Martin Hocke
Novel
A relentless system regulates the coexistence of Barn owls, Tawny owls and Little owls. In the land of the owls, violations of these ancient rules are punished with death. But a new era has begun: former enemies inevitably become allies in the fight against a common, old enemy.
With poetic wit and captivating powers of observation, Martin Hocke has woven this fantastic trilogy of novels, which revolves around owls and other nocturnal birds, into a parable that stands in the tradition of Watership Down and Wind in the Willows.
The Ancient Solitary Reign
978-3-95751-305-2
The young owl Hunter has received a sound basic education in history, geography, natural history, mankind and religion from his parents. His siblings also taught him what is important for survival in the forest. Full of anticipation, Hunter sets out to spend a four-year apprenticeship with one of the experienced specialist owls. But the way to his teacher is long and dangerous. When Hunter arrives, the wise old owl is dead. Now the young Hunter is completely on his own, far faster than he would like to be.
The Lost Domain
978-3-95751-306-9
Since time immemorial, the Tawny owls have formed the privileged aristocratic class among the nocturnal birds, far superior to the Barn owls and Little owls. Yoller, the son of the leader of a Tawny owl dynasty, also grew up with this belief. However, when the impetuous young Tawny owl is attacked by buzzards during a messenger mission to remote forest areas, his aristocratic origins do not help him one bit. Yoller is saved from certain death by the owl May Blossom at the last minute. Yoller and his lifesaving heroine fall in love, but conflicting life plans separate them again. Thus Yoller follows his intended purpose as a Tawny owl and returns to his homeland, where he finds himself confronted with the eternal struggle for supremacy in the forests. But the experience with May makes him doubt the old rules ...
Am an Owl
978-3-95751-308-3
The rule of law for Tawny owl forbids crossing the borders to no man's land. The young Tawny owl Olmo decides to resist this ancient rule, too much fascinated by the dark secrets of ancient times. Unafraid, he leaves his desolate homeland and embarks on a life-threatening journey. But his decision has serious consequences that will dramatically change the lives of the owl population.
‘A moving story that can hardly be thought more exemplary as a fable of the entanglement of people of our time. I hope this book is widely read.’ (Hans Bemmann, author of The Stone and the Flute)
‘Only imagination can capture the incomprehensible truths of human experience and make them comprehensible’, writes Martin Hocke about his decision to write fantasy novels. Since the publication of his first Owls novel, Martin Hocke, born in Cologne in 1938 and shortly thereafter settled in England, has been recognised as a leading author in the area of fantasy literature.Originally an actor with the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in London, he realised that only by writing, not acting, could he find his true voice.
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Martin Hocke: The Lost Domain. Novel
Copyright © 2019 by Nicole Hocke
Represented by AVA international GmbH, Munich
Cover design: Joachim Luetke (www.luetke.com) using themes from Angela Waye/shutterstock.com, begemot_30/shutterstock.com und Bildagentur Zooaar GmbH/shutterstock.com
Revised edition © 2019 by hockebooks gmbh
All rights reserved. The work (or parts of it) must not be (re-)published without the publisher’s consent.
ISBN: 978-3-95751-306-9
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
Ecclesiastes, Chapter III, Verse 1
But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me
The quarrel of the Universe let be:
And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,
Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
The Rubdiydt of Omar Khayycim, Verse 45
Done into English by Edward Fitzgerald, 1859
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1809–1892
Ulysses
I flew back across the forbidden territory shortly before dawn, pausing briefly to ascertain that Ferocity and Ripper had nothing further to report. Day was breaking again as I crossed the parkland and the lake, but still I saw no sign of man or firestick. I cleared the Lost Domain and struggled homewards, my wings flapping feebly under the rising sun. Having skirted round the village, I crossed the flat Barn Owl territory which Hunter had now abandoned and laboured on across the stream, through the spinney, and then upward through the woods and towards the safety of my ancestral home.
On arrival, I flew straight to my parents’ oak, and to my surprise found that both of them were still awake and glaring at each other across the gap between their two favourite branches in the centre of the tree. From their posture, their body language and the way they greeted me, it was obvious that something had gone seriously wrong.
They welcomed me, of course, but absently, as if their minds were still on the quarrel they’d been having. To bring them out of it, I began at once with the report on what I’d observed in the Lost Domain, but to my great disappointment and mounting irritation, neither of them seemed in the least interested in what I had to say. One was naturally more than a little peeved by this. When one has risked one’s life at the behest of others, especially one’s parents, one feels it incumbent upon them to give one a thorough and enthusiastic debriefing. I dare say my silent listeners will find my use of language slightly pompous, but I believe it sums up the way I felt. The fact of the matter is that I was deeply hurt by their lack of interest. Hurt and indignant. However, indignation is a parasite emotion, like envy or regret, and as I continued to talk, and they failed to listen, this resentment of mine boiled over into a state of flaming anger!
‘You send me on these suicidal missions,’ I protested, ‘and then you don’t express the slightest interest when I come back!’
