Nathan McTigue's Gift

% ^? "fcf^ee Nathan McTigue's Gift 28 by Ed Davis Nathan walked quickly down the path from the cabin toward the creek at the bottom of the hill, unable to get it all behind him fast enough. The talk around the table, the swish of his mama's skirts as she moved to wait on the men-Pa and the visiting Reverend Skyes-the scrape of spoon and fork on china plates, the sucking of the minister's loose lips while he ate the fried chicken had almost been unbearable. Pa's wink as Nathan slipped from his chair soothed him some, but now the creek beckoned, silver-blue in the dying November daylight, and he knew that night's silence would bring the deliverance he sought. His sure feet found footing easily among rocks and gnarled tree roots on the bank. Up ahead between two mountains shone what remained of the descending sun, burning the hills' edges and blurring Nathan's vision as he tried to watch. Turning his gaze to the water, he saw only black except for the stars exploding at the edge of his sunscorched sight. That was fine with him, for he'd feel his way through the cold sheath of night that lay between him and the upright limestone against which he'd lean, the back of his head feeling cold stone. Sight was something he could do without, for with eyes closed, it became easier to listen, to separate the strands of night voices, his own heartbeat the only human reminder. Then he'd relax every muscle, every nerve and listen. With the sun gone, night settled around him like one of Ma's quilts. But for a light breeze tittering among still remaining leaves, all lay silent until an owl, somewhere across the creek in the darkness , spoke, sending a shiver up his spine. The voice had no words, no recognizable rhythm of speech, could never be translated, Nathan knew, into men's talk. The low-throated stuttering hoo was more feeling than words. Tonight Owl's voice, heavy with meaning, turned Nathan's blood to ice. Owl didn't praise or complain about sky, moon, poor hunting, or coming snow. He mourned a human death that was to come. You're wrong! Nathan howled in his mind, longing but not daring to cover his ears for fear of missing a clue to the victim's identity. Suddenly Owl ceased, and as Nathan stared into the blind darkness of treeless limbs, he saw the brown and white feathers of the great barred owl and felt his eyes' golden fire as they telescoped into his, chiding: you doubt me? Then with a rushing shudder of wings, Owl leaped forward, caught the current and arrowed straight for the boy, veering upward at the last possible moment to be swallowed by the full moon. Panting, heart hammering, Nathan clung to his rock, hoping Badger, Buck, Opossum, or Fox would tell him Owl was wrong. When night's deathly silence deepened and darkness thickened, he rose and headed back up the bank, weary with worry, uncertain whether he'd sleep. "Nathan McTigue, I'm talking to you." As the teacher's long white fingers, thin as just-dipped tallow, touched his shoulder, he flinched and looked up, face 29 and neck ablaze, to meet Miss Armistead 's soft grey eyes. He'd done it again, "woolgathering," as she called it. While she had been talking about the geography book's paper landscape, he had been roaming real rivers and mountains inside his head. "Nathan," she whispered, bending close to his face, "someone has come for you and your sister. Get your coat. Mandy's already outside." Relieved that he wouldn't be punished, he quickly grabbed his jacket off its peg and fled out the door, shocked by the sudden cold and the sight of Uncle Hurley who, head down, stooped beside Mandy with one arm around her, saying something he couldn't hear. When his uncle looked up, he raised his other arm to draw Nathan near, and the boy read in Hurley's grey-stubbled, slack jaws and burned-out blue eyes that Owl...