Tarrow's Lupin

1910. Dartmoor, England.

An unearthly cry shattered the night’s silence. The boy clung to the sheet that covered him, wrenching it up over his head. He had never heard such a devastating sound.

The boy was Tarrow. Eight years old at first light, and the only son of Jacob Garner. Jacob Garner was a decently respected farmer. A life-long tenant of Mayfield Farm, though eight years in absence of a wife.

As the first brambles began to ripen on the hedgerows, September made way for the Autumn. Tarrow woke early that morning. Having never known the company of a teddy-bear in bed, nor a mother’s morning hug, he knew only the day’s greeting as the grunt and creak of the farmyard rattling him awake.

Father preferred to work alone, instructing Tarrow to keep to the house or to the lanes that surrounded the farm. The lanes trailed off like extra limbs into the surrounding country, woven with wildflowers and woodlands. But for as far back as Tarrow’s memory provided, he had been forbidden to step foot on the farmyard. Tarrow believed this to be because he was not yet a man and was not yet big enough or strong enough to be of use as a farmhand. But what he did not know, was that Father was consumed with a great fear, since the loss of his wife, of his son being stolen from him also, threatened by the trampling hooves and machinery that dominated the farm.

Tarrow grew more hopeful each day. Rising from his bed, he rushed to measure himself against the grooves of the door frame. 126cm. The same as yesterday. He hastily wrapped himself up in Father’s holey woollen jumper, before rushing downstairs. He grabbed a piece of dry bread before running excitedly out into the yard. Today was the day.

Tarrow watched the cows bustling about as Father ushered them out the yard and towards the field. The smell of manure was all-consuming, but Tarrow was concerned with more important things. He strode over to Father, heaving the too-big leather boots that reached up over his knees.

Father barely bothered to catch his eye. “You shouldn’t be out here, lad”, he grumbled, shuffling left and right to herd the cattle.

“I’m eight today, Father” Tarrow offered.

Father sighed, momentarily releasing his attention from the lowing beasts. “I’m sorry son, Happy Birthday. We will have pie tonight.” Father responded sympathetically. “But you really ought to get out the yard now, go on, back to the house with you” he said, turning back to the cattle.

“But I said I’m eight now Father! I can help you now! I have grown lots this week!” Tarrow exclaimed gleefully. But it was to no avail. Father faced back to the cows, trying to hide his pity. “You can’t lad, now back inside with you”.

“But Father please, there’s so much I can—” Tarrow’s pleads were silenced as the towering silhouette of a heifer stumbled backwards, staggering in Tarrow’s direction. Father dived, grasping his son by the shoulders, propelling him narrowly out of the cow’s step. Father gritted his teeth in relief and despair. “Now off with you”, he barked. Tarrow’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Now!” Father snapped, so Tarrow turned and slumped out of the yard.

Tarrow did not head back to the house, he headed out across the beck and down the lane. Angrily wiping away tears, he would walk and walk and walk, imagining himself growing stronger and taller as he did. He would prove to Father just how valuable he could be on the farm.

He walked for hours, quietly proud of his knowledge of these lanes. Nibbling at leftover berries in the hedgerows. He quickly left behind the altercation with his Father, indulging in the freedom of the autumn air that surrounded him.

Tarrow came to rest as he often did, at the base of the old oak tree in Big Field. It loomed overhead, bristling its branches out in reach of the clouds. The sky was beginning to blush pink and Tarrow knew that he ought to make for home. A few minutes rest wouldn’t hurt, he told himself. But as he began to close his eyes, a sudden terrible shriek cried out overhead. It was the same sharp and biting cry he had heard in the night.

Tarrow stared wide-eyed into the branches above. A little creature, not much bigger than his fist, was inspecting him from overhead. Tarrow tilted his head in curiosity at the creature. It tilted its head back. Tarrow giggled, watching the little creature as it shook all over and became remarkably fuzzy.

He had never seen an owl before, and the little owl had certainly never seen a Tarrow before. It appeared to have a painted copper ring around its face, with tremendous black eyes and a neat little beak. Some of its feathers were bronze, others grey, but mostly the little barn owl was wrapped in a white fuzzy layer of down. Tarrow thought how funny-looking it was. He pondered if that’s why it was all alone. Whatever the reason, Tarrow resolved that the two of them would be friends.

Tarrow kicked up the dirt at his feet, eventually uncovering a worm rolling about in the earth. Scooping it up between finger and thumb, he flung it up towards the little owl. She fluttered off her branch to catch it, before screeching again in excitement. Tarrow chuckled, but then turned to see the sun plummeting into the horizon. “I’ll be back tomorrow! I promise!”

