King of the Woods, or Trivial Pursuit

Part 5 - Funeral

The owl weighed nothing at all, but Ray's arms felt heavy. Cradling the bird against his heart, he walked past Karen, who was talking on her cell phone, and out of the field unit. He walked past the jackhammer operator, who did not silence his jackhammer. He walked past the dumpster, which was half-full of soda cans and cardboards boxes from Krispy Kreme and Carol's Lean Cuisine dinners, away from broken pavement and talk radio and eighteen-wheelers and worker's compensation forms, towards the scent of fringetree and honeysuckle, until he was out of sight of the field unit, though he did not look back to check. He did not stop walking until he reached the deep forest.

He found a quiet place there, amidst wildflowers and oak, beneath a shroud of Spanish moss. He lay down his burden, sat beside it, hugged his knees to his chest, and cried.

-

A squirrel watched Ray dig until it lost interest and scurried away. A dog barked in the distance. After that, the quiet place grew silent. A root tore the bandage off Ray's right hand, and reopened the wound, but he did not cry out. He scooped out the last double-handful of dirt, placed the owl in its grave, and exhaled. The silence grew unsettling. "Would anyone like to say a few words?"

"I'm not sure I'm qualified," someone said, "but you won't find anyone else. He isn't from around here."

A young woman stepped out from behind an oak tree. A simple, colorful dress flowed from her neckline to her ankles, exposing her shoulders and muddy feet. She wore her hair in dreadlocks that looked like tangled vines. She had knobby elbows, slender forearms, and long fingers, long enough that they could have accommodated an extra joint. Two of her fingers supported a reed basket.

The surprise of her appearance, or the heat, or the stress, or the exertion, or the hunger-he hadn't eaten breakfast-left Ray wobbly for a moment. "This isn't what it looks like."

"That's disappointing. It looked like you were giving an owl a funeral, which is a sweet thing to do."

"I mean, this is precisely what it looks like."

She walked to the graveside. "Tell me what happened?"

"He flew into a window and broke his neck."

"No," she said, without looking down. "Skull fracture."

Ray squinted at the owl's carcass and could discern nothing. "How do you know?" 

"I just know." She stood so close that Ray could feel the warmth radiating from her bare arm. His mouth opened but he could make no sound. She smelled of fringetree and honeysuckle and fresh exertion. He willed her to speak, or at least breathe, and when she finally did breathe, slowly and deeply, he watched her nostrils out of the corner of his eye and trembled to hear moist air pass through her slightly parted lips.

"Are you wearing perfume?" he asked.

"Yes."

"White fringetree and honeysuckle?"

"Just honeysuckle."

"Oh."

"Do you like white fringetree?" she asked.

"It's my favorite."

She smiled sweetly.

"Yours too?" he asked.

She laughed. "No! No. I'm not sure what my favorite is. Oak, maybe. Strong, loyal."

"Do you like fringetree?" 

She considered the question for a moment, then smiled wryly. "Most of the time. Fringetree can be insufferable. Should we get back to the funeral?"