Owl Soup
© 1994 Andrew S. Fuller
Then I found what I knew. And not just because I was already sketching. For there was only two curves, which meant nothing yet, not even if I squinted. Now I knew Owl Soup. It would be a children’s book, and here I was, already illustrating it.
A knock at the window. But nothing could stop me, I sketched in frenzy. I made pointed ears, almost like horns, and a wide face for the huge eyes.
A crash of glass.
“Here now,” said a voice by my ear. And eight sharp talons pinched my shoulder. “Here now — is that supposed to be an owl or a cat? Let me.” The owl hopped onto my desk. I rubbed my sore shoulder. My hand came away with blood. With pen in its beak, the owl worked away. I just blew my nose and watched. How absurd, I thought, an owl drawing an owl. Why, I’d just as soon write a children’s book about myself. The creature finished then, and turned its head all the way around, (which owls can’t really do, so I knew something was odd.)
“Do you ever blink?” I asked, “That’s scary.” It wasn’t really scary. There were scarier things, I was sure. Strawberries with wings and teeth. Or, maybe, giant fire breathing lizards. “Let me see.” The sketch didn’t even resemble an owl. It didn’t have horns or big eyes. To be honest (which I’m rarely not) — it was a rabbit.
“Ah hahn hon-hee — ” the owl began.
“What?” I grabbed the pen from its beak.
“I can only draw people,” the owl said, and shrugged. I looked at the sketch. He looked at the sketch. “Rabbits, I mean.”
I made a face and shooed him out of the way. I crumpled the paper and threw it over my shoulder, where the butler remarked, “Ow.” I heard him winding the grandfather clock as I hunched over a fresh sheet of paper.
I was thinking, (which mother said is dangerous my mother told me), thinking, if people can’t draw owls, but draw cats… and owls can draw people — I mean, rabbits — what do I need to get this job done? A rabbit, seemed correct.
“I can draw an owl,” said the cat, rubbing against my legs.
I kicked the feline across the room and through the stained glass window. “You keep out of this,” I shouted, “You’re not in this story.” The clock was on its fifteenth chime, so I spun around. “You aren’t either,” I shouted, without opening my eyes. Then I opened them. No one was in the room. Just as I thought. Dumb oven. Clock, I meant, dumb clock.
“I’m here,” said the owl, “Don’t forget me.” He winked, but I didn’t see it. I would’ve liked to, because I don’t believe owls can do that. And because... you’ll see. “But you’re not,” added the owl.
I was gone. The pen hit the desk.
“Alone at last,” said the owl, “Now there are things I must tell you about him.” The owl knocked the lid off the treat jar, and fished around for the one cashew (if any) amidst the stale peanuts and macadamia nuts. “For instance — ”
“Rabbit,” I said, which was the magic word, and also an adequately mild curse for a children’s book. I was back.
“Fuck,” said the owl. It crossed its wings. “Shit.”
“Get your feet off the piano,” I told him, and picked up my pen.
“You never play it anyway,” the owl muttered.
“I heard that.”
“Okay, smart ass, what’d I say?”
“You said my butler is gay.”
“You don’t have a butler.”
“He’s late today. He’s late, but he’s not gay. He’s loyal to the family. And he’s trained in combat medicine. And that’s all the character development he gets.”
“Hang on — ” said the owl, “He’s not late. I just saw him a moment ago, winding the grandfather clock.” The owl pointed. “Yonder, he was.”
“He wasn’t here. I don’t have a butler.”
“These cashews are stale.”
“Quiet now. I’m trying to write a book.” In this book, a rich young man cannot get out of bed one day. When he is late for breakfast, the butler comes to check because the parents were killed months ago. By a witch. While the butler is upstairs, the cat eats the boy’s waffles and escapes through the caves beneath the house. (A sequel book will place the cat as a central character, and he will emerge from coastal caves, and become an infamous pirate leader. He and his ship, the SS Buckle, will have an entire spin-off series of adventures. They will battle the white whale, and a giant lizard that stands on two legs and breathes atomic fire.) And since the butler diagnoses the boy with Great Horned Fever, he knows he must get the boy some owl soup, or the virus will turn the poor child’s head completely around. “Darn it,” says the child, weakly, “I was going to get up and avenge my parents’ deaths today.” To which the butler responds, “Young man, watch your language,” putting on his mittens. Then he rushes to the forest with a potato sack. He finds an owl playing cards with a fruit bat and a hedgehog, and throws them all into the sack. He has to hurry back because the boy’s neck may have snapped, or his face suffocated against the pillow. The owl cuts a hole in the sack, so he and the fruit bat escape. The hedgehog’s spines, however, get stuck. The butler stops to check the mailbox and sees a strange car in the driveway. Leaning against he car is a man dressed as a rabbit. The car also has long ears and a poofy tail.
