My Life in Shambles(46)

He starts walking toward the post, the top of it lined with artificial grass.

I start following him, keeping my distance, when Padraig suddenly stops and throws his other arm out to the side, stiff as a board.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head, keeps walking, but then his frame starts to lurch to the side, his legs crossing, and then he’s going down. His glove opens, and just before he slams into the frozen grass, the owl flaps his giant wings and takes flight.

I don’t have time to worry about the owl.

“Padraig!” I yell, rushing over to him and dropping to my knees, hand at his back. “My god, are you okay? What happened?”

He’s on the ground like an injured beast, but he’s not getting up. His eyes are shut tight and he’s trying to breathe. “McGavin. The owl. The owl,” he says, voice hoarse. “I can’t lose him. I can’t lose him.”

I look around, trying to see the owl in the nearby trees, but I can’t. “I don’t know where he went. What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m not okay. I can’t lose that owl. I can’t, I can’t,” he keeps muttering to himself. “My dad will kill me, he’ll bloody kill me.”

Shit. He’s more upset about the owl than the fact that he lost his balance for no reason and fell over like a damn tree.

“I’ll help you get him back,” I tell him, stroking the back of his head. “Just as long as you tell me you’re okay. Do I need to yell for help?”

“No,” he says, whimpering. “No, I’m … fine. The owl … I can’t. I can’t lose him. It can’t happen again, not again.”

Jesus. To see this big tank of a man down like this, it’s unnerving. I want nothing more than to help him, to protect him.

“Okay, it’s okay,” I tell him soothingly. I try and grab his arm. “Come on, you need to at least sit up.” I pull at him but he’s almost dead weight.

Finally he moves and sits up, leaning against the pole. I crouch in front of him, my hands on his face. His skin is cold to the touch, like the air. “Padraig,” I say gently, brushing his hair off his forehead. “Look at me.”

He looks up at me with red eyes, drained eyes. The kind of eyes that have just been through something traumatizing and can barely manage to keep being traumatized.

I place my hand at his cheek. “I’m going to try and get your bird back. Give me your glove, your gauntlet, whatever.” I reach down and pull the leather glove off. “Now, is there something I need to do, like a call or something? Should I hoot like an owl? You know, it’s one of my many talents. Hoo hoo, hoo hoo.”

Okay, so I’m trying to make him laugh and it’s not working. The man looks fucking lost.

“I’ll be back,” I tell him. “Don’t go anywhere.”

I slip on the giant glove, feeling a bit like Thanos but without any of the power. It engulfs my hand and forearm but is blissfully warm from Padraig, then I start walking out across the field, to the trees.

I scan the branches, wondering if he’s flown farther than that. I thought most falconry birds always returned, so I would think he’s close by. But I can’t see him anywhere. I’m starting to panic because I know Padraig is on the ground back there and he’s panicking.

There’s something seriously wrong with him. The thought grips me and I don’t want to think about it but it might be true. Maybe it is just the stress of everything and maybe these are just panic attacks, but panic attacks that are strong enough to bring a brick house of a man down like that mean serious trouble. I don’t want him to sweep it under the rug.

I go over how I’m going to broach the subject with him when a flash of white and grey catches my eyes.

There! The owl flies forward from the depths of the forest and lands on a nearby branch.

He’s surveying the land, probably looking for prey. Probably hungry.

I suddenly turn around and run back to Padraig, who is still sitting on the ground, his head in his hands. “Hey, I found him. I need to lure him. Don’t you lure him with treats? Where is his food?”

He doesn’t answer and I try not to let that break my heart, so I look around and spot a leather pouch lying by the open door to the owl’s cage. I fumble through the pouch until I find something that I hope is a piece of chicken.

I run back out to the field, the owl still on the branch.

I think he’s looking at me, but who knows.

I stick out my arm and put the piece of chicken on the back of my hand.

My arm starts to shake but I keep it out there.

The owl spots me.

Starts to fly.

Oh shit.

He really is going to land on me.

I’m no weakling and my arms are the opposite of twigs, but that’s a big fucking bird with a big fucking beak and big fucking claws, and it’s going to land on my arm and snap it in two.

At the last minute, I prop my arm up with my other arm and try not to scream.

The owl lands on me and immediately starts pecking at the chicken.

I sway from the impact but otherwise my arm is holding steady, even without support.

I’m kind of an idiot, forgetting that birds have hollow bones and not weighing a lot kind of enables them to, you know, fly.

Still, the rest of me is shaking, and I’m panicking, especially as the owl is staring right at me, right into my soul.