Escape from Baxters' Barn

by Rebecca Bond

  “You don’t want to know,” said Burdock. But since he had told them about the gasoline, he figured he owed it to Fluff to explain.

  “Gasoline is a fire accelerator.”

  Fluff’s face still looked uncertain.

  “It makes things burn faster,” said Burdock. Numerous times, the cat had seen the farmers pour gasoline on a brush pile. The way it blazed up was amazing. “If you put gasoline on a fire, in seconds it blows up to ten, twenty, maybe a hundred times its size, just like that.”

  Fluff opened her mouth as if to speak but no words came out.

  “Has anyone considered,” suggested Mrs. Brown in a soft voice, “that maybe Dewey is planning on moving us out, before he burns down the barn?”

  Pull gave her a skeptical look. “To where? His bedroom?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Brown. She had never stood up to Pull, or argued against him. But she was emboldened. For all his bristle, Dewey had a fairly gentle touch when he milked her. “We know Dewey intends to burn down the barn, but we can’t be sure of his intentions toward us. As far as I know, he’s never tried to hurt us.”

  Neither Burdock or Nanny mentioned how Dewey had roughly shoved the cat just earlier that morning. And Burdock didn’t bring up how harsh Dewey had been with Fluff the other day.

  “I wonder,” said Mrs. Brown, “if Dewey might save us still.”

  “Mmmmm.” Pull grunted. “A nice thought. But highly unlikely. And honestly, Mrs. Brown, do you really want to be the one to stick around and find out?”

  Well, if you put it that way, thought the cow.

  The daylight was almost gone and the half moon, looking like a bowl of cream, started its ascent above the trees.

  Burdock slipped out of the barn. He walked down the slight hill to the end of the driveway where the mailboxes stood askew and looked up. Beside him, dry tansy stalks rasped together.

  Now there came another noise that grew steadily louder—a car engine—and lights appeared from the right. Burdock jumped back into the foliage and watched the car pass, following the glowing taillights until they disappeared around the corner.

  Somehow Burdock knew that town was that way, but how far it was he had no idea. He could go down that road. He was independent and capable and he could walk a little while. He could probably find a new home for himself.

  Or he could take a different kind of chance and stay.

  14

  Noctua

  With all the animals on edge, it seemed likely they’d have immediately noticed the feeble scratching on the high window ledge, the awkward tumbling of wings, and then the soft thump of an object striking the ground like a clod of mud. But at first no one did. Perhaps the whirling of their own worried minds or the gallop of their own hearts consumed their attention.

  Several long moments stretched out. It was cold in the barn. Too cold.

  Then, finally, Fluff was alert.

  “What was that?” she whispered.

  The sheep peered nervously about in the dimness of the night barn and Oh! there it was—the ghost—no, the owl—that she had seen the day before, lying face up in her own pen, motionless.

  “Help!” bleated Fluff, standing up abruptly and backing into a corner. “Figgy! Pull!” If a whisper can be a shout, that’s what this was: “It’s that owl! IN MY PEN!”

  “The owl?” called Nanny across Figgy’s pen. “Here? Well, say hello!”

  Figgy had been digging quite furiously. Her body ached and the skin on her snout and front legs was like sandpaper, but she had hardly taken the time to notice. She hadn’t stopped to notice anything. But for this she stopped. Panting and weary, and mantled with dirt, she trudged over to the boards and poked her snout through a crack.

  Instantly she knew something was very wrong.

  The owl just lay there. If Figgy knew anything about owls, it was that they were the most graceful of creatures. But one wing was inelegantly propped against the downy body; the other was outstretched in a gawky, slack position, feathers fanned like fingers. Figgy felt a pull of despair.

  “What’s wrong with him?” whispered Fluff.

  “I don’t know,” said Figgy. “Go see if he’s warm.”

  Fluff raised an eyebrow and gaped at Figgy incredulously.

  “Go on!” urged Figgy. “It’s just an owl. Not nearly your size.”

  “It looks plenty big to me,” said Fluff, eyeing the still parcel of feathers.

