By Bllu Catalano

Aster heard a far off wail. Something was hurt, and his steps homed towards the sound about one kilometer ahead. He started to jog through the mossy rocks. The cry came again, still far off. He could tell now that it was avian. 

Closer, the call sounded juvenile. He guessed it was an owl. Its voice held that depth he liked about the species. Born to intimidate, their cry could go right through you. 

He ran down a leafy bank, slipping a little, but he thought he could spy flapping wings in the low trees at water’s edge. Yes, a common Little Owl. By the colors and markings, not fully fledged. Little Owls were rare in that genders were the same size, so he would call it a her. She was a feathered beauty with yellow disc eyes and a small hook of a beak.

He scrambled towards the maples, but the bank was low. He’d never reach her this way. She was trying to flap and fly, but he saw that she had two problems. One, her right wing was completely wrapped in fishing line. Two, the line was also tangled in a young maple. At least she was not up in some soaring oak, but either way, she was stuck.

These were now his problems. He tried tugging the filament from the branches. It moved but was not freed, and the poor creature was crying terribly. Scrambling closer into the wet ferns, he tried again with more angle, harder. But this tack wouldn’t work. He had to find a way to cut the wire from the tree first. 

He emptied his rucksack on the dirt, seeing nothing that could help: not his water bottle, handkerchief or testing kits. Wait! His pocket knife. But he left it on his desk this morning—what a dunce. He did have a mess kit. The fork prongs were somewhat sharp. The knife was dull, but he decided to try the silverware. He reached to grab the filament as the owl squawked around with the line. Following her movements, he lurched forward and missed, almost falling into the mucky shallows. 

Gathering more muscle, he stretched back and his arms just touched the wire attached to the tree. The thin, hard plastic cut his fingers as he pulled one way and the owl pulled another.

“Oww!” He gave his own screech. No blood drawn, though. 

He pulled the wire again, this time getting closer. He could better see her fluffed young facial feathers. Next year, the down would molt, and the owl’s eyes would clear, dominating the flat, wide little head. 

She swung again, pulling the hard, thin filament into his palm. Man that cut. But he’d worry about the red gouges later. They were nothing compared to the owl’s pain. He got his knife sawing a few strenuous times. The clear wire was tough. 

With rapid strokes, his aim improved until fibers began to part. Finally! A pack came apart and with a few more strokes, he’d be through. Sweat burned his eyes. Mucky and grimy, he wiped and sawed harder until the last fiber gave way. The long tangle attached to the owl fell from the tree. 

Okay, half done. But no cause for celebration. Now he had to cut the wire off her body. Drawing the owl to him would be daunting. At least the loops knotted around her wing provided something to grab. Stretching, he lifted his fingers as far as they’d go to grasp the wire. As he pulled, he felt her weight, her resistance against the line. 

Gently, he drew. The tired bird flapped and fought this new terror. But Aster had to untie her wing. He called to her, “Come, now. It’s okay,” in his calm voice. 

She was unconvinced. 

As she flapped and resisted, he gave a great stretch and felt her cool, waterproof feathers. So close. Yet, his quick connection slid away. She flurried more frenzied than ever. But he could do this. Aim at her feet, the best place to hold a bird. Ready all muscles to spring and go!

Her taloned claws his only goal, he reached and clamped a leg. Gentle yet firm, he grasped both bony limbs and slow, hauled her close. Flapping, screeching little sharp mews, she resisted. It was so strange how helping animals could seem so brutal. But Aster had no recourse. She could not handle much more. Soon she’d crash, and there’d be nothing left to save.

And there she was. He held all fluffy eight inches of her. Feathers and fear, her little body pulsed in his hands. He grasped her mid-body firm, and the owl stopped struggling. Aster knew it wasn’t trust. It was shock. He only had a short time to free her, even now. “It’s all right, little owl,” he soothed.

He tried to clutch her with his left hand and cut the wire wrapping her wing with his right. But he could not get purchase. No—he would have to sit and put her between his knees to free both his hands. 

She would possibly die from the shock, but there was no other way. He fell to the ground and stroked her soft ruff of chest feathers, “Don’t die on me!”

Her form was now going stiff, very quiet as she lay between his knees. He held the tangle around her wing tip and sawed the knife, willing the blade to cut, and a few fibers separated. However, he had to cut several tight loops. 

Now she was completely silent. He paused to stroke her chest, “Hold on. Hold on.”

He got one string loose, then another two. There were several more, but he focused on success. 

In two minutes that seemed much longer, the last loop parted. Aster cried up to the sky, “Whooooh!” 

He pulled the Little Owl up. “Hey! Don’t die.” Trying a little shake, he cooed, “You’re going to be ok.”

  Standing, he checked each wing’s spread. By some miracle, all feathers lay measured perfectly in their berths. A wing’s symmetry always awed him, even this small. 

There was no time to waste. She was breathing, but dazed. Placing her on a nearby log, he held up the light fluffy form. She was so fragile. Owls were much lighter than they looked. She was not standing well, and his hope dove. 

Aster had to lift her up. He pulled on her feathers and scratched her head. “You’ve got to try.” 

He stepped back to allow instinct a chance, and she stood stiff and miserable for a few tense moments. But then she hopped. She shook herself, feathers puffing from top to bottom. 

Aster’s whole self lightened. “You can do this!” he encouraged.

She spread her wings and tried to fly but fell back to a pine limb. She was only a juvenile after all. 

Yet she stood and gave a few hops. She was not completely exhausted, and to prove this, her dual-colored underwings opened, as if she was testing them. Aster forced himself still as she stretched her head and attempted another take off. 

However, she could not find enough clearance. The green wood around them throbbed, dense. Overhead, late August leaves and limbs crossed, and the disoriented bundle tumbled to the ground. Aster ran to the landing spot to find leaves rather than rocks below her. Grabbing her waist, steady, he picked her up. “There, there, girl. You’re all right.” 

He strode to the nearest clearing, held out his arms, and tossed her toward the sky. 

For a terrible moment it seemed she would fall. Yet she rallied and pulled her wings out, forcing a few feet of elevation. The perfect design of sinews and feathers flapped, and she flew around in a couple of confused circles. 

“You know what to do,” Aster called. “You know what to do.” 

After all she’d endured, she had to be able to go higher. She had to survive. He willed her next set of circles to organize. “Come on, girl!” 

Hope consumed him. He willed all thought towards the being human carelessness had downed. Yet, after another turn, she sprang up above the trees and higher again until she was off. He stood and waited, hoping, scanning the sky, scanning the air and tree-tops, exuberant and tense. He stood and waited for how long he didn’t know. Time didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. 

At last, he accepted that she was not coming back. She could grow, live her life, and he could walk on. The path ahead trailed off to head down the mountain. Through the dry bush, he didn’t know where it led, and he didn’t really care.