Music of Ghosts (6 page)

Seven

Mary Crow lay in
a dream-tossed sleep, one minute trying to teach Ann Chandler Cherokee, the next trying to find a seat on the governor's bus. In the current one she and Jonathan were fighting over a dead hawk. They were pushing each other away from the bird when suddenly it came back to life and began to peck Mary's shoulder, hard and insistent. At that point, she awoke with a start, sitting up in bed to find Lily standing there in her pajamas, tapping her shoulder.

“Wake up, Meyli,” she whispered urgently, using the Cherokee version of Mary's name. “I think the owl's dying.”

“The what?” Mary asked, thinking she must still be dreaming.

“The owl. The one Daddy hit last night.”

Mary blinked, trying to sort her dreams from reality. A hawk had not been pecking her shoulder—Lily had been trying to awaken her. She looked over at Jonathan sleeping beside her. As usual, he'd turned his back to her. The unwrinkled white sheets stretching like a snowfield between them.

“Get up, Meyli.” Lily tugged at her arm. “Hurry!”

Mary slipped out of bed and hurried to Lily's bedroom. They'd put the injured bird in a cardboard box with some shredded newspaper. Jonathan had wanted to leave it on the back porch, but Lily had insisted on bringing it up to her room. Now it was struggling to fly—panting, reeling, vainly batting its wings against the sides of the box. In one corner of the box Mary saw a thick clump of dark red matter that could have been blood or vomit or both.

“Pleeeease can we call Dr. Lovebird?” Lily held up a business card that pictured a cartoon of Nick Stratton playing a fiddle with all sorts of birds perched on him. Beneath the picture was the line
Invite Dr. Lovebird and Friends to your next school event.

“It's three in the morning, Lily. We can't call him now.”

“But he said to call him if we ever found an injured raptor.”

“He didn't mean in the middle of the night,” Mary croaked, her throat like sandpaper.

“He said anytime!” Lily cried. As the bird squawked again new tears began rolling down her cheeks. “Please call him, Meyli. We can't let the owl die!”

Mary looked at the child. At that moment, pre-Oklahoma Lily was back. She stood there a sweet, loving little girl, weeping over an injured bird. Mary wondered—would calling Nick Stratton bring that little girl back to stay? And if Lily came back, might Jonathan return as well? She had no idea, but she figured it was worth a try. “Okay,” she said. “I'll go call him.”

She tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, thinking that Nick Stratton had probably never dreamed some kid would take him at his word. Nonetheless, she punched in the number, for Lily as much as the bird. The phone rang once, twice, then a surprisingly alert male voice said, “Yes?”

Mary cleared her throat. “Uh, Nick?”

“This is Nick Stratton.”

“Nick, this is Mary Crow. From the sports park opening?”

An awkward pause, then Stratton spoke. “Mary, right. What can I do for you?”

“I'm so sorry to bother you, but we've got an injured owl. My daughter got your Dr. Lovebird card today and insisted that I call.”

“An owl?” Stratton sounded relieved, as if he'd expected much direr news.

“We accidentally hit it while driving home,” said Mary. “We put him in a box. Now he's panting and batting his wings. I think he might be bleeding, too.”

“Bleeding from where?”

“I'm not sure … there's a clump of dried blood in the box.”

“That's probably a pellet,” said Stratton. “Owls vomit undigested parts of their last mouse.”

“Oh,” said Mary, unaware that owls had that ability. “He still seems like a pretty sick bird.”

There was another long pause, then Stratton spoke. “Okay,” he said. “Bring it on over. God knows everybody else has tromped through here today.”

“Where should I come?”

“At the end of Cashiers Branch Road, on Burr Mountain,” said Stratton. “Keep the bird in that box and leave it alone. Don't shine lights on it or play the radio while you're driving up here. When you get to the totem pole, make a sharp left and follow the tire tracks.”

“Thank you,” Mary said, watching the hope flickering on Lily's face as she lingered in the doorway, listening to their conversation. “We'll be there as soon as we can.”