  “Come now, Fluff, don’t be like that. If he were in my pen, I’d go right over.” Figgy wasn’t sure this was entirely true. There was something a little intimidating about an owl—they didn’t exactly seem of this world—but this wasn’t the time to admit that to Fluff. They needed to find out what was wrong.

  “All right,” said Fluff, drawing in a fortifying breath.

  In truth, though dubious, Fluff was curious. She squared her woolly shoulders and tiptoed over. Gradually she bent her own head down to the owl’s, finally touching her nose to the sleek, cream-colored feathers. She took an exploratory sniff.

  Poof!

  Abruptly there was an explosion of wings and a plaintive squawk.

  “Baaaa!” bleated Fluff. Her head reared back and she fled to the opposite corner of the pen.

  Even Figgy had stumbled back a few steps.

  The owl tried to stand up, but fell back down into the hay.

  “Nanny!” said Figgy, urgently but not loudly. “Can you come over here?”

  “Coming,” called Nanny.

  Nanny hopped out of her pen and trotted around to Fluff’s. The goat quickly assessed the situation. It wasn’t clear if the owl was sick or injured or just exhausted, but something was very certainly the matter. Nanny cleared her throat.

  “Hello,” said Nanny quietly. “Hello, owl. Are you all right, dear?”

  There was no answer.

  “Are you hurt, love? Can we get you something?’

  Again, no answer. Nanny’s eyebrows drew up and together in concern.

  “You needn’t worry, hon, we wouldn’t think of harming you.”

  The owl shifted just slightly in the hay. It seemed as if the dazed bird might attempt again to get up, but thought better of it.

  The horses’ heads angled over their stalls’ half doors. Mrs. Brown stopped chewing her cud.

  Seconds ticked by.

  “Very—hungry,” came a weak but surprisingly low, sonorous voice.

  “Hungry? Oh, love, we can help you there!”

  It seemed like such a simple solution, the goat was suddenly buoyant. She loved a fixable problem, and she turned to go raid the feed room, something she would never have imagined herself doing, but she paused and seemed to be momentarily at a loss . . . “But, well, remind me, what is it an owl like you eats—?”

  “Voles! Rats! And mice, of course!” called Tug, triumphant in this piece of owl knowledge. He knew about owls from Hal, their previous handler, who hated mice and often joked about getting a pet owl.

  “The owl needs a mouse!” called Tug now. He paused, then burst out, “Burdock! Where’s Burdock?” The big horse craned his neck, leaning as far out of his stall as he was able. “Where is that cat?”

  Just when they needed him most, the cat was gone. Maybe he was down at the house, or out prowling the night, or maybe he was just—gone. The animals looked about and called. Nanny went to search in the feed and tool rooms, and called up the stairs to the loft. Tug and Mrs. Brown exchanged uneasy glances. Pull thought back to the consuming fear he’d seen in the cat’s eye when Dewey had harnessed the horses to empty out his garage.

  And then, Burdock padded in.

  He had been walking up the driveway, back toward the barn, and was still a little ways away when he became aware of the commotion inside. Were they calling his name? Silently, he treaded up the path and stepped inside.

  “What’s going on?” he asked quietly.

  “Oh, there you are!” said Nanny, trotting over, visibly relieved.

  B
ut Nanny didn’t ask where he’d been. She rushed to explain the owl situation, finishing with, “Burdock, can you catch us a mouse?”

  “Can I catch a mouse?” asked Burdock. “I am a barn cat. A mouser. That is the essence of—”

  “Burdock, dear! Just—please—go!” commanded Nanny, before returning to check on the owl.

  Nanny thought the bird was startling to look at, even lying on its side as it now was. Not exactly beautiful, but simply exquisite, like nothing Nanny had ever seen before. The feathers all along the owl’s back, head, and wings were not actually white at all. They were both tawny and brownish gray, and speckled throughout with white as if they had been lightly snowed upon. But the underside of the bird was indeed white, flecked here with tiny dots of gray. Most extraordinary of all was the face; it was truly, amazingly heart-shaped, and also white, except for a thin dark border. Into this silky valentine of down were set two closed eyes. Nanny had gotten a glimpse of the eyes, black and shiny like marbles, and she could tell immediately, those were intelligent eyes.

