The Harbinger of Death

Peter, a barn owl, lived in the abandoned barn behind the farmhouse. He slept in the loft through most of the day. It was dry and cozy there, his own little heaven.

Being a nocturnal bird, he left his little paradise in the barn just before sunset to explore the outside world. He liked to start his night by flying low across the pond to stretch his wings. His reflection gliding across the water scared the fish swimming just below the surface. He didn't care much for catching fish. He didn't like getting his talons wet, but there was no reason to let the fish know that.

Just beyond the pond, there was a large oak tree. After stretching his wings, Peter would land at the top of the tree to do some preening. After he had his feathers in check, he might return to the barn to do some hunting. Livestock had not been kept in the barn for years, so no food was kept there either. The only rodents who dared go into the barn were those seeking shelter on a stormy night or during the winter. On a clear night or in the warmer months, Peter hunted in the nearby woods.

One early evening, just as the sun was setting, Peter was about to fly off to the woods to find some dinner when he spotted something moving in an upstairs window of the farmhouse. He had seen a young boy sitting at the window before. It was the same boy he once saw playing in the yard. But whatever was moving inside the boy's window now was much smaller. Peter decided to fly over to the windowsill to have a look. It was a rat who appeared to have a bad limp. The rat was in a cage sitting inside the window on the boy's desk.

"Hello! What's your name?" the rat said to the owl.

"It's Peter," he said to the rat.

"Peter? That's not a very good name for a barn owl. Is it?"

"I guess I never thought about it. What's Peter a good name for then?"

"A rabbit, of course. Haven't you heard of Peter Rabbit?"

"I think that's where my mom might have come up with my name. She used to feed me and my siblings rabbit all the time when we were owlets."

The rat shuddered.

"What's your name?" Peter asked.

"My real name is Rizzo, but the boy calls me Squeaks. Squeaks! Can you imagine? Squeaks might be a good name for a mouse. But a rat?" he said, shaking his head.

"What's a good name for an owl?"

"I don't know. Screech, maybe?"

"Screech?" Peter said. "That's the sound we make! Would you name a cow Moo? Would you call a wolf Howl? Or a donkey Heehaw?"

"Maybe. There's a canary that lives in a cage downstairs, and her name is Chirpy," said the rat.

"Well, now you know why the boy calls you Squeaks," the owl said. "But why does he keep you in this cage?"

As he spoke, Rizzo turned to look at the boy sleeping in the bed behind him. "One night, while I was scavenging for food in the kitchen, I got caught in a mousetrap. It broke my leg. His mother told him to take me outside and kill me with a shovel, but he put me in this cage instead and let me live."

"Are you happy here?" asked the owl.

"It's not a bad gig, I suppose. The boy gives me food and water—mostly scraps of bread and corn. My leg isn't getting better, though. It's not his fault. I'm just a rat. I'm not sure what will happen to me when he goes."

"Who? The boy? Where is he going?"

"He's got a bad heart. The doctor gave him a few more days to live—maybe a week—if he's lucky. I thought you knew that."

"Me? Why would I know?" Peter asked.

"Isn't that why you are here?"

"I was just sitting in the oak tree over there, and I saw you, so I thought I would fly by and say hello."

"But you're an owl," Rizzo said.

"Yeah. So?"

"Owls are harbingers of death. Aren't they?"

"Who told you that?"

"No one told me. I just grew up knowing it."

"What's a harbinger?" Peter asked.

"It's a sign or an omen of what's to come. I can't believe you don't know that! I thought owls were supposed to be wise," Rizzo said.

"Well, you also thought I was a sign of death," Peter said.

After saying goodbye to Rizzo, Peter flew into the woods. He found a night cricket chirping in an apple tree. He caught it and ate it, ending its early-evening song. The cricket was a bit small, just a snack. Peter knew he would have to find something else to eat, so he sat in the tree and waited.

A full moon soon filled the dark sky with light, helping Peter to spot a plump garter snake slithering across the ground. Peter swooped down to the ground and grabbed the snake in his sharp talons. He carried it up to the tree limbs above to pick at its flesh.

As he finished his dinner, he thought about what Rizzo had told him. He supposed the rat was right in a way. Peter was indeed a harbinger of death. He was a bird of prey. Everywhere he went something gave up its life so that he might be nourished and so that he could live. He hated the idea that others thought of him as such, but Peter couldn't help it. He was an owl, after all.

A few nights later, he spotted the rat crawling across the lawn and heading toward the barn. He was limping even worse than before. Peter landed on the ground to talk to him.

"Did the boy die?" Peter asked.

"Not yet, but he knows he doesn't have much longer. After he fed me some dinner, he told me it was time to set me free, to let me live out the rest of my life outside and not in some cage. So, here I am. I think the bone in my leg has healed wrong. Not his fault. I'm just a rat."

"Where will you go?"

"I thought I would take shelter in the barn and stay there for a while. It's not going to be easy. I do wish he would have kept me a bit longer, or until the end, but his mom would have probably just finished me off with the shovel."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I could help if you want. I could carry you the rest of the way," Peter said.

"Nah, that's okay. I don't have much farther to go."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. The walk will do me some good. Thanks, though."

Peter turned to look at the barn. The rat was walking so slow that he wouldn't make it to the barn by nightfall. He looked back at Rizzo. Peter could tell he was tired and his leg was hurting.

"I've been thinking about what you said, and I think you are right," Peter said.

"Oh? About what?"

"About me being an omen."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah. I think I am a harbinger."

"I told you," Rizzo said, sitting down on the ground. He looked exhausted.

"It's not my fault I'm an owl."

"Not at all! It was your destiny—I guess—if you believe in that sort of thing. We never have control over that. Do we?"

"That's very true."

The owl and the rat fell silent. Peter could tell Rizzo was in pain. His breathing was heavy. He sat in a heap on the ground and held his bad leg close to him.

Rizzo looked up to the sky. He thought about an old adage his mother had once told him about how the moon was made of cheese. He wondered if that was true. He looked to the barn and knew he could not make it there alone.

"Peter?" Rizzo said.

"Yeah?"

"If you don't mind, I think I will let you carry me to the barn."

"Alright. If you are sure that is where you should go, then that is where I will take you."

"I'm sure," Rizzo said.

And so that's just what Peter did.