The Owl Killers

servant martha

i LOVED THE DAWN HOUR, the soft pale light on the rim of the world, whispering the start of a new day. The bell for Prime not yet rung; the beguinage was hushed, still wrapped in sleep. I knelt on the rushes, gazing up at the wooden crucifix nailed above my cot.

“Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth. Lord, send the fire of your spirit to rest upon all those who rise cold and hungry-”

There was a rapid knocking on the door of my room. Before I could rise, the door was flung open. Gate Martha burst into the room, breathless and agitated.

“Come quickly, Servant Martha, see what’s at the gate.”

“Who is it at this hour? Unless they are urgently in need of Healing Martha’s skills, they’ll have to wait. It’s almost Prime. Put them in the guest hall.”

She shook her head, and tugged my sleeve. “Please come, Servant Martha, quickly.”

Her fingers were trembling and I started to feel anxious myself. What on earth could have troubled her so? Gate Martha was a local woman, a widow, unable to read or write, but ideally fitted for the task to which God had called her for she was a stolid, practical soul, not easily given to fright. Something dreadful must have happened to alarm her.

I dared not delay to dress, but hastened after her across the empty courtyard clad only in my shift and cloak. She stopped before we reached the gate and pointed. Something was lying on the threshold. I moved closer. A dead barn owl lay crucified upon a willow hurdle, its wings stretched out across the frame. A sprig of dark, glossy ivy leaves was fastened in its beak and more were entwined in the wicker frame. The feathers and leaves trembled violently in the morning breeze.

Gate Martha hovered inside the gate as though the abomination might fly up into her face.

“Did you see who left this here?”

She shook her head, dumbly, still staring transfixed at the crucified bird.

“But you know?”

She nodded, and mouthed so faintly I could scarcely hear her, “The Owl Masters.”

“Why should they leave such a thing at the gate of the beguinage?”

She turned her face away and stared towards the infirmary. “You took the leper in. He’s dead to the village. No one must give him shelter. That… that bird is the Owl Masters’ curse.” She shuddered and raised her hand against her face as if to shield herself from the sorcery.

“The ivy leaf proclaims the holy trinity of God. How can that plant work against us who are His servants?”

“The old uns say ivy’s an evil omen,” she muttered sullenly. “It kills whatever it embraces.”

“But we do not believe in the old ways, do we, Gate Martha? Now, fetch me a faggot of very dry wood and a brand from the fire. And, Gate Martha-you will say nothing to the others. Not one word of this, do you understand? It signifies nothing. I will not have silly rumours spread to frighten the children.”

She nodded and I watched her hurry away, then I closed the gate behind her, scanning the bushes and trees beyond the path. Were they watching? Then let them. Did they really believe that we could be intimidated into casting Ralph out? They did not have the measure of me.

Gate Martha returned. She opened the gate a crack and thrust out a torch and sticks. “I kindled the flames from the eternal light in the chapel.”

“You could have taken it from the cooking fire; it would have burnt just the same,” I snapped, exasperated at her fear, but all the same I clutched the brand more tightly, thankful for what she had done. “Go inside and shut the gate. Don’t let anyone open it until I return. And don’t ring the bell to waken them for Prime until I say so.”

I struggled to drag the frame away from the gate. It was heavier than it looked, but I managed to pull it off the path and into a patch of rank weeds. I piled the dry wood over it, then set the torch to it. The feathers caught instantly, shrivelling and flashing into a cloud of acrid smoke, then came the smell of burning bird flesh.

Billows of blue smoke rose into the air, blown into spirals by the gusting wind. Beyond the trees other columns of smoke from cooking fires in the distant village rose into the pale pink morning. The world was waking. Far away the church bell rang for Prime. Our bell would ring late that morning. I would offer no explanation.

The willow frame snapped and crackled as the flames dried it. A twist of ivy uncurled and snaked across the grass in the fire’s heat, smouldering, but not burning. Ivy does not burn.