She dressed in the dark, and she didn't bother to wake Jonathan; she knew he was already awake. He was a woodsman—he always slept lightly, attuned to any odd noise. He'd probably been awake since Lily first came into the room, and had just lain there, feigning sleep. She thought about telling him where they were going, but she decided not to bother. He would think them mad to drive a maimed owl halfway across the county in the middle of the night.

Mary followed Stratton's instructions, keeping the bird as quiet as she could. Lily followed her downstairs, insisting on going along.

“I can help,” she told Mary. “I can hold him while you drive.”

Mary's first reaction was to tell her to go back to bed. But her old, sweet Lily was still there, her eyes huge with concern over the owl.

“Okay,” said Mary. “But we have to do exactly what Dr. Lovebird said. No talking, no lights, no radio.”

They got in the car. For forty-five minutes they drove through the night, Lily making an occasional comment in a whisper. Mary shook her head at the incongruity of it all—a lone car speeding along mountain roads in the dead of night, its occupants as silent as if they sat in church.

Finally, they climbed up a gravel road that ended at a totem pole of leering faces. She turned left as Stratton had directed, churning up a rutted road that ended near a small cabin. A dim light burned on the porch, faintly illuminating a tall figure who paced from one end of the porch to the other. They got out of the car, Mary carrying the owl, Lily following. “Nick?” she called as they drew closer to the cabin. “Is that you?”

He stopped his circuit of the porch. “Is that friend to tribe and county Mary Crow?”

She laughed, flattered that he'd remembered John Oocuma's words. “It's me.”

“Good,” he said, his tone odd. “I was beginning to think I'd just dreamed you, along with everything else.”

“I'm so sorry to get you up in the middle of the night,” said Mary. “But this owl's in bad shape.”

“No problem—I was awake.” Stratton came down the porch steps and lifted the box from Mary's arms. “Let's go see what you've got.”

He led them into the cabin. It was neat and cheery, built of new pine logs orange with varnish. A green flag hung over the fireplace while an array of stringed instruments hung on the wall beside the hearth.
Musician
, thought Mary, wondering what else Nick Stratton's talents included.

“Come on in the kitchen,” he said.

He carried the owl into a small kitchen stuffed with everything from bread bowls to birdcages. For the first time, Mary got a look at Stratton, up close. He was even taller than she'd thought, with sun-streaked hair that grew into brown sideburns and dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. His eyes were greenish-blue and bloodshot; the scar that bisected his upper lip was tightly drawn as the ends of his mouth curved down in either irritation or disapproval. Despite his polite welcome, there was an edginess about Stratton that made her wonder if they'd interrupted something far more pleasurable than just a night's sleep. She decided that he must have a wife or a lover upstairs, now fuming because he'd left a warm bed to look after some bird.

“Where did you guys hit this owl?” he asked as he put the box on a long trestle table.

“Near our house,” said Lily. “My daddy hit it. He wanted to kill it, but we wouldn't let him.”

He frowned, disapproving. “Your daddy drive a pickup with a gun rack in the back?”

“Her father's Cherokee,” Mary explained, not wanting Stratton to think she lived with some rifle-toting redneck. “They regard dispatching an injured animal as releasing its spirit.”

“
Adonuhdo
.” He used the Cherokee term.

“
Adonuhdo
.” Mary nodded, surprised at Stratton's knowledge of Tsalagi.

He raised one eyebrow. “You disagree with the concept of
adonuhdo
?”

“I think certain things are worth fighting for,” said Mary.

“But your husband didn't … ”

“Lily's father didn't,” she explained.

“Ah.” Stratton's puzzled gaze lingered on her a moment, then he turned his attention to the box. “Well, then. Let's take a look at your bird.”

He buttoned his shirtsleeves and looked at Mary. “Are you squeamish? Faint at the sight of blood?”

“Not especially,” she replied.

“Then you can give me a hand with this. My regular staff is currently unavailable.” His tone was bitter, as if his staff had quit and walked out in a huff, en masse.