‘I’m sorry,’ my father said, which astonished me, since I’d never known him apologise for anything before. ‘Of course we’re glad to see you back,’ he continued, blinking at me in the sunlight with a worried and careworn expression on his face. ‘The fact is that we’ve had some very bad news while you’ve been away.’
‘Rumours, not news,’ my mother snapped. ‘I’m surprised you listen to such rubbish!’
‘What rubbish?’ I asked, turning back to my father for an explanation.
‘We’ve heard that a monster owl is on its way here from the south,’ he replied. ‘We have been told that it applies the final solution to all other birds who fly the sky at night.’
‘The final solution?’
‘Death!’ my father said. ‘The extermination of any rival species.’
‘Who told you this?’ I asked, unwilling and unable to believe my ears.
‘A Short Eared Owl!’ my mother said, voicing her contempt for that species in no uncertain fashion. ‘A media bird, a creature of no fixed abode, who gets its living by spreading propaganda, blowing up the news and even by inventing it!’
‘There is often an element of truth in what they say,’ my father replied gravely. ‘We cannot afford to ignore this warning until we get the all clear from our own intelligence service.’
‘Nonsense,’ my mother said. ‘There is no such thing as the monster owl. It is extinct. And even if it were not extinct — and should attack us — we would doubtless bring it down!’
‘How?’ I asked. ‘I have always heard that the monster owl was awfully big, with huge talons and with a wingspan three times as wide as ours. I mean, to my untutored mind, it would seem as if attacking the monster owl, always assuming that it did exist, would be as futile as a dozen sparrows trying to bring down one of us. They would be slaughtered on the wing!’
‘They would indeed,’ my father said. ‘But that is because sparrows have but the tiniest of brains. Being mindless, they would have no strategy and therefore no tactics which would permit them to take on one of us. War is not only about numbers, bravery and strength. It is also about intelligence.’
‘And fear!’ my mother added. ‘The worst thing that can happen to a Tawny Owl, under the night sky, is to become afraid of fear.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, for though young, strong and reasonably brave, I could not see how any sane and well-balanced Tawny could fail to feel afraid of the monster owl, should such a thing exist.
‘I will tell you a story,’ my mother continued, with the trace of a superior smile on that handsome face of hers —a face I imagined had even when young been handsome as opposed to pretty.
‘Don’t you think I’m rather too grown-up for stories?’ I asked, resenting what I considered to be my mother’s patronising arrogance. ‘After all, I’m old enough to have killed a kestrel and a buzzard and have also been considered mature enough to lead a most dangerous mission to the Lost Domain.’
‘And, of course, you’ve been in love,’ my father interrupted with one of his rare, ironic smiles.
‘I am still in love,’ I said. ‘Though from what I’ve seen of love so far, I cannot say that it appears much connected with maturity!’
‘Listen to my story!’ said my mother, who seemed secretly pleased by the adult comment I’d just made. ‘No one doubts your intelligence or your courage, Yoller, but you must know that none of us is ever too old to go on learning. In fact, for centuries we have been brought up to believe that the day a Tawny Owl stops learning, he is dead.’
‘Well, then, tell me the story,’ I said, more amenable now to being patronised after the compliments that had just been paid to me.
‘Once upon a time a baby Tawny Owl was born here on this very spot and in these woods in which we now live,’ my mother began, and I winced — I fear visibly — at the banal and trite opening that was always used as a start for stories told to fledglings. I also flinched at my mother’s use of language, because it seemed quite clear to me that if this baby owl had been born here on this very spot it could hardly have been in any other place but in the selfsame wood. This very spot, after all, must be here! But my mother’s use of rhetoric and her pleonastic tendencies when telling stories had irritated me since I became aware of them in my early adolescence. Obviously nothing was going to change her now, so I resolved to listen patiently until she’d finished.
‘As this baby owl grew up, on this very spot,’ my mother continued, seemingly undeterred by the way in which I’d flinched, ‘he stared out every dawn and every twilight at what we call the mountain, though of course we know that in truth it is not a mountain, but merely a high hill.’
‘Get on with the story,’ said my father gruffly. ‘Everybody knows now that there are no real mountains in this part of the world. Everybody knows that real mountains have snow on top of them for most of the four seasons. But this is a story, not a geography lesson, so for the Great God Bird’s sake, get on with it!’
