Page 14 of Where the Rivers Merge

Great horned owls (Bubo virginianus) are common owls in North America. Named for the tufts of feathers that sit on top of its head, they have big eyes that don’t move in their sockets. Large birds of prey with a wingspan up to 4.5 feet, owls are monogamous, very territorial, and often remain on the same territory year-round.

1914

We plowed through the fall and winter seasons like oxen through hard, clumped soil. Heyward and Hugh—our golden boys—had left for high school in Charleston and Mr. Coxwold mourned his prize pupil’s absence from the schoolroom. During the chill of winter Covey often stayed the night at Mayfield. We’d while away our free time talking about everything and nothing while sitting in front of a warm fire or cuddled near the warmth of the iron stove with Clementine in the kitchen. We moved from merely reading books to writing our own. Our imaginations knew no bounds as we created stories of lost princesses, being shipwrecked on uninhabited islands, or fairies in the forest. Covey and I became more than friends. We were soulmates. I could tell Covey anything and know she’d keep my confessions secret.

Yet, no matter how much I chatted on about my life and problems, it was rare for Covey to share with me her inner thoughts. She listened, asked me questions, had advice to offer, as any friend would. But I sometimes wondered if she did not have problems, or if she simply preferred not to tell me her secrets.

March heralded spring. Covey and I were in the library, eagerly anticipating the end of the school year when the doors would be thrown open and we’d be free to explore the outdoors. We pulled out our journals to ready them for our summer wanderings. I gingerly turned the worn pages filled with years of my notes, drawings of birds and insects, and littered with dried leaves, wildflowers, and a few bird feathers.

“What’s this bird?”

I asked Covey, pointing to my drawing of a black-and-white bird with pointy wings.

Covey leaned over and snickered. “I’ve never seen a bird with legs so long and feet so big.”

I slapped my hand over my childlike drawing. “Aw, be nice.”

“That’s a kite,”

she replied with a giggle. Covey opened her journal to the page depicting her own rendition. Covey’s drawings were things of wonder. Where my drawing looked like a stick figure, hers were exquisitely detailed, with beautiful color. She even painted in a backdrop of bright green loblolly pines with their scaled tree trunks.

“How’d you learn to draw so fine?”

I asked, feeling only admiration. “I swear, I feel like I’m looking at the real bird.”

Covey smiled, pleased. “I don’t know how I do it. I just do it.”

My mother entered the room carrying two steaming mugs of tea. We welcomed the tea with thanks, holding the warm mugs in our cold fingers.

Mama bent over to look at our journals. “What are you working on there?”

“Oh, nothing,”

I said, moving to close my journal. I didn’t want her comparing my drawing to Covey’s for surely it would be found wanting.

Mama’s hand was quicker. She stopped me, spreading open the book. “You’re identifying birds?”

she asked us. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the hint of incredulousness in her voice.

“Yes’m,”

replied Covey. “And not just birds. But all the critters and plants we find outdoors. Every summer, it’s like a game for us.”

Mama moved so close I smelled roses. “Your drawing is good,”

Mama told Covey. “Can I look?”

Covey handed my mother her journal. I saw Covey wring her hands as Mama studied page after page.

“You have talent,”

Mama said at length, her eyes appraising Covey. “I’m glad you’re in school with Eliza. You are a good influence on her.”

She gently put her hand on my head then leaned over to look at my journal. I was glad to see how Mama had taken a liking toward Covey over the years, though I still writhed in discomfort under her critical gaze. I sighed, slouched back in my chair.

“Mine looks like a three-year-old drew it,”

I admitted, grimacing in embarrassment.

“True. But look at all you wrote to describe the bird,”

Mama said. “Your details are excellent. And . . .”

She paused and surprise entered her voice. “What’s this?”

I opened my eyes to see she was pointing at a verse of poetry I’d written. I silently groaned to myself. Now I was really going to be mocked. My mother not only wrote poetry, she read in her books of poetry every day like a nun did a prayer book. “Oh, don’t look,”

I said, leaning forward to cover the words with my hand. “It’s nothing.”

Mama slipped the journal from my hand and read aloud my poem on the swallow-tailed kite.