“What do I do?” asked Mary.

“First, put those gloves on.” He nodded to a long pair of leather gloves, hanging by the sink. “Injured birds still have eight sharp talons. I learned that years ago, when a big Golden Eagle decided to filet my upper lip.”

So that's where the scar came from
, Mary thought as she walked over and pulled on the gloves. Thick deerskin, they came up to her elbows and had the well-worn feel of silk.

“Can I do something?” asked Lily.

“Stand over by the light switch,” said Stratton. “When I tell you, dim the lights.”

Mary frowned. “We're going to do this in the dark?”

“It's only dark to us. To the owl, it's daylight.” Stratton spread an old quilt on the table and spoke in a whisper. “I need you to hold the bird while I examine it. We need to move very slowly, very calmly, and whisper when we speak.”

Mary crossed the kitchen to stand beside him. Lily stood at her post, one hand on the light switch as Stratton began.

“I'll get the bird out, and put it on its back. You just cradle it between your hands. Allow it to move, but not thrash.” He looked at Mary. “We'll have to stand a lot closer together.”

“That's okay,” she said. God knows nobody else wanted to stand close to her.

He turned to Lily. “Okay, kiddo, dim the lights.”

Lily darkened the room. Stratton opened the box and lifted the injured bird out. Its white feathers looked luminescent, a quivering froth in the darkness.

“Tyto alba,” he whispered. “Barn owl.”

He laid the bird down on its back. It flapped broad wings, made a couple of swipes at Stratton with his beak, then Stratton began to hum—a weird, mesmerizing kind of tune. Amazingly, the owl relaxed into the procedure.

“Just hold the bird gently and try to keep it still,” he told Mary. “I'll do the rest.”

Mary did as he asked. When she corralled the bird, Stratton stepped close and put his bare fingers between her gloved hands. He smelled of leather and oranges, and something else she could not name. She watched as he palpated the owl's neck; felt the line of feathers down the animal's chest. Using his fingers like calipers, he measured the width of the bird's breast. She noticed that his hands were strong and his long fingers went through their practiced motions precisely, as if he were playing one of those violins.

“I'm not feeling any internal deal-breakers,” he whispered. “Let's check the wings.”

He shifted slightly toward her and spread the owl's left wing. The bird struggled, the feathers under its beak quivering.

“Is he getting too hot?” whispered Mary.

“Just scared. She's stressed.”

“He's a she?” Mary wondered how Stratton had determined the gender of the owl—to her it seemed all feathers and huge eyes.

“Probably. They're larger than the males. She likely has fledglings that just left the nest.” He looked at Mary. “You live on a farm?”

She nodded.

“Then she's probably one of your tenants. Pays her rent by killing your mice.”

Stratton continued examining the owl. Mary watched, fascinated as he felt the tiny bones and ligaments that made up the structure of flight.

“This bird flew in front of your car from the passenger's side, didn't she?”

Mary nodded, remembering how Jonathan had veered to the right.

“Well, you missed most of her. I only feel a slackness in the ligament that attaches the right wing to the shoulder.”

“Can you fix it?” Mary asked.

“Unfortunately, not. Broken bones we can fix; ligaments we have to leave to Mother Nature.” Stratton lifted the bird from Mary's grasp and put her in a tall cage that stood next to his refrigerator. Immediately, she climbed on a perch and rousted her feathers.

Stratton turned to Lily. “Lights, please.”

Lily turned the light switch, craning her neck to see the owl. “Is she going to be okay?”

“I don't know, honey.”

“But you won't kill her, will you?” Lily asked, her voice quivering.

“No,” said Stratton. “
Adonuhdo
I leave to you Cherokees.”

They stood there for a moment, watching the owl. She returned their stare with dark, glassy eyes, then she turned her back to them and faced the wall, as if offended by all the attention.

“What do we do now?” asked Mary.

“I'll keep her here, feed her mice, let her mend. If she starts flying again, we'll release her. If she can't fly anymore, we'll make her an ambassador bird, either here or somewhere else.”