I was surprised by this unusually aggressive reaction on my father’s part. He was usually quite deferential to my mother. Though a brave warrior and a leader of the highest rank, he sometimes seemed almost in awe of her. I wondered then whether he resented the fact that his one and only grown-up son must suffer the humiliation of listening to a fairy tale, but this is one of the many things I shall never ever know, for both of them are long since dead. My mother’s only reaction at the time was to counter his outburst by ruffling up her feathers, stretching her neck and gazing down on him with a cold and rather haughty stare — a stare or glare which I believe disconcerted both of us. When she had silently put down my father’s minor rebellion, she unflexed her body and continued with her story thus:
‘This baby owl was taught when young that he must never fly beyond his own territory and up to the so-called mountain. He was told that on the other side of the mountain, or what we now know is merely a high hill, there lived a dreadful monster owl who would kill any creature who attempted to trespass on his territory. Of course, the young owl was frightened by this tale, as were all other Tawnies in the district. So in his early days he never dreamed of flying up to the great bald hill, let alone beyond it. But the day came when he matured — as you are now doing, Yoller. By this time his curiosity had got the better of him and he made up his mind to find out what the forbidden mountain was like and what — if anything — lived on the other side. So one day, when gloaming deepened into darkest night, he took off from this very spot and flew west in the wake of the drowning sun. He flew up and across the last outpost of the forest until there were no more trees and above him rose the high, bald hill, or mountain, beyond which lived the monster owl.
‘Approaching the crest of the hill, the young owl hesitated. It was not yet too late to turn and fly swiftly back to the shelter of his ancestral woods. But curiosity and the desire for knowledge spurred him onward and upward until he reached and overflew the crest of the bald mountain.
‘To his horror he saw at once that the legend of his childhood and his adolescence had been true. Emerging from its secret lair in the forbidden territory, the monster owl rose above him, so huge that he blotted out the stars, the moon, and seemed to fill the entire night sky. Knowing that it was now too late to fly back to the safety of his home, the young Tawny Owl flew onward still and ever upward towards this terrible apparition, and to his immense surprise the creature began to recede from him and drop down lower towards the ground, seeming to shrink as the young Tawny Owl approached. Soon the great bird was below him, halfway to the ground, and to our hero’s amazement had diminished to no more than the size of a rook or crow. With curiosity now replacing fear, our bold young adventurer flew downward and ever closer. As he did so the sometime monster landed on the ground, shrinking rapidly, first to the size of a sparrow and soon, as the Tawny Owl landed, into a creature tinier even than a wren.
‘Perched on the ground above the miniature bird, the young Tawny watched in amazement as the sometime monster looked up at him in terror.
‘What is your name? our hero asked, not wishing to harm this now defenceless and pathetic little creature.
‘My name is fear! the tiny bird replied, shrinking still further even as he spoke, and at the same time changing from a bird into a worm. Following this metamorphosis he began to burrow into the earth.
‘My name is fear! he repeated, in a fading, whimpering voice, before disappearing deep into some secret hide-out in the womb of the earth.’
Having finished this somewhat long-winded story, my mother resettled herself on the branch with that aristocratic poise, or pose, which was second nature to her. Having settled her feathers, she then stared at me and raised her eyebrows, as if expecting some kind of spontaneous reaction to the fairy story she’d just told.
‘What you’ve just narrated to me is a legend,’ I answered, having glanced at my father before replying. ‘What you are trying to tell me is that there is no such thing as the monster owl and that fear is merely engendered in the mind.’
‘That’s the moral of the story, of course,’ my mother said. I nodded and said nothing, remembering the two buzzards, who had been real, not legendary, and of whom I had been truly afraid. Perhaps I should have spoken then and voiced the already dawning doubts about my upbringing and conditioning, but I was still very young, and for me these were still the nights and days of discovery and wonder. Long nights of adventure they were then — long nights that led slowly to the dawning of a certain kind of truth.
But I digress again, and of course in those far-off days of my long-vanished, long-squandered youth, I did not think as I do now. In fact, I hardly thought at all. I suppose that like all living creatures I responded to instinct, on the one hand, and on the other to the finely tuned conditioning of my superior class and race.
Would that things had stayed the same! I rue the early sunrise on which I heard the alien’s song and first began to think, for thinking has been the death of me, and now no one will hear my version of the truth — no one but the wind that whispers through the trees and the water that wells up from the rock.
I believe that most of the damage done has been brought upon me by my brain and by the urge I felt so strongly for Mallow and May Blossom. To live long and enjoy a peaceable old age one should avoid all original, creative thought, and above all one should dominate all passion. Had I successfully avoided these two mortal dangers, I would not now be waiting in my third age for those of my own kind to fly through the night sky, destroy me and usurp what remains of my ancestral domain.
But passion came upon me and, later, so did thought, and at the end of my long nights and days I have no one but myself and them to blame.
At sunrise our first refugee arrived and confirmed the belief I already held, namely that evil does exist and that stories such as my mother told could only cloak reality in the mists of myth and legend.
The shattered refugee reported that he had seen the owls in his own community put to death by the monster owl, which was bigger and more powerful than anyone had previously imagined. Worse was to come! As the sole survivor of his own community, he had flown north and taken refuge in successive Tawny Owl communities, few of whom had believed that the monster really existed, and some of whom considered the refugee to be quite mad. They were soon to be proved tragically wrong when the monster loomed in the night sky, descended on their woodland dwellings and slaughtered them, killing — like the fox — not only for food but for sheer delight and blood lust. Once, he told us, he had even taken shelter in the open country among a community of Barn Owls, whom he described as thoughtful, studious birds. But however thoughtful and however academic, they did not believe him. They, too, insisted that the monster was a myth, took no precautions and were presently decimated by the giant as he flew across their territory on his way north, to the place where I perch now.
