The Shrine in the Snow

The drive was slow, arduous. Blankets of snow piling on every surface where a mere 20 metres back down the road all you could see was the late blooms and the vibrant grass. They must know you are coming home. I turn to the urn in the front passenger seat, all golden and engraved. I don’t know why I decided to put a seatbelt around it but it feels right. Turning down the drive its the first time I’ve ever seen this house without the lights on. The dark oak exterior, the emaciated barn hovering ominously behind the house . The trees and garden once meticulously cared for are all thrown out in wild directions. Home. Opening the front door with as much enthusiasm as- well, as someone who desperately does not want to, I turn on the light switch and stare into darkness. Electricity, of course. Not of use for the dead. I place her on top of the fire place and try to light it, in a few attempts it blazes. I can thank her for that. The light from the fire illuminates the small lounge and I can now see the furniture, the table, lamps, everything but the clock on the mantelpiece covered in thin white sheets. Staring at the clock, it doesn’t seem to be disrupted by the lack of company. Still ticking away, giving a heartbeat to this desolate place. I remember giving it to her, the bright yellow eyes, the tawny wooden feathers, the circle in its centre chiming on and off when necessity arose. She loved it. The owl is looking tired, almost as tired as I am. Removing one of the sheets from the triple seater I lay down, thinking of nothing before nothing appears.

I awaken to the owl chiming loudly. Today is the day. I feel I should say something, do something. But her only wish was to take her to the shrine covered in owls, and relocate her ashes to be with them. Not bothering to change I slip her off the mantle and back into her car seat, only a twenty minute drive from here. The snow is ferocious. Not letting out even a couple of glances of road. We arrive after forty five minutes. Parking the car- carefully taking her out, the walk is a further ten minutes down a slope hill with side rails that even I am surprised the weight of the snow hasn’t crumbled it under the pressure. It smells of lavender and the crisp, almost lemony scent of some sort of weed buried beneath. I feel frozen before free falling to the earth, kneeling at the base of her shrine, taking it in. Even I am not allowed to grieve, yet. Placing her in front of the marbled statue, I pull an envelope from my pocket revealing my name on the front with her very severe handwriting. No time like the present. I tear it open, pulling out the small note inside, as a gust of wind comes forth, blowing through the trees revealing- to my surprise, an owl, hidden in amongst the camouflage of snow. I never understood her fascination with owls, or her insistent comments, ‘They know more than you think they do’ always followed by her cheeky smile. I feel like she would be pleased having one here to watch this.

‘My darling daughter, you are sat here in front of this shrine by my last living request. Please do not think me senile, but it is now your duty to look after the owls. The cottage is yours, you can continue your life here if you so chose. Spread my ashes and you will see. Love always, Mum.’

Not exactly what I thought would be in here- maybe something more sentimental than that? Although I now realise I am weeping. Tears flow from my eyes as I reluctantly wipe them away, opening the urn. The owls eyes have grown in intensity, I feel as though they are cutting through me. Slowly pouring her ashes, the wind carries them in a gentle breeze before finally settling on top of the shrine. It seems that they have all collected there, every last bit of her. But that cant be right. A banging is heard and I look up to see hundreds of owls taking flight. Landing on the ground around me, forming an almost perfect circle, the owl that has been watching me all this time flies out from his tree and lands straight in the middle.

‘Welcome.’

‘Some may think us omens of death, others see wisdom and prophecy. We are the latter. Your mothers role was to protect this land from outsiders. Within her cottage you will find a book, and in that book you will see the many roles we have played over the years.’ The owl pauses while the moment lingers, is that grief in its voice? Its voice? What is going on?

‘Your mother was a wonder, she wouldn’t have chosen you if you did not possess the same qualities. We protect this Earth, and now so shall you, if you will allow us in to your life.’

So this is what she did. What on earth am I supposed to say? Respond to the owl. Yes the owl.

‘I will continue my mothers role.’

As soon as the words leave my mouth all of the owls in the circle hoot, making their voices louder and louder, almost screeching, as the speaking owl flies to me. It places a feathery wing on my temple gently, ‘As you wish.’

A pulse comes from the tip of its feather. Ive been blinded. A tornado of information I cannot grasp on to. My feet collapse under me and I’m now kneeling in the snow. It whirls around my head, past, present, future. I can see everything.

Everything.

I stand, feeling faint but light. My hand caressing the back of my head, looking around at the now empty snow, tainted by talon marks.

‘Back to the barn. It’s time to start.’