Mr. Ocax, squawking, hissing, flew like one possessed. Up, down, and around he went, making loops and stalling dives, climbing and twisting, anything and everything to work the quill from his claw. But the more he flexed and twisted, the more the barbs worked themselves into his claw, causing ever more excruciating pain. Poppy hung on.
The fact that Mr. Ocax was dragging a claw, and from that claw dangled a mouse, greatly impeded his flying. His flight path became increasingly wild. In his desperate desire to rid himself of pain, Mr. Ocax ceased to look where he was heading.
Violently, he plunged toward the cornfield. Once over it, he lowered his left claw—and that meant Poppy—deliberately thumping it and her along the cornstalks in the hope that the quill would be jerked out. Poppy was being battered. But each time she decided to release her hold on the quill, the owl surged forward, causing her to cling to it more convulsively than ever.
Knowing she could not take much more, Poppy tried to see ahead. Mr. Ocax was skimming low over the corn tops, but when he passed beyond them, he dropped toward the ground.
Let go! Poppy told herself. Let go! But she was feeling so groggy, her own muscles would not respond.
Then she saw what the owl was aiming for. The salt lick! And he was picking up speed. In his madness he was preparing to strike his claw on that. Poppy had wits enough to sense that if she struck the hard salt, it would be the end for her.
Let go! Let go! she cried to herself again. This time she did. Down she plummeted.
As she did, Mr. Ocax first rose, then dropped. Totally out of control, he slammed into the salt head on. So great was the blow that the salt shattered while the owl went tumbling head over tail in an explosion of feathers. After three flips he ignominiously flopped down like a sack of potatoes onto the ground.
As for Poppy, she had landed on grass. For a moment she lay there, stunned, battered, and confused. She looked up into the sky but saw nothing. Then she looked across the lawn. She saw him then. Mr. Ocax lay on his back, perfectly still. His claws were drawn up over his chest, slightly curled. The quill still stuck out of the left one. Scattered about among the feathers were chunks of salt.
Poppy stumbled to her feet. She took a wobbly step or two toward the cornfield. Then she stopped and looked back. Mr. Ocax had not moved. She stared at him.
Slowly, not sure if she should believe what she was thinking, she crept closer to the fearsome owl. After every few steps she paused, looked, sniffed. Still there was no movement.
Close to Mr. Ocax’s head now, Poppy stopped again. The owl’s great eyes were wide open, staring up into the sky. His devil-like tufts of feathers were bent. His beak was open. As Poppy watched, it snapped listlessly.
“Mr. Ocax . . . ?” No answer. She took a step closer. “Mr. Ocax . . . ?”
His head turned slightly. For a moment his eyes seemed to focus on her. “Sometimes . . .” he murmured, “sometimes I . . . wonder . . . why I bother . . . to protect . . . you.” With that his beak made a final clack shut. His eyes closed. Poppy knew it then. Mr. Ocax was no longer alive.
CHAPTER 19
The Return
FOR A LONG TIME POPPY gazed at the lifeless body of Mr. Ocax. She thought she should be feeling triumphant joy. Plain gladness would have been good enough. Somewhere she did feel pride. But small as she was, it was buried deep. What Poppy felt was weariness, as if she had aged four seasons over the last hour. She felt old.
Before her on the grass lay one of Mr. Ocax’s feathers. Poppy had never really looked at an owl’s feather. This one was quite lovely. It was a mottled brown color with a white tuft on top, soft as any baby’s breath. She picked it up. In the breeze, the vanes stirred slightly.
With a sigh, Poppy slipped the feather into her sash. Then she turned and looked at the cornfield. At first she thought what she most desired was to lie down and sleep. It was growing dark. But a moment’s thought made her realize sleep was impossible. What she needed to do was tell someone about her discoveries and what had happened.
She crossed the dirt road and moved along the edge of the forest. There was enough of the porcupine’s lingering scent for Poppy to find the trail that Ereth had used to go from his home to the field. For once—and it made her smile wanly—she was grateful for the old fellow’s stink.
Plunging directly into Dimwood Forest, Poppy traveled slowly, methodically, taking the time for proper precautions. Now and again she paused to absorb the lush view, the way moonlight filtered through the fragrant air, a very tall tree, a particularly beautiful fern, a bush laden with blackberries as big as her head.
When Poppy reached Ereth’s log, she paused long enough to contemplate Mr. Ocax’s now abandoned snag. Who, she wondered, would live in it now?
“Ereth!” she called into the log from the entryway. “Are you home? Ereth!”
In response there was some scratching and snorting deep within.
“That you, Ereth?”
“Who the snail squirt is that?” came the growled reply. “Can’t a creature have any privacy around here! Beat it unless you want to eat a quill sandwich.”
“Ereth, it’s me, Poppy.”
“Who?”
“Don’t you remember? Poppy.”
“Poppy!” came the echo, with more enthusiasm than before. A great rattling and shuffling could be heard. Then Ereth’s grizzly flat face loomed out of the darkness. “That really you, girl? Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“The salt! Didn’t you bring it?”
“Ereth, it’s about Mr. Ocax, he—”
“I don’t give a flea’s flick for that jerk of an owl. Where’s the salt you promised me?”
“It’s there. By New House. All broken up on the ground.”
“On