According to our pitiful, distraught refugee, the only reason he had been able to stay well ahead of the monster and reach our territory still intact was because the giant owl had found a great man-made estate some two hundred meadows to the south. Here he had paused to glut himself on goose, pheasant, lamb, hare and duck. Our only hope of survival, according to this wreck of a refugee, was that man would kill the great bird with his firestick as a punishment and to prevent him further plundering this vast and well-guarded game reserve.
‘You must believe me!’ pleaded our near-hysterical refugee, as he stared at us in the early-morning light with his haunted, fear-shot eyes.
‘If man does not kill the monster owl and if it pursues its northward path, applying the final solution to all other creatures of the night, you and your entire community will be dead before the rebirth of this crescent moon which at this moment sheds so little light.’
‘I believe you,’ my father said, after pausing to give my mother a solemn and reproving stare. Solemn because of the coming danger, I imagine, and reproving because of the fairy story she had told me on the night before the dawning of this dreadful truth.
Further interrogation of the Tawny turned out to be quite futile. Terror and fatigue had both taken a heavy toll, and a once sane and healthy bird was now reduced to little more than a gibbering wreck.
My own personal concern was of course for May Blossom, but the shattered fugitive knew nothing of what had happened in the city. He could only recount the tale of the monster’s devastation as it flew ever further north.
Soon the exhausted fugitive fell into a troubled, moaning sleep, but as the sun rose higher in the sky my parents and I stayed awake and pondered on the dreadful tidings he had brought us.
‘We must fight,’ my father said, eventually. ‘We must send out, east, west, south and north, and summon our array. All the Tawnies living in this territory must be called to join us in a great battle, during which we shall bring the monster down.’
‘Summoning them is one thing,’ I said. ‘But supposing they don’t come?’
‘They will come,’ my mother said, calmly, but with great conviction. ‘At a time like this, all true Tawnies must stand up and be counted.’
‘But even if they did all come, would there be enough of us?’ I asked. ‘From what this refugee has told us, it would take three score and ten Tawnies to bring this monster down!’
‘Nonsense!’ my father said. ‘It all depends on strategy and tactics. A battle plan is already evolving in my mind. Like all good plans, it will take some time to mature, and after that every detail must be defined. But the nucleus of the plan is in my mind and tonight I want you to fly out east, west, south and north and organise messengers to call all the owls under my command to assemble here on or before the dawn of the following day. If the monster owl is resting only two hundred meadows to the south of here, there is definitely no time to waste.’
‘Go to Birch first,’ my mother said. ‘He is the strongest young bird we have — apart from yourself — and he will be the hardest to convince.’
‘Why is that?’ I asked.
‘Because he is convinced, quite wrongly, that we usurped his family’s right to the leadership of this territory,’ my father said. ‘It is an old story now, long forgotten and much better buried in the past.’
‘None the less, it would be better for me to hear about it,’ I replied. ‘Birch has never liked me and I have never understood the reason why. If my task is to persuade him to join us in this war, the least you can do is to provide me with the history of this feud.’
‘Vendetta would be a better word,’ my mother said, ruffling her feathers in a manner that suggested complete contempt for Birch and all his ancestry.
‘What does vendetta mean?’ I asked. I had never heard the word before and somehow to me it sounded foreign.
‘It is a word imported by the little immigrants,’ my mother said, immediately proving that my intuition had been right. ‘It comes from their old language and it does indeed mean feud, but more so! It means feud, but feud suffused by even more blood, revenge and death!’
‘Then why, precisely, is Birch conducting this vendetta?’
‘Well, if you really insist on knowing, the whole story goes back to more than three hundred winters since,’ my father said. ‘It all started at the time of our last civil war against the Barn Owls. Up to that time, Birch’s ancestors were the oldest aristocracy in this territory, but the leader and his brother were killed in that long-distant war. Their sons were too young to take over, so control of the territory passed from their forebears to ours, and as you know, we have been the ruling family ever since.’
‘What shall I do if Birch refuses to fight with us?’ I asked.
‘You will tell him this story,’ my mother said. I groaned inwardly at this, thinking to myself, for the Great God Bird’s sake not another story, but my mother subjected me to that haughty stare of hers, so I sat on the branch and listened. It must be apparent by now, to the wind and trees, that there were times I was not as fond of my mother as perhaps I should have been. This was one of them!
‘One frozen winter four owls of different species died on the same night,’ my mother began, while I sat still and attempted not to fidget on the branch. ‘It was a winter’s night when snow stood hard as iron on the ground and when the icy wind cut through your feathers like a knife.’
‘Will you kindly get on with it!’ my father said. ‘If you include all those descriptive bits, the monster will have killed and eaten us before you’ve finished the exposition.’
