smile.

  -

  She woke with a shriek.

  All she was able to carry over into reality was two yellow glowing raptor eyes and a deep monotone sound.

  Reality took some while to re-establish; here, sound was faster than light. She suddenly found herself surrounded by cough and sneeze. She felt sick and cold after waking up and supposed a little itching down her throat. She coughed to figure out how bad it was.

  Nothing; just transited air. This wasn’t the time to become a hypochondrias.

  She stretched and took a look at her watch. They still had about three hours to go until they reached the border. She was tired but didn’t feel like sleeping again, so she pulled her booklet out. Ray Chandler’s short stories had a grip on her; just like Dirty Callahan.

  She drummed with her fingers against the glass and just before she turned her eyes on the black ink, she thought she had seen a figure wandering through the lonely landscape, not bothered by the rain.

  -

  Only a few pages later, against her will, she had fallen asleep again.

  Many revolver and girl swinging men wandered through her dreams. Packed Jazz clubs filled with haunting music shifted in her head, the whole inventory changed to her wishes within seconds. Her brain reworked reality; into something more real than reality ever was. Any minute now someone would sell their souls and some big guy would ask for pancakes.-

  “Miss, miss!” Some gentle rattle woke her. Sleep-drunken she looked into dark brown eyes. Her confused look caused a teethful smile. “We’ll need your passport, honey.”

  “Oh, yeah sure.” She shortly searched her bag and then pulled the papers out.

  “Alright. And what’s your reason to stay?”

  “I’m meeting an old friend.”

  “Ah, that’s always nice. How long do you plan to stay in Canada?”

  “Och, three to four days.”

  “Have you got anything with you, you shouldn’t? Firearms, fresh fruit, animals?”

  “No.” She shook her head slightly.

  “Okay, then. Have a nice stay.”

  “Thanks.” She snuggled back into her blanket with a smile. That was some nice lady.

  They stayed for another short story and at the moment she closed the covers, the vehicle took off.

  -

  She was one of the last to step out of the bus.

  The rain had turned into spraying, when they had crossed the border and finally had stopped at their arrival. She got a scarf out of her bag and wrapped it around her neck, while sucking up the last few seconds of her time. Now she needed to take care of finding a room.

  The boring routine of a traveling man.

  -

  But luckily she had arrived prepared and had nailed down a hostel before she had left. So soon she faced a clerk who absently handed her the first key he could get wit
hout looking up from his paper.

  She had to take some stairs up to her room and two little children rushed by her with joyful laughter. A smile appeared automatically on her face. She couldn’t resist the happiness of free and unplanned life. At this point they could become whatever they wanted.

  The key turned two times and the door sprung open.

  It was spare, hold in white and brown. A bed, a desk, a bath – but weirdly enough no chair. She turned to the side and also discovered a closet. She placed her bag on the desk and herself on the bed, for another time she wrapped herself into her warming blanket.

  She would hopefully find sleep which didn’t exhaust her anymore.

  -

  When she arose at nineteen-thirty, she was surprised how well her inner clock worked. The places she wanted to visit would open now or in the hours to come, that would still leave her some time to tidy her up and fetch some fatty pizza.

  Pizza first, grooming later.

  She didn’t even change, jumped to her feet, locked the door and hurried to the little pizzeria some feet down the street.

  She had already finished one quarter of the pizza, when she returned and had another slice in her left hand, while her right hand opened the bag to inspect the contents for accurate clothing. They lay right on the top covered under a layer of sweaters. An elegant black and white dress and a matching black blazer.

  But before her hands caused fat stains she went into the bathroom to wash them.

  She left it again in panties and hurried into the dress because it was already nineteen-fifty. She worried about not getting a seat at the club. She had another slice, ran back into the bathroom and came back less than five