Bearing the Soul

“Never harm Yonja,” he said, “He’s bearing all a’ the dead souls that need it.”

I remember my grandfather’s dark eyes and tanned, wrinkled face, laughing crow’s feet at his eyes. He was talking about the barn owl we’d seen, my older brother and I, up in the scrub in the back paddock. It was roosting in an old mugga ironbark. Grey and rugged the tree was, fissured with age and riddled with nesting hollows; it must have been a sapling when Shakespeare’s Macbeth first strut and fret his hour.

The roosting owl – just on dusk we saw him – shook out his wings, calling to his mate in a thin, dragging screech of a voice. Then he shook and stretched and swooped into the gloom on silent wings.

“Carrying souls? Why is he carrying souls?” asked Andrew.

“He’s taking them wherever they need to go next.”

I was satisfied enough with that answer, and my brother had to be; no matter how he pestered and questioned Grandfather that was all the answer he would give. It was a pattern well worn, my Grandfather was a man of few words, well chosen, so answers yielded only more questions. Where I was content to let the knowledge come in its own time, Andrew pressed impatiently, and when further questioning Grandfather failed, he would seek out the knowledge with a haphazard determination, often dragging me with him.

So it was that Andrew and I spent many evenings following, searching for, and watching Yonja: in the fading twilight, on moonlit nights with a small torch, and occasionally – when Andrew was particularly driven – in pre-dawn grey and chill. Many of our sojourns were fruitless, but enough succeeded so that we learnt Yonja’s habits and came to understand what he was; the way he moved and hunted, the patterns of his night. It’s hard to lack empathy for an animal you’ve come to know so well.

The next year Andrew finished high school and then moved away to study; science of course, marine biology in Townsville. It neatly blended his insatiable desire to know and understand, with his passion for protecting and preserving nature.

“If I’m gonna save the world, gotta start somewhere,” he quipped as he loaded up his beaten, second-hand sedan.

His emails to me were full of life, exuberant and delighting in the wonders of the subjects he studied, the people he met, and the North Queensland lifestyle. Still constrained to school, I was a trifle envious of him, but knew also it wasn’t a life I was ready for, could barely even comprehend with my circumscribed existence. It was all so far away, surreal and wonderous and terrifying.

I was finishing my final year in high school when he emailed me about Julia. The attached photo showed a young blond woman with a flashing smile and an even tan from the tropical sun. There was no doubt he was smitten; every second word was a superlative and the entire email was about her. And it was a long one. At the end of the year I drove up to Townsville to see him and meet the object of his considerable affection, the inimitable Julia. I didn’t like her. She reciprocated. I found her objectionable in every way: snobbish, petty, vain, and obsessed with her own needs. I have no idea what she thought of me, though it certainly wasn’t complimentary. Needless to say, we avoided speaking with one another to a degree that, at times, descended into farce and caricature.

Two years later, our mutual objection became something we would have to endure; Andrew proposed and of course Julia accepted. I dug a new garden bed at the side of the house and buried my angst in the turned soil and compost. Grandfather dug alongside me; he had no problem with Julia, but he recognized my need for companionable silence, space to think with the comfort of a steady man beside me. I don’t think he said more than five words in the whole day we worked.

It was an interesting wedding. Julia revelled in being the centre-piece, and Andrew was more than happy to indulge her, while he cheerfully sat back in the roughest suit imaginable. The mix of their friends was a microcosm of class difference, but in the most amusing of manners. Julia’s friends were rich and keen to flaunt it, but Andrew’s friends were wealthy, and didn’t bother to show it. The bridesmaids were all dressed in bespoke tailored outfits, while the best man wore a hand-me-down suit that belonged to his great-uncle. The fact that the buttons and matching cufflinks were genuine antique ivory inlaid with filigree was a fact lost on Julia’s retinue.