‘It is important to set the scene,’ replied my mother coldly. ‘It is important to know that when the freezing owls reached that burning forest which is hell, all four of them wanted to get in. Having died of exposure and starvation none of them cared about the burning. None of them cared what happened afterwards, provided they could get unfrozen first.
‘But suddenly the great black Satan owl appeared and blocked their entrance to the blazing forest. Wait! he said. You are not the only owls to have died tonight, and it is so cold every one of them has wanted to get in. The inferno is full. There is only one place left, and to fill that I must take the greatest sinner among you.
‘You! the Satan bird continued, pointing at the frozen Barn Owl. What sins did you commit?
‘Oh, terrible ones, replied the frozen white bird, with his bill chattering as he spoke. The worst one was just recently; when the snow fell and the earth first froze, my eldest son returned and asked for food and shelter. Since leaving home he had not been able to establish himself in a territory of his own. Since my mate and I were on the point of starvation, I told him to go away. There was nothing to eat and no place for him at home, I said. So he left and half-froze, half-starved to death somewhere out there in no man’s land. To sum it up, I rejected my own son and sent him to a cold and lonely death, so please, please let me into hell.
‘Sorry, said the big black Beelzebub bird, with a slow shake of his massive head. You were only obeying the rules laid down by your Barn Owl tribe — you can’t go home again. Isn’t that one of the basic lessons that the owls of your species are taught? Young adults must leave the family home to find a new territory and found a lifestyle of their own. I have to confess that I don’t like what you did, but since you were merely conforming to the traditions and tenets of Barn Owl philosophy, in the context we can hardly describe your behaviour as a sin. So, sorry, but there’s no room for you. You can’t come in.
‘The place belongs to me! stated the proud Tawny, who was standing behind the Barn Owl in the queue, fidgeting with his talons to avoid frostbite from the frozen ground. When I was young I killed a jackdaw in the early dawn. There was no reason. It was daytime and he had a right to fly across our territory, but I killed him anyway. It was a wanton act of murder, so please let me in to your inferno.
‘There must have been a reason, said the Satan owl, frowning down on the Tawny from a great height. Tell me that reason, and I will consider you for the one remaining place.
‘Well, he spoke to me, the Tawny said. He greeted me in owl language, a parlance he had learned to imitate. Since I could not — and still cannot — speak the language of the jackdaw, rook or crow, or indeed any bird language other than our own, I felt inferior and killed him out of fear and resentment of this strange intelligence he had. I killed him in the early dawn, but I wasn’t hungry, so I didn’t eat him. If I had done, it might have justified my action. But after killing him I let the mutilated body of the clever jackdaw fall to the woodland floor to rot and be devoured slowly by worm and maggot. It was wanton murder and for this reason I claim the one remaining place in hell.
‘Sorry, said the Satan Bird, shaking his head again. Of course, I do not approve of what you did. You killed the jackdaw in the early dawn, while your Tawny law decrees that you may only kill by night. Yours was a gratuitous and wanton killing, the devil bird agreed. But I cannot classify it as a sin, or even as a crime, for it was born of fear, Tawny Owl conditioning and basic ignorance. You were very young at the time and basically you believed you were defending your own territory. Yours was an error of timing, not malice aforethought, and therefore, tonight, there is no room for you in hell.
‘Then let me in! piped up the Little Owl, who in spite of jumping up and down on the frozen ground to stop his small talons from taking root in the stinging ice had so far been dwarfed by the now disappointed Tawny who had stood in front of him in the queue of the four owls desperately anxious to enter into hell.
‘Why? asked the Satan bird, looking rather bored. His job was a hard one and on freezing cold nights such as these it was no fun to sit and listen to all species and all manner of owls protesting their innocence, or — as in this unusual case — their guilt. He was bored by their wretched little sins, most of which he could — as the devil he was — consider as little more than misdemeanours.
‘Because I poached on the farmland of the Barn Owl and in the Tawny woods. Because I squatted on their land and stole their food. I was an opportunist and a renegade and for this reason I deserve a place in hell.
‘No, you don’t, the Satan bird replied. Your lot on earth was not a happy one. As an immigrant, despised by the other species, you were forced to live from claw to mouth. Forced to live in no man’s land and to steal from the landed owls to keep your family alive. Certainly there is no place in hell for you. I dare say your earthly crime will prevent you from going to the Great God Bird’s paradise, which is a boring place in any case. I would guess that your destiny is to wander for ever in limbo, that place between hell and paradise which resembles in so many ways the no man’s land you inhabited on earth.
‘And you! the Satan bird continued, pointing one of his huge black wings at the Short Eared Owl who stood apart from the other three, shuffling his feet restlessly upon the frozen ground.
‘Oh, me? replied the nomad owl. Me, I did nothing. I just dropped by to see if I could get in because it is so cold. I am a media bird, as you know, and I simply have to be there when it happens.
