The Cry

It was in the shudder of their wings. The hidden omens of their presence could be found in the black gaps of the night; small openings of birch between the snow-lined white pine branches where the birds stooped in search of their next meal, curious eyes as deep and wide as the barrels of his shotgun. This small opening was all he needed. As natural as the violent panicked flutter of the barn owl’s wings before it took flight, he held his arms up steady, movement minimal, almost mechanical. His fire was efficient, and it took no less than a single bullet to rid the now-flightless creature of life.

There was never a time Lucas could recall when he was not out hunting. In the only serene memories he could resurface of his father, he saw him as a figure in the snowy woods, the wide sturdiness of his back standing proud with a gun slung over his shoulder. As a child, he remembered as he stood cowered in his father's shadow, ears covered anticipatorily for the incoming gunfire. This is the only time they would stand together quietly, a father bringing his son along to teach him to shoot at the herds of doe-eyed deer that would hesitantly indulge in the damp needles of remnant pines, the same giant trees they had always been surrounded by, the trees which swallowed the entirety of his family’s small farmhouse whole. In all of the particular memories of his father’s hunting exploits, they are standing still in the depths of the woods in the wintertime, when the snow had made its semi-permanent settlement, and in its wake drew all vegetation back into the earth. There was always the image of tranquil on his father's face as he focused in, his tongue sitting pointedly on a bottom lip roughened by the piercing air, the darkened bags of his eyes drawn thin as he gazed determinedly through the trees, concentrated solely on his meek prey.

When the trigger was pulled, the frozen winter sprung suddenly to life, each peeling in its own direction, the rush of a deer herd, the explosion of a snow bank, a young boy falling to his knees at a sudden piercing sound. The deers sprinting bodies caused a burst of color on the otherwise stark white background, flecks of brown fur and black hooves weaving in and out of towering trunks in an instant. The gun solemnly fell to his father’s side. He had missed. “Shit,” he muttered, voice gruff as it was often unused, “That damn mother of yours was always a better aim.”

Lucas had taken from his father only his stance. His widened shoulders which left behind him a pronounced shadow contrasted his relatively narrow stature, and his thin disposition he assumed from his mother. She had been dead now for decades, and the attempts to resurface an image of her in his memory took heavy effort. As the snow began to settle around his feet, he was brought out of his recollection and back to the issue of his prey.

He took the bird by its taloned feet, taking a thin piece of twine from his pocket to wrap the legs together. This was his fourth, maybe fifth, hunt of the season, and he felt a sense of pride in the large numbers he had accumulated. The owls could be heard everywhere during this time of the year. They had taken residence in his attic above his bed, and their noises had on more than one occasion forced him awake. Whenever they glided past him on his nightly treks, he could not help to feel anything except a deep abhorrence. Everything about them disturbed him, the flittering scuttles of their feet clawing on the wood, the ripples of their wings, and the wailing, the offensive calling, a crying screech that would leave him shaking during the early hours of the morning. It was at these same early hours he had decided to conduct his hunts. In the dark of the forestry, only a trained eye could make out the figures in the dark. The moon was hidden away, shrouded with thick storm clouds, and the bitter cold steeped into him, bypassing the little warmth his winter garments provided him. It was difficult work certainly, but to Lucas it was always fruitful.

There was a certain elation in it, the quickness of his movements and the steadiness of his aiming, even in the collection of the bodies. The chase reminded him of his childhood days he spent feverishly running on the playground, and then again running through the hallways of his own home. The easiest part was the quiet. Lucas had never been talkative, and learning to shrink away from his father by hiding in small cabinets had taught him how to become silent, to control the small noises which gave away his figure, to limit the ruffle of clothing, the shaky huffed breaths behind a covered mouth. The winter air cut into him, his flushed skin swift to turn red his cheeks and spread down to his remaining exposed skin, but he could not feel the numbness of his fingers forming around the cool metal of the trigger, nor the thick clumps of snowflakes that balled up at his feet, which were now hidden under a mound of snow. In this cold he could feel a warmth, it radiated from the inside of his chest, a fervor of passion juvenile in its expression. A small upturn of his lips would always find itself on his face, this fleeting feeling of joy a reward for a job well done.

This feeling was the only benefit he reaped from his hobby. The owls he killed were rarely meat worth using, although his petulant father would state otherwise, and repeatedly the sound of distant gunfire would wake his father from his sleep, which would fill him with the same familiar anger he saw in him as a child when he had gotten into trouble at class in school, or soaked his bed after having a nightmare, or was caught throwing rocks at an unsuspecting stray dog. The same anger his father felt merited whatever punishment he saw as justified. Through the veined trunks of the trees Lucas could see a slimmer of light peeking through as dawn pulled in. He let a deep sigh escape from his nostrils, and he tilted his head back, for a moment meditating on the falling snow, before heading back on the pathway in the direction of his house.

From across the way, Lucas could already see his father stood at the doors of their farmhouse. Though a shadow loomed over his face, he could make out his expressions of anger; he could see it in the curling of his fists. He had been awoken once again by the sounds of gunfire.

"How many times have I told you not to wake me up? How many times do I have to teach you have to behave to your father?" His growls grew louder as he threatened his son, "I tried to beat sense into you, but you never learned! Well, you're gonna learn today!"

His father’s cries of frustration bore into him like the snowfall, which had grown violent, the wind whipping shards of ice into the back of his neck. From where he stood, his father's shouts of anger mimicked the shrieking call of the owls, the cries which taunting him as he slept, their talons digging into his flesh.

For the first time in his life, Lucas missed. As he raised the shotgun and took aim, his father scattered, taking flight as he darted through the snowy grounds. The bullet shot through the front window, leaving a shattered mound of glass on a snowbank. He could hear the shrieking again, the screaming of the owl which bubbled again in his father’s throat. The shrills sounded almost like pleading. Lucas raised his gun once more to aim.

The darkened shadows the trees held faded out with the rise of dawn. The forest no longer provided shelter as it rolled into daytime, and although he attempted to weave his way through the trees in avoidance of a bullet, his stumbling through bushes and trees paled in comparison to his skill of his son, who had the aim of his mother. Lucas, arms steady and gaze calculated, pulled the trigger, and the bullet lodged itself into the depths of his father’s neck.

Humans were easy prey, with none of the swiftness of a deer or the masquerade of the barn owl. Lucas stood over the body of his father, eyes focused on the gash of his neck which decorated the floor with color, deep red spilling out and draining him of life. The hunt always ended the same. For a moment Lucas bathed in the warmth of his pride, a smile twitching its way onto his face.