  Burdock broke Nanny’s trance. He sprang up onto the corner post of Fluff’s pen, a mouse dangling from his whiskered mouth, and quickly inspected the owl. A moment later he hopped down into the hay, ran over, and dropped the mouse by the still owl’s head.

  The owl’s eyes sprang open and spied the mouse. The owl lunged. Food at last.

  Not long after the food was consumed, the owl started to recover, at least enough to sit up, run its beak over a few feathers to straighten them, and regain a kind of dignity.

  Fluff, Nanny, Figgy, and Burdock gathered around and silently watched. Tug and Pull and Mrs. Brown looked on as best they could from across the aisle. Tug looked especially pleased to see the bird recover. It was gratifying that he had known what to order for dinner.

  Nanny had even agreed to let Tick out of their pen, and brought him around to watch through the openings in Fluff’s. After all, Nanny reasoned, it was entirely unclear what might become of all of them tonight or after. It seemed only right that if nothing else Tick should at least get the chance to meet this glorious, winged creature.

  Tick couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “What’s his name?” he whispered.

  “Shhh. We don’t know, love,” said Nanny as quietly as possible.

  Everyone was trying to give the owl some space, but that didn’t mean everyone didn’t have questions.

  The owl, wings combed and settled back in place, swiveled that arresting head and seemed to take stock of everyone at once. Resting its intelligent gaze briefly on the cat, the owl spoke. “Much obliged, Burdock.”

  How does the owl know my name? wondered Burdock.

  The others glanced around at one another. They seemed to be thinking the same thing.

  “Noctua,” began the owl, “my name is Noctua. And I am a she-owl.”

  “No kidding?” whispered Fluff, unconvinced. “A she-owl? I thought all owls were he-owls?” She turned to Nanny for confirmation. “Are there really she-owls?”

  “Of course,” answered Noctua, giving her feathers a firm shake. “How do you think we get he-owls?”

  Fluff thought that over.

  Figgy smiled. She liked that Noctua was a female, and a tough one at that.

  “What does it mean, your name—Noctua?” asked Tick.

  Mrs. Brown wanted to know that too. She liked the sound of the word; it was like a phrase of a song, descending lightly down the scale—Noc-tu-a. But it didn’t sound like a name.

  “Noctua,” said the owl, “is the owl constellation. My father was an amateur astronomer, so he liked to say. Really, he just appreciated stars.”

  “So then,” continued Tick in his clear, young voice, “where did you come from? What happened to you? How did you get here? What is it like to fly?”

  “Hush,” said Nanny. “Too many questions.”

  “I’ll tell you,” said Noctua. “I have a lot to tell you.”

  15

  To the Rescue

  But before the owl could begin, she started to tremble. It was barely perceptible at first under all those feathers.

  She stopped talking and seemed to disappear into herself, and the animals wondered if she intended to hold off on her story. But no, something again was wrong. Her feathers started to quiver and her beak clacked, but no words came out. Was she shivering?

  What was happening? Was the whole barn shaking? But no, it was just the owl.

  “What’s wrong with her, Mama?” asked Tick in a low voice.

  “I don’t know,” whispered Nanny, and then a shade louder, “Noctua, dear, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

  “I feel—I don’t feel—” The owl stopped.

  “I think she’s in shock,” said Figgy. “She needs to get warm. She’s cold.” Figgy looked around for something to warm the owl.

  The other animals looked around too. There was hay and rope. There were buckets for water. But there wasn’t anything to wrap an owl in.

  “Mama,” said Tick, “What about Fluff?”

  “What about Fluff?” Nanny asked.

  “What if we warmed the owl with—Fluff?”

  Nanny looked at Tick. It really was a good idea.

  The problem was Fluff had been frightened by the owl and remained as far away from the bird as she could possibly be.

  “Fluff,” said Nanny, leaning over to speak privately to the sheep. “The owl needs your help.”

  “My help?” asked Fluff.