Tarrow kept his promise. He visited the little owl every day, naming her Lupin, after what Father had said was his Mother's favourite flower. Some days he would arrive at the old oak and the little owl would not be there. But Tarrow refused to be disappointed, he knew she would come, and she always did. Each day her downy feathers seemed to disperse more, replaced with a dappled golden plumage. He wondered if the owl was noticing him grow too.

With each visit Lupin grew bolder. Tarrow delighted in throwing berries and bugs to her, pleased with his progress as she braved getting closer and closer to him. Back at the farm, Father had become relieved at Tarrow’s seemingly lost interest in working on the farm, but he was too busy and too tired to be curious about it.

It was late October by the time Tarrow had gained Lupin’s trust enough for her to land on the branch at eye level with him. They stared into each other’s shiny black eyes. Tarrow tentatively held out his forearm. Lupin jiggled back and forth for a moment, but then, the little owl hopped confidently onto Tarrow’s arm. He held in a squeal of delight as she clung on tightly. He thought how light she was, and how her sharp her talons were, to pierce through his sweater and into his skin. But he did not mind. He felt privileged she wanted to hold onto him so tight.

As Tarrow headed up the lane and back into the farmyard, Father lingered at the gate. “What’s got the spring in your step?” he asked.

“I’ve made a friend”, Tarrow replied earnestly. Father’s face dropped, fearing whatever bandit or drunkard his son had befriended.

“Would you like to meet her?” Tarrow asked shyly. Father looked at him quizzically, “her?”, he frowned. Tarrow nodded and took Father by the hand.

The pair headed back out the yard and wound their way round the country tracks. The light was rapidly draining from the sky, and Father entrusted his steps to that of his son’s knowledge of the land. Soon enough they reached the old oak tree and Tarrow was nearly skipping with excitement.

“Where is she then?” Father sighed, fearing his son had simply imagined the existence of his new friend, dreading more that he may have encountered a passed spirit, as the villagers had often warned of.

“Shhhh” Tarrow replied, putting a finger to his lips. They stood in silence. The minutes ticked by and Father rolled his eyes, conscious of the many tasks he had yet to complete. “Come on, son”, he yawned.

“Hang on! Please, she will come”. With that, the branches rustled overhead and out squealed that almighty cry. Father jerked back, instinctively wrapping his arms around Tarrow. Tarrow peeled himself out of his Father’s protective grasp, holding out his arm and calling up to Lupin. Sure enough, the little owl fluttered down and landed on Tarrow’s outstretched arm.

“I’ve never seen such a thing”, Father exhaled, audibly astounded.

“She’s very friendly” Tarrow replied, reaching his arm out in Father’s direction. The little owl hissed at Father, and the two of them chortled.

“This could change everything”, Father muttered. But Tarrow was too engulfed in the joy of little Lupin. Father placed a hand on Tarrow’s shoulder, tired eyes smiling down at him, “time to head home now, son”.

Tarrow shook his arm lightly and Lupin flew back up into the branches of the old oak tree, before they headed down the lane, making their way home through the moonless night.

The sun rose and Tarrow raced out of bed and down the rickety staircase, surprised to find Father standing in the hall. In one hand he held a jacket, in the other, a brush and bucket.

“So, you’re ready to be a farmer?”

Tarrow couldn’t believe his luck! He slipped into the jacket, grabbed the brush and bucket and followed Father out into the yard. Father said he had important business in the village to attend to and needed the assistance of a farmhand to manage whilst he was gone. Tarrow was to sweep away the old straw and cobwebs from the stables and change the water buckets, but most importantly, he was to keep a clear distance from the herd.

Giddily excited to begin his duties, Tarrow momentarily forgot about the little owl. He vowed that he would go to her as soon as Father returned.

But Father did not return until nightfall. Tarrow swept until the stables seemed almost inappropriately clean. He devoured the leftover loaf in the pantry, before drifting to sleep beside the log-burning stove. He did not wake when Father returned in the early hours, kicking off his boots and slumping into the armchair, swiftly collapsing into deep sleep in the warmth of the kitchen.

“Father, father”, Tarrow shook the dazed heap that was his Father.

“There’s someone here to see you”. Father blinked his eyes open, shaking himself awake, to see the figure of a gentlemen hovering at the door. He rushed to his feet, brushing himself down and making for the door.

