Alvia's journey: A Moon and a Half Ago

Alvia was sitting on a thick branch of a tall tree somewhere near the middle of the forest. She had been tirelessly feeding her chicks all night and it wasn't over yet. She had laid six eggs a full moon and a half ago and to her surprise, they'd all hatched, and now she had six hungry owlets to feed.

Five prey had already been caught this night, each one delivered back to her nest, which meant one owlet was still hungry. The same one went hungry yesterday. It's always the same one, the weak one, and if she doesn't bring home meal six tonight, he will likely slip away.

She stares at the ground intently, looking for movement, her dark and beady longsighted eyes waiting to spot the minute rustle of leaves or the glimpse of a rodent's tail.

Perhaps she'll get lucky and a naive young shrew will sit gormlessly in the middle of the open detritus in plain sight, eating a worm or slug, where she can swoop down and collect it in one easy movement. It happens. Rarely, but right now it would help. Time is of the essence. This is because the sun is coming up. A new day is beginning. The first vague, long shadows of morning extend over the forest canopy, the subtle glow of dawn promising to bring with it the full glare of sunlight.

Daytime is dangerous. Not only does it drive away her prey, but she too grows vulnerable. If she spots a rodent and descends upon it, there is a moment of jeopardy, the forest floor is still inky black, its edges could easily hide a lurking predator. Her eyes aren't great close up, she could miss the danger. Each time she comes down from the trees, she knows she is a meal for those hungry enough to try; a fox, a cat, a dog straying from its owner on an early morning walk, even an aerial attack from a buzzard or goshawk who roam the skies in the day. All it would take is a clumsy swipe of a sharp talon to open up a wound on her neck or back meaning she would perish, and her owlets with her.

She'd seen it before. Dead barn owls, uneaten, with gaping wounds, their white breast feathers stained with blood, her poor kinship reduced by the needless aggression of another. This is what happened to Raynard, her mate.

This is Alvia's second nest of owlets. She is an experienced mother. Both seasons she had them with Raynard. He fled the nest soon after the first chicks were born but returned many moons later to woo her with his grand and elaborate courting rituals so they could do it all again.

Raynard had still been with them when he perished. A few nights back, she saw him, his lifeless body lying at the foot of their tree, he had obviously bled out there, after making his way home from the attack.

She mourned his death swiftly, screeching from her branches to mark his passing, to warn others, to cry into the night. Then, she moved on. She had known of other female owls willing themselves to death at the loss of a partner, though to her, this was not an option. Aliva could not will herself to death even if she wanted. Her genetic make-up was strong, her second nest of owlets was testament to her tenacity to stick around.

Losing her mate had only stoked the flames of survival that burned within her majestic feathered breast, a primal fire that pushed her to hunt until dawn and take risks to ensure all her owlets survived. She was wise enough to understand she too would end up like Raynard, perhaps not at the mercy of a sharp talon, but one day she would be a lifeless body also, and therefore she had pressing work to do, she must ensure her owlets reach maturity before her time arrived.

Wait! A scurry. A leaf rustling. Her eyes are highly movement-sensitive, even the subtlest change to her surroundings fires electricity through her body; her claws tighten, her wings tense, her eyes expand as she watches intently, ready to snap from the tree in half a moment or less.

The rustling stops but begins again... and then a tail! It whips into sight and moves speedily along the forest floor, pushing aside debris and dried leaf. A mass of calculations whizz through her mind, a thousand muscle fibres squeeze and distort and within a second she is in the air, plunging to the ground in a half-swoop, diving upon her prey as it quickens when it hears her feathery wings batter the air above. Down, down she drops as the mouse runs directly into her path, her talons out, splayed foot, as she grabs the meal and heads back to the skies in one gracious move.

Her mind is already on home as she feels the impact in her side, its power sending her tumbling to the ground in a spiral. The mouse thrown from her claws as he lands unceremoniously on the floor, a cloud of feathers and leaves puff out from the impact.

She knows she has no time to turn or move or wait, she must be airborne immediately, she can piece things together later, but right now she flaps her wings to raise up and away, but they pound upon the floor as pressure on her back pushes her into the soil. A paw, two paws, she feels them and knows a fox has her caught.

Her work is not done, her owlets cannot feed themselves. She sees their fate in her mind as well as her own, she hears the excitable fox pant on top of her, her chest flat against the earth, she realises she has mere moments left.

Then, without thought, the fire roars up within her, the fire that carried her through her first harsh winter, the fire that meant she hadn't lost a chick yet, this nest or her first, the fire that tells her to go on, to survive, to continue in the face of it all.

She beats her wings again, faster this time, harder, they hurt as they thud upon the mud, they bruise and crack with each impact, throwing up feathers, dust, dirt and leaves as she continues. Thud thud thud as a dustbowl builds up around both her and her faceless enemy, she feels the one paw release, then another, then her chest has room to breathe, then finally blessed movement as she pulls her body into the air, in a near-vertical climb, each muscle taut, her heart beating hard and fast as she slowly ascends with every last morsel of energy she has.

She flies into the sky, higher than the trees, higher than the top of the canopy as the first edges of sunlight glow on the tips of her tail feathers. She is free, she is alive, she continues.

She will be a lifeless body one day, no doubt, but not yet. Not today. She has work to do. The fire is still burning and her owlets still need their food. She swoops down to a thick branch of a tall tree somewhere near the middle of the forest. She had been tirelessly feeding her chicks all night and it wasn't over yet.