The Owl and the Sexton

In an old farm town in the New England countryside so long ago that it doesn’t much matter whether the story is true or not, there resided a sexton by the name of Otis McPherson. As many great men have noted, sextons, although constantly surrounded by images of mortality and morseness, are rarely melancholy fellows themselves. Otis was no exception to this general trend and indeed he was as merry a gentleman as they come. One damp evening out behind the old church, Otis took to warming himself in his usual manner, with shanties and scotch. He was a portly man, with a red pockmarked nose and a balding head of wheat brown hair. As he walked his considerable gut bounced over a taught belt that kept up a tight pair of breeches while his red hands swung heavily at his hips.

It was still early and Otis’ only business of the day was to dig the grave of a known and respected doctor who had recently passed on. The family had already paid for a heavy slab to be placed, so Otis rested his creaking back by perching himself on the headstone. He studied the overcast sky for a moment and then, deciding that it was far too grey a day to finish any manner of work, most of all grave digging, he produced a dented copper flask from his coat and took a sip. The warm liquid chased away the mist. A hazy smile fell across the old gravedigger’s lips and with a deep gravel voice, he began to sing.

“Come all you bold heroes, give ear to my song.

I’ll sing in the praise of good brandy and rum.

There’s a clear fountain, near England shall flow.

Give me the punch ladle I’ll fathom the bowl!

Give me the punch ladle I’ll fath--”

“Shut your damn mouth!”

The screeching yell startled poor Otis so badly that he leapt from his gravestone and planted a pair of fine leather shoes into a puddle of mud. Otis looked about for the source of the scream. He was certain he had heard something, but the voice had been so high pitched and harsh it might have easily been the scraping of a tree. There was no one in the graveyard. Up the hill the church windows were dark and motionless. The only life nearby was a muddy and molting owl perched on a tree branch just beyond the graveyard fence. The owl cocked its head at Otis. The old sexton chuckled.

“Must have been the bird.” He spoke aloud to himself. “Old man me is hearing things now!” He laughed and raised the flask. The drink had only just touched his lips when he heard it again.

“I said shut it!”

Otis spat his drink into the mud. He glanced at the owl. The bird was looking at him, its large black eyes trained on Otis’ small blue ones.

“What was that now?” Otis spoke aloud again.

“Shut up! Shut up damn it!”

Startled, Otis stumbled backward. There was no mistaking it. The owl had spoken. While it was common for farmers in the area to tolerate a barn owl or two, the New England owls that he was familiar with, Otis thought, were not in the habit of speaking.

“Disrespectful! Just disrespectful! A man of his stature!” The owl continued to screech, gesturing with his wings and a puffed up chest.

Otis was surprised and more than a little afraid, but ever the congenial gentleman said, “Excuse me Mr. Owl sir, but I fear I have offended you in some way. Pardon me, but I am unused to English speaking owls in these parts and I only wish to be in good standing with you sir.”

“Offended me? Damn right you’ve offended me. To be singing and drinking at the unready grave of such a respectable man. An insult!” As he spoke the owl scraped a claw across the tree branch.

“Oh excuse me,” Otis replied. “I did not know you were acquainted with the deceased. I meant no insult. In my mind there is nothing more respectful than merriment in the presence of the dead, they get so little in their country.”

“A stupid philosophy.” The owl spat, a mouse bone dropping from his beak.

“Did you know the deceased well, sir owl?” Otis said, planting himself once again on the headstone and sipping at his flask.

“Aye I knew him well. A wise man, studied and knowledgeable. There were few who could match him in matters of astronomy, herbology and biology. As is well. It was I who taught him everything he knew.”

Otis snorted and wiped a trail of scotch from his chin. “Pardon me Mr. Owl sir, but what is it that owls know of such matters. A talking owl is one thing, but a learned owl is another entirely.”

“Ignorant man.” The owl said, tucking his wings and pushing out a feathery breast. “Foolish beast! Disrespectful wretch! A digger of ditches speaks this way? To me? Stolas the wise? And what do you know of such matters, ditch digger?”

Not one to take much offence at insults and having grown used to the sight of the talking bird, Otis was unbothered by the owl’s abuse and sat comfortably on the headstone, a dreamy smile on his face as he studied the strange creature.

“Well it’s true,” Otis said. “I know next to nothing about those ‘ologies’ and the next, but I do know that where I come from it is rather unheard of for professors and doctors to have feathers.”

“Where I come from it is a requirement.” The bird said, ruffling his feathers.

“And where would that be sir owl?”

At this the owl cocked his head at the old man. A glinting expression that might have been a smile played in the bird’s dark eyes. In a moment the owl flew from the tree in an explosion of feathers and wing flapping. For one brief horrible second there was a sound like the roaring of an anguished army and then suddenly, standing at the fence that encircled the church grounds, was a creature like nothing Otis had seen before.

