Eglantine Comes Home

I ran the final miles with my heart hammering against my ribs, but the relief kept me moving. My fur was dull and matted with the dust of the road. My body was so much stronger than when I left, but I was weary. Yesterday, I felt proud of myself for surviving the trek home, for being open to so many adventures and making so many new friends. But I didn’t care at that moment. I just wanted to be home with a cup of tea, my feet warming by the fire.

I knew every crack in that stone fold where I lived. I knew the specific mossy crevice behind the carved trefoil where I could sleep without one ear open for the fox. But when I reached the rise, nothing looked right.

The fold was gone. The stones carved with faint flowers and strange grooves were just gone. Only the rectangular scars in the grass were there. I felt a hollow inside me. I had survived the world only to find that my “world” had been carted away. 

I was trying to make sense of what happened when the Owl’s shadow fell. I didn’t even twitch. I felt the rush of air, the silent “whump” of her wings, and then the incredible, terrifying pressure of her talons. But she didn’t squeeze. I didn’t even struggle; I just thought, Of course this is how it happens. Absent-minded me! This is exactly how my adventure began, by not paying attention, wandering off into the fog.

When we reached a high barn I didn’t recognize, the sharp, ammonia smell of the nest hit me. She flew past the messy nest of her owlets and set me down on a ledge. At that moment, she didn’t look like a hunter, she looked like a friend. I stared at the stone under my paws. It was cold, grey, and etched with a faint, ghostly trefoil. It was the same carving I used to sleep behind.

I looked around and saw a bit of Wensleydale, bread, currant jam, and a thimbleful of cider set out on a scrap of wool. (I recognized the thimble as my own.) The Owl fluffed her feathers, motioned towards the food, and said, “Aritz said this might help.”  FOOD AS RETURNING TO THE BODY

Artiz. Of course. He’s always two steps ahead, always looking out for me. But how long had he known my home was gone? Why didn’t he warn me? My shattered heart swelled with so many conflicting emotions, I sobbed. The Owl turned her head away, not used to such a demonstration. She said she’d leave me to eat, drink, and pull myself together. I was alone.

I sat myself down, and dug in. If I’m honest, that bit of cheese was the most glorious bite I’d ever tasted. I thought about all of the moments I’d lay in bed on my adventures, telling myself, Eglantine, don’t forget these lessons. I looked at my paws; raw from travel, but stronger than they had ever been. But where to begin? I’d lost everything.

The Owl stepped into the moonlight. She didn’t look like a hunter, she looked like a friend. 

“I came home,” I whispered, my whiskers twitching with exhaustion. “But my home is destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” The Owl clicked her beak. “Don’t be sentimental. Those stones were a chapel for monks once. Then they were a fold for sheep. Now they’re the foundation for this barn. They aren’t gone, mouse. They’ve just been put to work elsewhere.” 

“You think you’re a victim of a tragedy,” the Owl continued. “I see a successful redistribution. You’ve shed your house and your fat, and you’ve traded them for grit and a story. You aren’t a ‘broken’ mouse. You’re just like these stones. You’ve been dismantled so you can be rebuilt.”

“Look at the history. The monks brought the craft of the cheese from France. The King took their roofs and their gold, but he couldn’t take the knowledge they shared. The neighbors kept the skill, and the recipes evolved. The Abbey fell, but the Wensleydale survived in every cellar in the dale. 

She was right. I’d known those stones were old, but I’d never realized that meant “home” was a story we tell, not just a hole we hide in.