A graceful bird of black and white

Darted swiftly into sight.

On pointed wings, with dips and curves

In forked tail spirals and snowy whirls.

Oh swallow from the gods up high

I stand quiet for a reply

to the prayers of a lonely soul.

Will you make a splintered soul whole?

Do you signal that winter remains,

a time of cold, hunger and pain?

Or are you a harbinger of spring

when the sun shines and weary hearts sing?

Mama’s dark eyes studied me with the same intensity she’d read the journals, as though searching for something important. “Did you write this?”

My hands curled tight. “Yes’m.”

Mama’s face stilled, then she slipped the book down to the table. “It’s a sweet enough ditty. A bit mawkish,”

she said in a manner of pronouncement. “But your metaphors are wrong. Kites are not messengers from God. That would be ravens and crows. Perhaps eagles. Or doves. Noah, you recall . . .”

She pinned me with her gaze. “Do you have any other poetry you’ve written?”

I shrank in my seat and lied. I did write poetry. Though she never taught me, like she did Lesesne. When I felt the urge the words just flowed out of my heart, not my head. I was sure they were all as silly as the one Mama just criticized. Hearing her say it, however, my soul felt bruised. My mother was the last person I wanted to show anything I wrote.

“No,”

I replied.

Mama’s brow rose. “Really? You wrote only one poem?”

She waited for me to say something, as if she knew I was lying. I felt like a small bird in the trance of a cat.

Suddenly, Covey spoke. “Excuse me, ma’am. I don’t mean to be rude. But in truth, the kite is thought to be a messenger by some tribes of the Indians. Wilton told me.”

Mama shifted her gaze back to Covey. “Did he?”

It sounded more like a challenge than a question. I held my breath.

Covey did not look away. “Yes’m.”

Mama moved closer to Covey and looked again at her journal. “I don’t see that you’ve identified this bird.”

“Oh, that’s because I know what it is. It’s a kite,”

Covey replied easily.

“Yes, but what kind of kite?”

Covey stared back at her, eyes wide. “What kind?”

“Girls, I took great pains to organize the library so it shouldn’t be hard to locate reference books.”

Mama walked swiftly across the room to the shelves, her skirt swishing at her ankles. She raised one hand to indicate the shelves. “Pay attention. Starting from the left, this is the wildlife and nature section, where you’ll find books to help you identify the animals in your journals.”

She continued walking along the bookshelves. “This is agriculture. South Carolina history. National and world history.”

She walked to another wall of the room. “This is fiction. Here, the books are in alphabetical order by author.”

She eyed the wildlife and nature section then pulled out three books and set them on the table. Slapping dust from her hands she said, “You can start with these.”

Covey and I gasped in awe when Mama carefully opened the pages of a book by Mark Catesby. It was very old; its leather bindings were dusty and curled. Mama was reverent as she revealed one page after another filled with gloriously colored birds.

“Girls, it pleases me that you are so diligent at your studies. I’ve spent many hours in this library.”

Her gaze flickered across the room with a proprietary air. “These books have been my dearest companions over the years. If I can be of any help to you in your research, please let me know.”

She put her finger on Covey’s drawing of the kite. “That is a swallow-tailed kite.”

With a perfunctory smile, she left the room.

I watched her straight-backed walk, elegant and sure, as she departed. There were times I’d wondered why my father married my mother. She could be volatile. Contrary. Opinionated. And yet, she was also intelligent and even kind. Like today. Mama seemed right eager to help us with our studies. Almost like she wanted to join us and study too. I scratched my head and thought there was still so much I did not know about her.

Covey leaned closer and asked in a quiet voice, “Why didn’t you tell your mama about your poems?”

I turned my attention to my journal. “Why do you think?”

“She might like them. She’s always going on about poetry. She might think better of you if she knew you were writing some.”

“They’re not good.”

“I think they’re good.”

I smiled, embarrassed for the compliment. “You’re my best friend. You have to say that.”

Covey reached over to tap my hand. I looked up to meet her soft hazel eyes.

“Just don’t throw them out. Give them to me. I like them. Promise?”