“Make yourself busy lad”, he hissed as he knocked passed Tarrow. Tarrow slipped past the finely suited gentleman and headed out into the musty autumn air. He speedily made his way down the track, excited to tell Lupin all about his first day as a farmer, though burrowing a shadow of guilt for not having seen her the day before.

Tarrow arrived at the old oak tree. The morning had not yet fully arrived, and frost remained glued to the ground. Tarrow waited. He waited whilst the crows cawed and the church bells chimed in the distance. But Lupin did not come. He walked the edge of the field, hoping she was just stretching her wings, but she did not appear. As the hours passed, Tarrow reluctantly decided to head for home, desperately convincing himself that she was okay, ignoring the twisting feeling in his stomach.

As Tarrow approached the farm, Father was tending to a bull on the yard. “She didn’t come”, Tarrow called out meekly. Father appeared not to hear him. Wilted with disappointed, Tarrow trudged onto the yard. Father wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his sleeve, not dropping his gaze from the bull.

“She wasn’t there today, not anywhere”, Tarrow repeated. Father peered in his direction; a face of frustration diluted with sympathy. He sighed indiscreetly, then made his way towards Tarrow.

“This was going to be a surprise for later, but why not”, Father said, as he walked round towards the back stables. A clatter came from behind the stable door and Tarrow stepped back, afraid. He gazed up at Father, unable to read his expression. But then came a screech.

“Lupin!” Tarrow clawed at the bolt on the door, with excitement and relief. But as he swung open the door, he was met with the alarming sight of the little owl tearing at the inside of a rusting metal cage. She screeched at Tarrow in desperation, as terror spread through him.

“What’s she doing? Why’s she in there?” Tarrow flustered. But Father’s expression changed, “I brought her here for you, I know how much you love her and now you don’t have to trapse all the way to the other side of the village to see her”.

Tarrow tried to feign gratitude, but was tense inside at the clear distress of his little owl. His stomach was a muddle of feelings. Father had never gotten him a gift before.

“You can play with her as long as you like, but she must stay in here, understood?”, Father didn’t wait for a reply, he turned his back, before marching off to finish where he had left off with the bull.

Tarrow tried to calm the little owl, attempting to hush her screeches and still the frantic beating of her wings. Her distress subsided, but he could feel her sadness at being unable to stretch her wings and dive about the wild sky.

The afternoon soon became the evening and Tarrow headed back to the house. To his surprise, the smart looking gentlemen had returned and stood in the kitchen with Father. The man was too thin and stony looking.

“This is Mr Wheeler, he’s come to meet your owl, Tarrow”, Father spoke. The man turned to him, his face creased into a smile which made Tarrow uneasy. Tarrow said nothing, but walked back out into the yard, followed closely behind by Father and the strange Mr Wheeler. He cautiously opened the stable door, staring at the ground as Lupin shuddered in the corner of the cage. He could not bear to see her like this, but he had to keep reminding himself that Father had done this as an act of kindness for him.

The next day Tarrow sat with Lupin in the damp and dust of the stable. How he longed to set her free and to return her to the oak tree. The day drew to a close and Tarrow headed back to the house. That night he lay in bed, uneasy at the thought of his little owl. His thoughts were interrupted by the distinct voice of a discussion taking place downstairs. Tarrow crept to the edge of the stairs and listened intently. He heard Father, accompanied by the bony voice of the strange Mr Wheeler. Tarrow crept down a few more steps, aching to hear clearly. Eventually, words began to form.

“It’ll be in the best possible hands, I’ve been a practising taxidermist for fifteen years now”

Taxidermist? What on earth is a taxidermist? Tarrow wondered, growing more and more frustrated. But as he listened further, he could barely believe his ears.

“We will come back and collect it tomorrow, with the necessary equipment. Here’s your deposit, and you will have the rest once its done. Trust me, that creature will do a lot more good above Lord Tyner’s mantlepiece than flapping about in your shed. It won’t know a thing about it, quick shot and it will be dead as a dodo.”

Tarrow could barely breathe. A flurry of questions rushed through his mind. Were they going to stuff her? Would she really not feel it? Surely Father hadn’t known? He would never do such a thing. But then Tarrow’s mind wandered to the lifeless fox head that took centre stage above the cooker. He could not allow this to happen. She was his little owl. His first and only friend. She had trusted him. He had to make a plan.

Tarrow tiptoed back up the stairs and crawled into bed, thinking hard on his plan of action. Father would be engrossed in milking at first light, based out the front of the yard, this would be his only opportunity, to sneak out round the back and set his little owl free.