“Poofy?” said the owl.
“Let me finish,” I screamed.
So, “Hey,” says the guy dressed as a rabbit, startling the butler, “You got any kids inside who want to learn to be vigilantes? Or sidekicks thereof?”
“I’ll have your... car towed, you degenerate!” The butler storms off. Inside, he makes the soup and rushes up the stairs, spilling it all.
The boy is gone. The butler looks under the bed, in the closet, in the bathtub...
“I’m down here!”
The butler hurries downstairs. He rushes through the rooms calling his master’s name. Finally, he finds the youngster trapped in the grandfather clock.
“Who put you in there?” the butler asks.
“The cat.” The boy cries and wails. “Oh, it was the cat. That awful cat.”
“I didn’t!” The cat leaned in (the owl-shaped hole in) the stained glass window.
“Keep out of this!” I threw my pen at him. Then I looked around, panicking, for I didn’t have another writing utensil.
“Here you are, sir.” The butler handed me one from his pocket.
“Took one what?” pestered the owl.
“You were here. You saw what it was.” I turned to the butler to thank him. “Hey,” I exclaimed instead, “Get back in the story.”
“Honestly, sir — pardon me, I mean: young master. You must learn to stop fibbing.” And the butler takes the boy over his knee and spanks him. The boy bawls and wails and his butt goes as red as anything really red.
“Alright,” sobs the boy, “Alright! It was the white whale. The white whale did it!”
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” With that, the butler, sets the boy on his feet. “Now,” he says, and puts on his cape. He shoots across the room and crashes through the (other) stained glass window.
“Just like me!” said the cat.
“Out!”
Sighing, the boy goes to the kitchen for lunch. They have a nice witch roasting in the oven overnight. Basting in her own blood, with cashews sprinkled over the top. The End.
“Urp!” said the owl. He patted his tummy. “Excuse me.”
“Do you think it will work as a pop-up book?” I thought out loud.
“Sounds great, son.” It was my dad, from somewhere in the house. Probably the basement. Taxidermy is his new hobby. He caught a hedgehog yesterday.
“Look,” said the owl, “I don’t think this is going to work out.” He looked right into my eyes. “You’re just not my type. I thought you were, but — ”
“How can you say that? How could you think it?” I broke down. Someone touched my shoulder. I looked up through the tears.
“Be happy for us.” Mom was standing before me, her arm around the owl.
“I’m not sad for me,” I sobbed, “It’s dad. What about him? It’ll break his heart.”
But they were already gone. The grandfather clock tolled, and it sounded like wedding bells.
Rage and horror overtook me. I hurled the manuscript into the fire, and sank to my knees. The room seemed filled with darkness. Glass sparkled on the carpet.
“Hey kid — be careful. You’ll burn down the house.” It was my faithful butler standing in the doorway, back from eight years at sea. A cutlass hung on his side, a patch over one eye, and a rabbit perched on his shoulder. I rushed up and embarrassed him. (Embraced, I mean. Oh well.) I couldn’t believe his reality. We had always harbored secret love for each other. He smelled of salty surf, and I snuggled close. The rabbit bit my nose. “Come on, kid. I’ve got my own ship now. Let me take you to a far off desert isle.”
“Oh take me!” I cried, “Take me!”
We drove off to the airport in his hedgehogmobile.
The fire crackled.
The grandfather clock tolled. One and a half times.
“Son?” came a voice from downstairs, “Son?” Dad walked into the empty living room. “Hello?”
“Yes?” said the cat.
“Out!”
A huge bat came soaring in the broken window. It settled on the mantle and glared down at the man like something more menacing. “What a mess,” said the bat.
“You hungry?” asked Dad.
“No.”
“Come on into the kitchen, then.” He went and the bat followed, hopping miserably.
“Hey,” Dad cried, “Who’s this in the oven?”
Actually, no one was in the oven, it was just a shadow. The witch stepped out of the clock and joined them, rubbing her hands, drooling, “Dinner?”
Lastly, the giant lizard came in the back door and —
“There is no back door!” I cried.
“You’re not in this anymore,” scolded the cat. “Out!”
The lizard crawled across the counter on all fours. “I’m so hungry,” he declared. He got out a pan and turned on the faucet.
“Clark? What are you doing here?” asked the witch. “What do you think you’re doing, hmm?” She had her hands on her hips.
“What’s it look like?” He threw the cat into the pan. “I’m making soup.”