  “She is in shock,” said Nanny gently. “At least we think she is. We think that is why she is shivering. She needs to warm up. Fluff, she needs you to warm her up.”

  The sheep looked skeptically at Nanny.

  “Fluff,” said Nanny, “if I believed in fate, I would say Noctua was absolutely meant to land in your pen. Look at your warm, woolly coat. You are undoubtedly the best one for this job.”

  Fluff considered this. The thought that she could be the best one for anything was astounding and she liked how it made her feel. Important. She wasn’t used to being recognized for anything particularly positive.

  “So what would I have to do?” she asked hesitantly.

  Nanny was pleased. “Just go over to her, slowly so as not to alarm her, and lie down right next to her, I think maybe behind her would be best and, well, try to get right up close so your wool is like her blanket.”

  Fluff followed the directions perfectly, doing just as Nanny had suggested. Gently she lowered herself down behind the owl and rolled onto her side. Then she scooched up so that the warmest part of her, her woolly stomach, was against Noctua’s back, and her legs were on either side of the owl.

  When the sheep’s touch reached Noctua, at first the owl stiffened. She rotated her head around and fixed the sheep with her piercing black eyes. Fluff gasped and very nearly fainted. But she stayed put and the owl didn’t move away.

  Maybe it was clear to Noctua that she needed help and that Fluff the sheep was it.

  It’s hard to say exactly what happened, but the owl appeared to collapse into the sheep, allowing her feathers to melt back into the thick, cozy warmth. The sheep all but enveloped her.

  It was a funny sight and if the situation weren’t so grave even Nanny would have allowed herself a laugh. But this was a serious matter and Nanny, Burdock, and the others looked on in silent fascination.

  Noctua stayed like that for a long while. All the animals stayed near. It was as if everything stopped. Time was suspended. Even Dewey was forgotten.

  When the owl at last felt warm and well again, she gathered herself together. She stepped away from the sheep and bowed just slightly in thanks. Fluff returned to a corner of her pen near the aisle.

  Nanny whispered to her now, “I think you might have just saved the owl’s life.”

  For Fluff, it was a wondrous thought.

  And now the owl was ready to tell her story.

  16

  Noctua’s Story

  “I have lived in this
barn for many years,” began the owl. “Longer than any of you. I remember when Mrs. Brown came; it was springtime, and that year it was a very wet spring, so wet the fields were like swamps. All the animals had to stay inside until May, and everyone was dying to get out.”

  “Goodness,” said Mrs. Brown, somewhat astonished to have that memory back, and to know that Noctua also remembered it. “That’s true!”

  “And of course I remember about a year and a half ago—I believe that’s right—when Burdock arrived. He was just a young cat, and solitary I noticed, like me. Not long after that—he lost his eye.”

  Burdock looked up and shivered.

  “A coyote, wasn’t it?” asked the owl.

  “That’s right,” said Burdock, angling his head to better take in this mysterious, omniscient creature. “All he got was my eye though.”

  “I know,” said Noctua. “Very impressive. I’ve never heard of a cat escaping from a coyote.”

  Burdock sat up a little straighter.

  “Then why have we never seen you?” asked Tug.

  “I hope you don’t think me unfriendly,” said the owl, “but I keep to myself. It’s an owl’s way. I do like to listen to you all, and I hope you don’t mind that I did, but I just felt most comfortable by myself. Not to mention,” she continued, “I am on a different schedule from all of you. Just like my name, Noctua, suggests, I am nocturnal, which simply means ‘occurring in the night.’ I go out at night to get my meals and I sleep during the day.”

  Burdock knew that cats too are supposed to be nocturnal, but for the most part he had succumbed to a daytime schedule.

  Noctua went on: “Usually by the time I leave, you are all asleep, the same when I return. That is why you’ve never seen me.”

  “I saw you yesterday!” exclaimed Fluff.

  “Yesterday,” said the owl, “I went out earlier than usual. I was famished. I have to eat every day but I had not eaten anything for two days because of the rain. All that wind and rain makes flying difficult. Soggy feathers are awfully heavy. We owls are not like fowl with oil in their feathers. All that wet kept me in.”