Thankfully we found no cause for quarrel that night, it was a truly joyous occasion. Whatever ills I perceived in Julia were incidental compared to Andrew’s happiness. I’ve never seen a man more completely in love, and he in turn was clearly Julia’s world. While I would never envy Andrew his choice of bride, I did envy the natural way they seemed to complete each other, so effortlessly, a continuous being that extended across physical boundaries. Their honeymoon was spent at Ningaloo, diving of course.

Andrew continued his search for answers to the world’s ills, interspersing high-paid consulting jobs he somehow wangled with unpaid activism and charity. Julia followed him around the country, content to take whatever work where-ever. They made periodic trips to catch up with the family, and always made time around Christmas.

At these family gatherings Julia and I, acknowledging our mutual distaste, developed a complex dance weaving aside from each other. It became instinctive for us to gently ease around each other, moving discretely from the room as the other entered, engaging a family member in conversation so we never had to truly interact. Andrew knew, and Grandfather of course, but the rest of the family chose to remain ignorant of our cautious demilitarization.

Two phone calls completely obliterated that reality.

The first call was from Andrew; Julia was three months’ pregnant, and Andrew was ecstatic. The thought of being an uncle hadn’t really occurred to me before, it was always possible in a hypothetical sort of way, but never completely real to me. Perhaps it was the ephemeral nature of my own relationships; at twenty-seven I had yet to have a girlfriend longer than six months. Fatherhood was almost inconceivable to me. And I found myself excited anticipating a niece or nephew, regardless of Julia, I wanted to be part of their life.

The second call three months later was from Julia. She called me direct on my mobile. I didn’t recognize the number so just answered with a bleak “Hello?”

“Peter? Is that you Peter?”

“Uh, yeah, uh… Julia?”

“Oh. I had to get the number off your Dad, I wasn’t sure… I didn’t have it already. I mean I could’ve got it wrong.”

“Ok. Well, you didn’t.”

“Yes, clearly Peter, otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

“Julia what do you want.”

“It’s…” the pause dragged out, I thought I heard a slight sob, “It’s Andrew. He’s dead, Andrew’s dead.”

Andrew’s dead Andrew’s dead Andrew’s dead Andrew’s dead

It echoed and reverberated through my skull, and suddenly the lights were too bright and the air was treacle. I barely followed the rest of the conversation, couldn’t even recall it at first. I had to call one of Andrew’s friends later to figure it all out, to hear it again and pin it down in my mind, and even then it swirled around and around in a surreal madness.

And of course he’d died in the most ridiculous way possible, utterly ridiculous. He’d been walking to a fancy dress party in a Bluey costume, and he couldn’t see where he was going, and he tripped over a dog and struck his head. A dog! A stray dog. And it wasn’t even a big dog, it was some sort of miniature poodle for Christ’s sake.

The barely controlled chaos of a life’s ending descended on us. The shear volume of work involved in a death is staggering. The funeral arrangements and ceremony alone are like organizing a small, misery-clad wedding. Then there are police statements, hospital records, coroner’s reports, an autopsy, bank records, employers… the list seems insurmountable when you’re cloaked in grief. And when the funeral’s over, there’s an almost inevitable descent into listlessness and eventually a dark and personal gloom, a pall that shrouds the mind so no light seems to penetrate.

I cursed the folly of his death, cursed and swore and cried out in the silences of my mind. I beat against Death’s black wall in a pathetic rage, “Give him back!” screamed my soul, “You’ve no right, no right, and he can’t be gone!” I raged against my impotence; if only I could somehow work harder, just work harder and fix this, or move faster, or dream up something. I could fix this, I must be able to fix this, I can make this unhappen. It’s just one moment in time dammit, I can change one, single, little moment, surely. Or please, let it not be, please…

Death is patient and impartial. She ignores all our rage and all our pleas equally, silently, unendingly.

Slowly the monochromatic kaleidoscope of grief, the dreadful blacks and blasting whites of despair and rage, fury and pain, slowly they blend and run together. There is only the muted, drab grey of numb sadness that drapes itself across the landscape, shrivelling and starving the world of light and colour.