I snorted, but inside was pleased. “Aw, heck, Covey. Sure, I promise.”

* * *

The following morning the rain stopped, and birds resumed their myriad calls from the trees. The kitchen was warm and redolent of the scents of sizzling bacon and perking coffee. Clementine was at the wood-burning stove, swiftly moving from pot to pan. Covey, Lesesne, and I sat at the scrubbed wood table shoveling in grits before the school bell rang. Clementine kept the kitchen door open on days the oven ran hot, but I could still feel the pressing heat pouring out. Suddenly Clementine let out a short yelp. I swallowed hard and swung my head around.

“Lord in heaven, what did you bring me this morning?”

she cried as she slammed down the coffee pot and hurried to the door. At the threshold, Midnight, the feral black cat, stood with something in its mouth. Calmly, it dropped a small bird from its mouth then looked at Clementine with pride.

“Oh no!”

cried Covey, rushing over to look closer. She shooed the cat away, and hovering over the small bird, her face fell. “Aw, it’s a Carolina wren.”

Midnight sauntered to the porch, sat, and watched our reaction with detached interest.

“Can you save it?”

I asked, rushing to her side. The bird’s eyes were closed and legs stiff.

Covey shook her head. “It’s dead. Poor thing.”

She scowled at Midnight. “Bad cat.”

She hissed. Then said to Clementine, “You ought not to let that cat kill birds.”

Clementine remained unflustered. “Child, you know that’s just a cat’s way.”

She fetched kitchen scraps from the table then went to the porch and tossed them to the waiting cat. Though Clementine clearly favored the animal, even named it, she never claimed it. “I don’t see you frettin’ when he brings us a mouse.”

“It’s wrong to kill such a sweet bird,”

Covey argued.

“A cat’s got to make a livin’ too,”

Clementine said. “You’re eatin’ bacon now, aren’t you? You know where that came from.”

We all kept our silence.

Lesesne drew close to pick up the dead bird. He held it in his palm, looking at it dispassionately while touching the stiff straight legs. I hurried to his side, sticking out my hand.

“Give it here, Les,”

I said. “I’ll bury it.”

He turned his shoulder. “I want to study it. I’ll bury it when I’m done.”

“Best to bury it now,”

Clementine said firmly and reached out for the corpse.

Lesesne frowned but handed it over, then looked out at the cat sitting on the porch, licking its paw. “That cat ought not to have done that.”

Later that day when we returned to the kitchen for afternoon snacks, we found Clementine sitting in a chair crying softly. The black cat lay couched in her ample lap. Only it wasn’t moving. Covey and I exchanged worried glances and gathered around her, slipping our arms around her shoulder.

“What’s happened to Midnight?”

I asked in a soft voice, knowing something was wrong.

“I don’t rightly know,”

Clementine said. She sighed shakily and stroked the dark mass of fur that was Midnight. “I went out to carry lunch to Wilton at the barn, and I spied Midnight just lying on the ground. He was already gone.”

“He seemed fine this morning,”

said Covey. It sounded pitifully inadequate.

I noticed a spot of blood on the cat’s head, right over his eyes. Lowering to look closer I said, “Why lookee here. Something hit him. A small rock. Or maybe a pebble.”

Clementine only shook her head and sniffed. “I reckon he just fell. You know how he liked to climb up on the stable roof.”

Suspicion struck deep and I looked over to Lesesne. He sat alone at the table, gazing out the window, eating his corn bread, seemingly oblivious to what was being said. “Where’s your slingshot?”

I asked him. Daddy gave it to him for Christmas and told him never to shoot a living thing with it. But all that winter, Covey and I found dead birds and squirrels in the woods.

Lesesne remained staring impassively out the window. “You hear me?”

I called out louder. This time my brother slowly turned his head and lifted his heavy-lidded gaze to mine. He opened his mouth as if to answer. I leaned forward. But instead of answering my question, he bit off another piece of corn bread and began to chew. His lips turned slightly to a faint smile before he looked away again.

My heart went cold. Shaken, I glanced over at Covey. Her eyes were as wide as mine. We shared a knowing glance.