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| Swimming With Owls | |
| By Emmuttmax | ||||||||||
| 04 June 2008 | ||||||||||
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I have no good excuse for why I wrote this.
Swimming With Owls
In August of 1863, an 18-year-old boy named Rene Poupier was swimming in the ocean by the small village of Cusionairre in Southern France. Like his father before him, Rene was an owl tender, and he had developed quite a reputation for his innovative methods of owl husbandry. In the late afternoons, as his owls slept, dreaming of field mice and Lycanthrope moons, it was Rene’s custom to spend an hour in the salt water propelling his muscular body back and forth along the natural harbor around which the village was built. As he swam, Rene, too, dreamt. His dreams contained no rodents or astral bodies; they consisted mainly of ocean leviathans, gold-dust maidens, and cities heard of but unseen. Villagers would often stand on rocky outcroppings and watch the young man smoothly cut thought the sea. Some would say, “That boy should have been a dolphin.” Others might exclaim, “The owl man is in the sea again. I wonder if he is planning on teaching his birds to swim.” Unbeknownst to the villagers Rene had, in fact, already tried to teach his owls to swim two years ago. The experiment had ended in failure and the death of one of the birds. He mourned the bird for months and vowed never to try such a risky venture again. On that August day, Rene had been in the water for about 40 minutes, and as usual, a few village spectators lined the edge of the cove observing his effortless progress from one side of the cove to the other and back again. As Rene approached the southernmost end of his swim and was about to make his turn, his rhythmic glide broke, and he seemed to be struggling. Manush, the village idiot who was a regular spectator cried, “Look, his rhythmic glide is broken and he seems to be struggling.” Others rushed to where Manush was standing, and moments after they arrived, they witnessed the young man disappear below the surface. “What should we do?” asked Pierre the net maker. “What can we do?” said Maud, the tobacconist’s wife. The small group of villagers debated for several minutes about a plan of action, but before they could reach a decision, Rene broke the surface, gasping for air. The villagers shouted cries of relief, and Manush gingerly climbed down the lichen-encrusted rocks and pulled Rene to safety. The idiot gently hoisted the owl tender over his shoulders, scaled the outcropping, and then laid Rene on the well-worn path. As Rene lay there breathing heavily, the villagers closed in, inspecting him for signs of damage. And, they found some. Rene’s body was covered with what appeared to be small bites and bruises. Tiny rivulets of blood rolled down the side of his legs and arms, and there was a nasty bruise on his left cheek. When his breathing returned to normal, the villagers asked Rene, “What happened? Did a shark attack you?” “No,” replied Rene, “It seems I was attacked by mollusks. There were hundreds of small clams nipping at me and dragging me down. I was sure I was going to die.” “How did you get away?” asked Maud. “Just as my oxygen was almost depleted, I swear I saw an underwater owl swoop in on wing-fins, and the mollusks fled in panic.” A hush fell over the crowd. Finally, a somber Pierre said, “These are strange times.” Manush the idiot grunted then pensively stared at the ground. “I think it’s global warming,” he said.
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