But the world keeps spinning. Despite the gnawing ache like hunger in my bones, I returned to the mundane world, to daily tasks and work and too much coffee and not enough sleep. You know, life, or a semblance of it. I plodded aimlessly through work I once revelled in. I retreated and receded from life at night, sinking into bad television dramas where death’s coming is merely an inconvenience, where the characters barely notice, their grief an abbreviated meaningful stare. And next week their chirpy selves return.

After two months my boss pulled me into his office.

“Pete, you’re taking some time off, extended sick leave at half pay. Mate you’ve gotta sort this out.” I stared at him and just nodded mutely.

“If you weren’t so good at your job before this,” he continued, “I’d have no choice but to sack you. But I convinced the management that you just need a chance to get your act together. Mate, you’ve got ten weeks, and I really, really need you to prove me right. Otherwise I’m in the firing line too.”

Ten weeks at half pay. That was generous, more than generous. He could easily have just cut me loose and probably should have. Interesting how we incur a debt for a favour never asked, and yet, there it was, a stark reminder that it wasn’t just me at risk.

I called Julia to let her know I was heading Home. Odd. I’d moved out years ago and only went back to visit my parents and Grandfather, but it was still Home. It was still the place I sought for refuge when the world seemed bleakest, where I could run and have some semblance of safety.

“Call me when you get there,” said Julia, “I need to know you’re safe.”

That’s what she said at the end of all our calls now, “I need to know you’re safe.” As if she was worried that incidental trauma was somehow genetic, that bad luck and misfortune could be passed down a blood line, perhaps to her unborn child. Or maybe it’s just something that happens when a woman is heavily pregnant, how the hell would I know, I’d no experience with either situation before.

The familiar juddering feel as I drove up the corrugated gravel road to the house was always slightly comforting. It was a familiar welcome, like the warm hug Mum gave me and the slightly awkward hand shake from Dad, and Grandfather’s quietly chuckled words,

“You still ain’t as pretty as me.”

He was old now, his face as fissured and worn as the old mugga up the top paddock. But his grip was still strong and sure, his dark eyes still clear, kind, and hinting at laughter.

“Better get inside before the mozzies carry us all off – we’ve had a good wet season this year and the wrigglers are in every pond and puddle.”

I’d barely been home a week when I got another call from Julia; at least this time I knew the number.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m at the hospital, can you let your parents know I’m going in for an emergency C section.”

She was a couple of weeks early, and an emergency caesarian, that couldn’t be good right? Well, not much I could do, she was three hundred klicks away in Brisbane in hospital.

“No worries, will do… and Julia, you’ll be fine.”

“Right. Yes. Well, you stay safe.”

It was six weeks before we got to meet the new baby. Naturally he had to do the rounds of the matrilineal grandparents first, and that was only after Julia had taken some time to heal from surgery, though less than she should, and then more time learning how to do mother things. Apparently it doesn’t just happen, you actually have to learn about kids and parenting. I’ve since bought a book, I figured it might help me be a better uncle.

She named him Andrew.

I suppose there was a certain amount of inevitability about that, but it still came as a shock the first time she brought him in and introduced us. Sitting around the kitchen table while we drank lukewarm tea – that’s a thing you do around babies too, because everyone’s hyper alert, especially when the father’s recently died – we carefully passed Andrew between us and made noises about him. I just felt it all start to crystalise around me, we were all being pleasant and careful and not saying The Wrong Thing, as if the air was made of glass and might shatter and shower us all with terrible shards. That’s when I relised Julia’s grief.

My own grief was a pale imitation, a miasma that would leave a stain like an ugly tattoo, but ultimately was only skin deep, perhaps a little deeper. Julia’s grief was like some awful, monstrous creature, clawing at her from the inside, sometimes quiescent and at others held chained in check by a towering effort of will, but always present. It had not eased or faded or grown less with time, it could not be reasoned with or bargained with and it had not the quality of mercy. I knew then that it would take only the slightest injury, the mildest wound and that creature would erupt and tear her apart, as it must have done many times already, and that while she could pull that creature back and cage it again, each episode must leave a toll and a scar, on her mind and on her soul.