The crow of the cockerel could not come soon enough. Tarrow leapt out of bed, threw on a jumper and ran for the door. But as he went to turn the handle, it was solid in his grasp. He twisted and shook it desperately, but it would not budge, continuing only to rattle at him mockingly. He was locked in. Tarrow bit back the overwhelming desire to scream and cry. But he knew that would be futile and a waste in his attempt to rescue Lupin.

The window. Tarrow rushed to the sill, heaving open the wooden frame. He peered down at the gnarled and knotted branches of the wisteria plant that climbed up to his bedroom. Wasting no time, he clambered out onto the ledge, taking a breath, before grasping hold of the thickest branch and easing himself out of the window. He edged down slowly, the brittle branches creaking under his weight, and for the first time in his eight years, Tarrow was gleefully glad to be small.

Finally, and thankfully, Tarrow reached the ground. He wiped his brow, imitating how he had seen Father do. He sneaked around the edge of the house, listening carefully for the familiar trudge of his Father’s boots. There was no time to lose, Tarrow crept across the yard to the back stables. Father was nowhere to be seen. As Tarrow approached the last stable, he was relieved not to be given away by the screeching of the little owl. But he knew he would have to work fast, as soon as he opened that door, Lupin’s cries would echo around the farmyard once more.

Tarrow carefully lifted the bolt of the door, glancing behind him to check he was still alone. He gingerly pulled open the stable door.

Tarrow froze. The stable was empty. This time he could not hold back his tears. He was too late. How could Father have done this. As the little boy was justifiably about to resort to surrender, he heard a clatter from down the lane. Thinking it to be Father, he hurried out the stable, slamming and bolting the door shut, running to hide behind the dry-stone wall.

That’s when he saw old Mr Wheeler. The strange man scurried down the track, looking about him nervously. Mr Wheeler was hunched over something, wrapped over in a blanket. As he got further down the lane, Mr Wheeler began to move faster, until eventually he was running. That’s when Tarrow heard the beat of wings and the screech of his little owl. Tarrow flung himself over the wall and charged down the lane.

“Hey! Hey! Come back here!” he shouted as loud as he could. Mr Wheeler spat back words Tarrow had never heard, running even wilder. But Tarrow was fuelled by the love for his little owl and his legs whizzed beneath him and Mr Wheeler began to get closer. Tarrow was only metres away from the crooked old man, stretching out his arms and grasping at the empty air. He was so close. But just as his fingers grazed Mr Wheeler’s jacket tails, the old man spun round raising a fist Tarrow, but then –

*BOOM*

A gun shot fired. Both Tarrow and Mr Wheeler fell to the floor. The blanketed box clattered to the ground. The metal of the cage clinked against the stones, falling open. As the blanket fell away, Tarrow saw those familiar golden feathers, he held his breath as he waited for them to move.

Finally, there came an almighty, furious screech. The little owl clambered out the broken cage, shook her feathers, then shot off into the air. Both Tarrow and Mr Wheeler looked about them, stunned in silence. Mr Wheeler then scrambled to his feet, shouting more words Tarrow did not know, before sprinting erratically back down the track.

Tarrow looked up. At the end of the lane, Father stood, a rifle in his hand, aiming up to the sky. Father dropped the gun and ran desperately towards Tarrow. When he reached him, he scooped him up into his arms, but Tarrow was stiff and pushed away at his chest.

“How could you?!” Tarrow sobbed. Father lowered his son to the ground, crouching down at eye level. He looked at the ground, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry son.”

Tarrow looked at him, glowering unforgivably.

“I only thought of the money. Of the money that bastard thief promised. Of the decent supper I might have given you, of the new sweater you could have had”, he fumbled the edge of Tarrow’s well-worn sleeves. “I’m so very sorry Tarrow, I didn’t realise that bird meant so much to you”.

“Lupin. Her name is Lupin”.

Tarrow reached for his hand, “It's okay. But let’s go, we need to check she’s okay”. They rose to their feet and walked down the lane and over the field, eventually reaching the old oak tree. Tarrow stared up into the branches, but Lupin was nowhere to be seen. He sighed, turning to lean into Father. But as he did, he felt a sudden whoosh, as a gust of air shot passed, to the sound of that urgent, deafening screech.

“Lupin!” The little owl landed promptly on the lowest branch of the oak tree, flapping her wings ecstatically and ruffling up her feathers. Tarrow beamed as he reached out his arm for the little owl to land on.

There they stayed, bathing in the remaining hours of that October day, joyful in one another's company. Until the sun slipped into the edge of the earth, and the moon led them down the lane home.