The animal, if you could call it that, was the size of a man. It stood on a pair of long skinny legs that ended in two clawed chicken feet. Its torso and head had remained that of an owl, though much larger, and upon the enormous feathered head there sat a dazzling golden crown studded in bleeding red rubies.

“I am Stolas,” the bird said. “Prince of Hell. Master of studies earthly and other. Commander of twenty six of the infernal legions. I am the scourge and I am legion!” As Stolas spoke he spread his enormous wings to their full span, which stretched nearly as long as Otis was tall and ended in a pair of deadly sharp claws.

At first Otis was, admittedly, concerned. It wasn’t everyday that he had the pleasure of dialogue with a demon and he had forgotten the proper protocol. But upon remembering the old yarns of his grandmother and the advice that no hellspawn could enter hallowed grounds without first an invitation, Otis sat back upon the dead doctor’s headstone and continued to drink.

“A pleasure!” Otis said and raised his flask with a gap toothed smile on his face. “I’m Otis. Sexton of this here church and happy ditch digger.”

The demon lowered his clawed wings, obviously irritated with the sexton’s cheer. “Tell me sexton. What does a gravedigger have to be so merry about?”

“Well for one this here flask!” Otis said and shook the metal container at the demon’s face.

“Ah. Are you not aware this is a deadly sin?” As he spoke Stolas spun his head around in a full circle.

“What? This?” Otis said, looking at the flask. “I’ll not believe it.” He took another sip.

“Believe it foolish sexton. Who else would better know?”

“No way in hell that a drink the savior himself was one to produce in a pinch is all that terrible of a thing. Besides, a gravedigger’s work is grating without a taste every now and then.”

“The savior sat with the sinners, but he didn’t sin with them.” The demon said.

“Aye, but you know he was still a good time or else the sinners wouldn’t have kept him around!”

Stolas ruffled his feathers in irritation. This gravedigger was an aggravating sort of mortal. “Keep your drink then. But it is a big dark world my dear gravedigger. Do you not know that evil lives here?”

“Where?” Otis said and glanced around, as if to look for evil.

“Well here my dear friend. In this very town.”

“Oh bollocks to that. What evil is it in this little village of god fearing folk?”

“Your sheriff for one. He shot a preacher when he was a young man and never paid the price.”

“A preacher you say?” Otis scratched his bald head. “What denomination?”

“What’s it matter?” Stolas snapped.

“Well I might forgive him for a methodist!” Otis laughed and took another drink.

“You have no idea!” The demon roared, anger flashing through his round eyes.

“Well that’s true no doubt.” The sexton said, laughing. “Tell me demon. What is there not to be merry about? It’s a fine day and I breathe and I drink. My only dark cloud is that I still have yet to dig this grave, and it’s getting late. I best be started.”

“What is there not to be merry about?!” The owl demon dragged his claws against the ground. “Your country is run by evil men! Your churches are all poisoned by sin!”

“Well we all knew that already sir owl. That is no surprise.” Otis stretched and looked around for his shovel.

“You will die young you filthy gravekeeper. I know that as a fact.” Stolas cawed with horrible glee.

“Ha! I’m already old. Now enough of this I really must be about my work.”

The demon squawked in rage. “Do you know your dear old grandmother burns in the pit at this very moment!?” Stolas roared.

“Well she always hated cold weather.” Otis said and picking up his shovel, began to dig.

At that the great demon known as Stolas took to the skies, releasing a terrible caw as he did. Otis watched as the demon circled above the graveyard for a moment and then dove in towards the old sexton, its claws outstretched and sharp like knives. Otis leapt for cover, his face splashing into the muddy ground. There was an ear shattering sound like that of a murder of a hundred thousand migrating crows. For a brief moment Otis cowered in the mud, but when he stood up the horrible demon was gone. All that remained in its place was a stumpy brown barn owl. It was then that Otis remembered one final piece of wisdom from his dear old grandmother. Any demon who laid his hands on a righteous man standing upon hallowed earth would be consigned to serve that man till his soul departed for heaven. Otis eyed the owl on the ground in front of him.

“Sir owl?” Otis said, cautiously.

“Yes. Seven hells damn it all.” Stolas replied.

Little is known of what became of Otis McPherson. Some say that he traveled the world, a mysterious owl as his companion. Others say that after an inexplicable windfall the old sexton was able to purchase a tavern and spent the rest of his days singing shanties and drinking scotch. What is known, however, is that to this day, somewhere in the New England countryside, there is a little farming village where the barns are all blissfully free of mice.