The Midnight Circus, стр. 24
Afterward,when the owl flew off, Donnal left the edge of the field and picked hisway across the crisp snow to the tree. Just as he hoped, the pellet wason the ground by the roots.
Squatting,the back of his neck prickling with excitement, Donnal took off hisgloves and picked up the pellet. For a minute he just held it in hisright hand, wondering at how light and how dry the whole thing felt.Then he picked it apart. The mouse’s skull was still intact, surroundedby bits of fur. Reaching into the pocket of his parka, Donnal broughtout the silk scarf he’d bought a week ago at the Mercantile just forthis purpose. The scarf was blood red with little flecks of dark blue.He wrapped the skull carefully in the silk and slipped the packetinto his pocket, then turned a moment to survey the field again.Neither of the owls was in sight.
Pattingthe pocket thoughtfully, he drew his gloves back on and strode backtoward his bike. The wind had risen and snow was beginning to fall. Helet the wind push him along as he rode, almost effortlessly, back tothe center of town.
Donnalhad a room in a converted barn about a quarter of a mile south of thecenter. The room was an easy walk to his massage classes and only aboutan hour’s bike ride into Northampton, even closer to the grocery store.His room was dark and low and had a damp, musty smell as if it stillheld the memory of cows and hay in its beams. Three other familiesshared the main part of the barn, ex-hippies like Donnal, but none ofthem from the commune. He had found the place by biking through each ofthe small Valley towns, their names like some sort of English poem:Hadley, Whately, Sunderland, Deerfield, Heath, Goshen, Rowe. Hatfield,on the flat, was outlined by the Connecticut River on its easternflank. There had been acres of potatoes, their white flowers waving inthe breeze. Earlier in the morning, he’d taken it as an omen and whenhe found that the center had everything he would need—a pizza parlor, abank, a convenience store, and a video store—had made up his mind tostay. There was a notice about the room for rent tacked up in theconvenience store. He went right over and was accepted at once.
Stashing his bike in one of the old stalls, Donnal went up the ricketybackstairs to his room. He lined his boots upside by side by the door, he took the red scarf carefully out of hispocket. Cradling it in two hands, he walked over to the mantel, whichhe’d built from a long piece of wood he’d found in the back, sandingand polishing the wood by hand all summer long.
Hebowed his head a moment, remembering the owl flying on its silent wingsover the field, pouncing on the mouse, picking at the animal’s neckuntil it died, then swallowing it whole. Then he smiled and unwrappedthe skull.
Heplaced it on the mantel and stepped back, silently counting. There wereseventeen little skulls there now. Twelve were mice, four were voles.One, he was sure, was a weasel’s.
Lostin contemplation, he didn’t hear the door open, the quick intake ofbreath. Only when he had finished his hundredth repetition of themantra and turned did Donnal realize that little Jason was staring atthe mantel.
“You. . .” Donnal began, the old rhythm of his heart spreading a heat downhis back. “You are not supposed to come in without knocking, Jay.Without being . . .” He took a deep breath and willed the heat away.“Invited.”
Jasonnodded silently, his eyes still on the skulls.
“Didyou hear me?” Donnal forced his voice to be soft but he couldn’t helpnoticing that Jason’s hair was as velvety as mouse skin. Donnaljammed his hands into his pockets. “Did you?”
Jasonlooked at him then, his dark eyes wide, vaguely unfocused. He noddedbut did not speak. He never spoke.
“Go back to your apartment,” Donnalsaid, walking the boy to the door. He motioned with his head, not daringto remove his hands from his pockets. “Now.”
Jasondisappeared through the door and Donnal shut it carefully with oneshoulder, then leaned against it. After a moment, he drew his hands outof his pockets. They were trembling and moist.
Hestared across the room at the skulls. They seemed to glow, but it wasonly a trick of the light, nothing more. Donnal lay down on his futonand thought about nothing but the owls until he fell asleep. It wasdinner time when he finally woke. As he ate he thought—and not for thefirst time—how hard winter was on vegetarians.
“Butowls don’t have that problem,” he whispered aloud. His teeth crunchedthrough the celery with the same sort of snick-snack hethought he remembered hearing whenthe owl had bitten into the mouse’s neck.
Thenext morning was one of those crisp, bright, clear winter mornings withthe sun reflecting off the snowy fields with such an intensity thatDonnal’s eyes watered as he rode along River Road. By the watertreatment building, he stopped and watched a cardinal flickingthrough the bare ligaments of sumac. His disability check was due andhe guessed he might have a client or two as soon as he passed his examsat the Institute. He had good hands formassage and the extra money would come in handy. He giggled at thelittle joke: hands . . . handy. Extra money would mean hecould buy the special tapes he’d been wanting. He’d use them for theaccompaniment for massages and for his own meditations. Maybe even havecards made up: Donnal McIvery, Licensed Massage Therapist, thecard would say.