‘What do you mean when you say you did nothing? the Satan bird enquired, for the first time raising his eyebrows to show some interest — just a flicker of interest to relieve the boredom of this and so many other routine nights of his eternal duty as the custodian of hell. His only sin on earth had been a personal conflict with the God Bird, and for this difference of opinion he had been condemned for all eternity to manage the dreary, day-by-day and night-by-night administration of his own, self-made inferno.
‘I did absolutely nothing! the media bird repeated. I saw a lot, of course. I saw little immigrant owls attempting to poach in the woods — as you rightly said, to keep their families alive — and then being slaughtered by the Tawnies. I saw Barn Owl and Tawny fighting over lines of demarcation between farmland and forest. I saw owls of different species killing one another, and even owls of the same kind fighting each other over some disputed territory. But I myself did nothing. There is no blood on my talons, for I never intervened.
‘So you did nothing, ever, to prevent conflict, violence or loss of life? the Satan bird enquired. You did nothing to create understanding among the separate owl species? Nothing to prevent the killing and the violence that you saw?
‘That is not my role, the Short Eared Owl replied. My role is to travel and tell stories. Everywhere I go I am well fed, for I have learned the skill of telling each type of owl exactly what he wants to hear. For example, the Tawnies love to hear bad things about the Barn Owls and the Barn Owls love to hear their neighbours the Tawnies described as arrogant barbarians, and of course both species love to hear the little immigrants put down. They like to hear them described as aliens, squatters, feathered vermin, and so on. You see, choice of language is the trick.
‘And the Little Owls themselves? enquired the devil bird. What is it that they like to hear?
‘Oh, to tell you the truth, I don’t visit them very often, the media bird replied. As you know, they are forced to live in no man’s land and the pickings there are lean. The fare is so much better in either Tawny or Barn Owl territory.
‘So you say you have no blood on your talons? the Satan bird enquired.
No, but let me in, anyway. Let me in and let me stay until winter has melted into spring. Then I will return to the world of living owls and report favourably on the conditions pertaining here in this very hot inferno that you run. If you like, I will tell the different owl species that I meet that yours is a better place than paradise. You see? You do a deal with a media bird and you will always be all right!
‘Come in, oh Short Eared Owl, the Satan bird replied. In my inferno, there will always be room for you!
‘The great black bird rose high then into the sky as if to avoid all contact with the media bird as he flew gratefully into the warmth of the blazing forest.
‘But remember! boomed the devil bird, as the flames suddenly shot up higher and began to singe the nomad’s feathers, Remember that you will never get out of here again. For your sins of omission, indifference and duplicity, you will burn here in agony for all eternity.’
When my mother had finished this story she raised her eyebrows in her complacent, haughty manner and asked me what I thought it meant.
‘It means that if Birch does not fight with us, he will go to hell,’ I said.
‘Excellent!’ replied my mother. ‘You have understood the message very well. So if Birch refuses to fight with us, tell him the story and the moral will shame him into action!’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But one small problem does occur to me.’
‘Yes?’ my mother asked, raising those formidable eyebrows once again in what seemed less like an invitation to speak than a challenge, or a warning against any kind of contradiction.
‘If Birch declines to fight, I shall of course tell him the story, as you wish. But it strikes me that he might make one very strong objection to the logic of the argument.’
‘Which is?’ my mother asked, after glancing at my father to judge his reaction to these first disturbing signs of an enquiring mind. Enquiring minds are not welcome amongst our Tawny hierarchy, for thought often leads to disobedience or even mutiny.
‘With respect,’ I said, ‘there seems to be a fatal flaw in the moral of the story. Not from the religious point of view, of course, but a flaw in its effectiveness as a means of persuading a healthy young Tawny to fight against a monster with a weight and wingspan more than three times his size.’
‘What is this flaw?’ my father asked, calmly, after returning my mother’s glance in a manner which suggested he had spotted the weakness too, and had already anticipated what I was about to say.
‘Well, the problem here is about going to hell,’ I said. ‘And whether one wants to get into the inferno or to paradise instead, one can only do so when one is dead. Supposing Birch does not wish to die? What answer will he give me then?’
‘You are showing dangerous signs of becoming an intellectual,’ my father said. ‘And as you well know, Tawny Owl high society tends to frown on them.’
‘Be that as it may,’ I said, choosing my words very carefully. ‘Be that as it may, but given what you have told me about the feud, or vendetta, between Birch’s ancestors and our own, if I were in his feathers I would say — or perhaps not say, but think to myself as follows: A monster owl is coming to invade us. My ancestral enemies, those who have usurped and disinherited me, wish me to join with them in fighting it. Why should I? In any case and in all probability, they will be killed. If I join them, I shall also be killed and go to paradise. If I don’t commit myself, if I hide somewhere and wait for the monster to move on, I will subsequently be able to take control of the territory, as my forebears would have wished. Listening to the story you have told me, it would seem that much later, when I died, I would have to go to hell. But in your story, that is what all four owls wanted anyway. So why should I object?’
When I’d finished talking there was a long silence as my parents stared at each other and then turned their eyes back on me.