“Julia, you should stay the night, it’s a long drive back and you must be tired.”

Mums are so awesome. Why didn’t I think of that? It took a little convincing, but Julia was happy to be convinced. In fact Grandfather somehow convinced her to stay on an extra night as well, with his usual absurd economy of speech. I think it’s something to do with his eyes.

“You should show her Yonja,” he said after Julia had gone to bed.

“Uh, not sure she’s in the mood for ornithology. Nor am I really, especially not for owls carrying dead people’s souls, not what any of us feel like I’d say.”

Grandfather nodded calmly, “I didn’t say dead people’s souls. Show her Yonja. It helps.”

I should know better than to argue with Grandfather. By the next afternoon Julia and I were almost squeaking against each other in the confines of the house and yard. Too many memories and too many differences and too many similarities separated us. Have you ever tried to push both the positive ends of two magnets together; well that’s what me and Julia are like. I’d have gone for a walk alone, but that seemed a bit obvious; inviting Julia along was the next best option, at least there’d be space.

“Tell you what, let’s get out of here for a bit. I want to take you up to the paddock where we saw the barn owl. Did Andy ever mention it?”

“He told me once. It sounded spooky so I never asked him again. Your grandfather mentioned it this morning though.”

I shrugged, “Not really spooky, just interesting. I’ll grab a torch and mozzie repellent and we can head up at dusk. Andrew will be right here with Mum for a couple of hours.” I saw her expression. “You need a break. Mum’s raised two boys and didn’t drop either of us, and if you’re really worried we can come back earlier.”

The trek up to the old mugga ironbark stand was a bit longer than I remembered, and we had to go slowly for Julia; it was still painful for her if we moved too quickly. Dusk was well advanced when we arrived at the tree where Andrew and I first saw Yonja roosting. The evening shadows made every crack and hollow on the tree inky and deep. We sat down to watch quietly. Time dragged, as it does when you’re trying to keep still, the shadows slowly filled the landscape around us and the pale last-light picked out the ironbarks in shades of lighter grey against the deepening gloom. And still we sat in silence waiting.

I startled suddenly at the dry scratching call from a tree nearby. There was the faintest hint of a wing beat, and just barely I could pick out a paler shape glide into the tree we watched. I gently touched Julia’s shoulder and whispered, “Turning torch on.” There he was, just as beautiful and odd as he’d always been. He stayed in the beam of my torch for less than a minute, then dropped from the branch into a swooping glide and was gone.

“Was that the owl you first saw?”

“Maybe not that exact owl, but one just like it. Yes, that was Yonja, the barn owl. I know, Grandfather says that they carry the souls of the dead, but it’s not…”

“That’s not what he said.”

“Uh, yeah he did.”

“No, he said carrying dead souls, that’s what he told me this morning, carrying them where they need to go.”

“Same thing.”

“No, no it’s not. Shine the torch at the tree for me, I want to go over to it.”

I walked with her to the ancient mugga. She reached out her hand and touched the bark, a wooden topography of ridges and valleys, hard, gnarled, and she stroked it.

“He touched this tree didn’t he? When the two of you were young.”

“Yes.”

“He walked through here, and studied these plants and followed this owl, Yonja.”

“Yes, we walked all through here. I think I have an old sketch book of his that he drew plants in.”

“Then he’s here. He’s here in a way and I can always find something of him here.”

She cried then. But it wasn’t the explosion of the beast I so feared, not a tearing apart of herself as the creature ripped its way from inside, this was a gentle rain. It was a quiet, sad song of loss and memory, of love remembered and knowing it continues even though they’re gone. She said his name, gently, tenderly and passionately, and it echoed through my mind in a whisper.

As we walked back to the house, I thought I sensed a change in Julia, or maybe myself. There was a lessening of tension and somehow a fog seemed lifted from my mind. There was pain, would always be pain, for both of us. But we would share that and I would help raise young Andrew as best I could as an uncle. So we returned together, not healed, but perhaps healing.