‘I cannot dispute your logic,’ my father said eventually. ‘It may well be that Birch will react in the manner you have suggested. But apart from yourself and from Ferocity, Stoop and Ripper, he is the best fighting owl we have. Therefore your task is to recruit him to our cause. If you wish, you may use the story which your mother has just told you. Conversely, you may use any method you may consider efficacious. The end will always justify the means, as the Little Owls are fond of saying.’
‘May I ask a question?’ I said, feeling somewhat put down by the way my parents were treating me. ‘Having been taught to despise the Little Owls,’ I continued, without waiting for permission to go on, ‘having been brought up to believe that they were no better than flying scum, or vermin, I have on this fateful night heard two references to what I suppose might be referred to as their culture. First, the word vendetta. Second, this philosophy of theirs which you seem to have embraced and which would seem to mean that the end would always justify the means. Well, with this I have to tell you that I cannot agree. Nevertheless, I will do as you have asked and attempt to persuade Birch to fight with us.’
‘How?’ my mother asked, submitting me to one of her most glacial stares.
‘How?’ I replied. ‘I will tell you how. I shall explain to him that if he does not fight, Mallow, his mate, will not respect him. I shall tell him that when they breed, their fledglings will be branded from birth as cowards.’
‘Do you believe that?’ my father asked.
‘No,’ I said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘But then I’m not the one who has to believe it. Birch is!’
‘You are right,’ my mother said. ‘But much will depend on Mallow’s attitude. Her influence on him could be decisive.’
‘The influence of a female often is,’ my father said, glancing at my mother with what I suspected was a touch of irony.
‘Well, if she has any sense, she will want him killed,’ my mother said, escalating from irony into the dry, sarcastic mode in which she specialised so very well. ‘Birch is an abomination, as we all know,’ she continued. ‘But I repeat that as a fighting owl he has few equals, and if we are to bring down this monster he will definitely be needed. So remember to be very nice to Mallow.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, thinking secretly to myself that the task would not be too difficult, since — in spite of my deep love for May Blossom — I had felt the urge for Mallow on each of the few occasions we had met.
After this long briefing from my parents I slept until twilight, and then, as dusk deepened into night, I flew to the edge of our ancestral territory and down into the neighbouring stretch of woodland which had for centuries been occupied by Birch’s forebears. I was about to hoot to announce my arrival when I heard Mallow begin to sing. I guessed she was singing to Birch, and on an instinct I flew down into the branches of a maple tree, perched there silently and listened. Somehow it didn’t seem right to interrupt a ballad, even at a time of such dire emergency as this.
I say a ballad, but in fact, as the song developed, it began to sound more like a dirge, or lament. I will now tell the words to the wind and trees, because, as will soon become apparent, the content was to have a profound effect on the rest of my life, and even on the nature of the death that now awaits me. I remember the words more or less exactly, though some of them may have been repeated more or less often than in the rendering I now offer to my silent listeners. I remember the words well, because later, when I asked her, Mallow sang the song again.
Would you go if they gave a war
If they gave a war, would you go?
Before the last big show
The Barn Owls all said no
No, they wouldn’t go.
But in the end they did
And most of them were killed
But had posthumous honour to show.
If they gave a war would you go, would you go
If they gave a war would you go?
Would you fight for things you were taught to believe
Would you kill for the sake of your race
If they gave a war, would you go?
You would, I know!
If they gave a war, you would go.
And if you came home you’d have honour to show
And you’d lack the use of a limb
But if they gave a war
You would go, I know.
If they gave a war you would go.
And if you came home
You’d have honour to show
And you’d lack the use of a limb.
I waited for a while after the song or lament had finished, pondering on the implications of what I’d just heard. I inferred of course that Mallow was singing the song for Birch, that they had heard about the advent of the monster owl, that she thought that Birch would follow the call to war and that my task of convincing him to fight would be simpler than I had imagined.
Subsequent events taught me never to trust inferences again but to go always directly to the source. Had I checked my facts then on that sometime night, the rest of my life might have taken a different course, and after so many winters my coming death might have been a natural one instead of the assassination that I now expect. But at that time I was still young and impulsive and, after only the briefest pause for reflection, I flew into the great oak where Mallow perched.
‘I heard you coming,’ she said, after we had exchanged the normal greetings. ‘Birch is out hunting, but under the circumstances I am sure that he will be back here soon.’
‘What circumstances?’ I asked.
‘The invasion. You see, he guessed you or your father would be coming.’
‘So you’ve heard about it?’
‘Of course,’ Mallow answered, thereby confirming that the first of my inferences had been correct. As I was soon to discover, it was the only conclusion I had jumped to which subsequently turned out to be true.
As I sat on the branch opposite Mallow and looked into her eyes, I noticed — not for the first time — that in her subdued and modest way, she was most attractive. Mallow was smaller and less assertive and probably less intelligent than May Blossom, but that did not matter, for as I was later to discover almost all other Tawny Owls — male or female — were less assertive and intelligent than the one to whom I was betrothed.
The fact of the matter is that as we sat in the great oak and chatted, awaiting the return of Birch, I began to feel the urge. I was ashamed of myself, but I couldn’t help the feelings that I had. ‘The feelings you have, you have; and the feelings you don’t have, you don’t’, as one great Tawny poet once put it.
And of course, the issue was made more acute by the fact that May Blossom wasn’t there. Like most other owls, we Tawnies are monogamous. Both bigamy and adultery are considered to be sins in the Great God Bird’s eyes, and also crimes to be punished by the offended parties in the Tawny Owl community. Be that as it may, as I have just said, I couldn’t help the urge and, as I repeat again, it was not my fault if May Blossom wasn’t present; as I have frequently had cause to observe, one cannot mate with a bird who is not there.
My unwelcome surge of sexual feeling for Mallow was made more poignant by the fact that I suspected Birch maltreated her. Though an aristocrat, he was the fiercest of all the Tawnies in our local reign, and although female owls have sharp talons I could not imagine how Mallow could defend herself against him if he should choose to abuse her. As we waited for Birch to return, my growing desire to protect her, mingled with the urge, turned my emotions close, I suppose, to that thing called love.
But of course, there was nothing I could do about it. Birch was her mate and according to Tawny lore and tradition there is no such thing as the abuse of a consenting spouse. He arrived as the unwanted urge I felt grew stronger. Settling beside Mallow on her branch in the great oak, he gave me a cold greeting and a most unwelcoming stare. Normally I would have been angered by his rudeness and open animosity, but the urge I felt for his spouse made me feel rather guilty and caused me to react in a friendly rather than a hostile manner.
‘I suppose you’ve come about this invasion by the monster owl,’ he said bluntly and at once, before I’d had a chance to state the purpose of my mission. I explained that my father and I were drawing up a battle plan and that all the able-bodied Tawnies in the district would be needed if we were to bring the monster down.
‘Well, you can count me out!’ he said, immediately and much to my surprise, for after all I had just been listening to Mallow’s lament or dirge for a partner who would not refuse to go to war.
‘I think you and your father are very foolish,’ he continued, with ancient contempt in eyes, which were then still young. ‘Those who attempt to fight against this monster will all be killed. The best thing to do would be to hide and let him pass.’
‘But where to hide?’ I asked. ‘We have word that his philosophy is the final solution for all other creatures who fly the sky at night. So where can we hide? We cannot burrow underground like moles. We cannot plunge deep into the water and hide there like a pike. In any case, it is our duty to bring the monster down. Otherwise it will continue to fly north, annihilating all the night creatures in its path.’
‘Nonsense!’ Birch said, brusquely. ‘In my opinion, you and your family have invented this war to give yourselves more prestige and to retain control of the territories you usurped and have malgoverned for many hundred winters.’
I did not react at once to this blatant provocation. I kept my patience, partly I suppose because I was still guilt-stricken by my flowering lust for Mallow. It would be dishonest of me now to say that I remained calm because of the outside threat and because of the mission I had come here to accomplish. However, it did cross my mind that if I responded to the insult and challenged Birch to battle, after the fight there would be one Tawny Owl fewer to defend our territory against the monster.
‘The past is another country,’ I said, staring at Birch with what I hoped was an icy calm. ‘Owl history does not depend on you or me, but our future does. Therefore I suggest that you join us and help to bring this monster down. Otherwise he may return with a mate, breed and proliferate as the Little Owls have done. Then there would be nowhere left to hide. You can fly away, Birch, but from a monster of that kind you can never hide.’
Birch paused for a moment before replying. It was clear that some of what I said was having an effect on him. And also on Mallow, whose eyes had hardly left me as I spoke.
‘My advice is this,’ Birch said eventually. ‘Leave it to the Barn Owls. Let them go to the front line to resist this invasion. That way most of them will be killed and it will save us the trouble of eliminating them later on.’
‘Why should we want to eliminate the Barn Owls?’ I asked, thinking of May Blossom and remembering that she had hinted at something similar before flying to the city to get knowledge.
‘Because as man continues to cut down our woods, and as they continue to build more towns, we shall need the Barn Owl flatlands. You have your ancient woodland territory and I have mine. But what would happen if the men came here and built a town? Where would we go then?’
‘That may be a problem some day,’ I admitted. ‘But at this moment in time, there is a monster on his way to invade, intent on applying the final solution to all creatures of the night. If we don’t defend ourselves, there will be no tomorrow, either in these woods or on the Barn Owl farmland.’
Again, I was conscious of Mallow’s eyes upon me as I spoke, and it also struck me that Birch’s remarks about the Barn Owls might also have applied to my father, myself and all our retainers. If we were killed in this coming war against the monster owl, Birch, his brother and his cousin would be left alive to regain control of our ancient woodland reign.
Birch glanced at Mallow and then stared hard at me. ‘No!’ he said eventually. ‘You talk well, Yoller, but your arguments do not convince me. I shall not fight with you against this invading monster and neither will my cousin or my brother. This I can guarantee!’