He was always something of an odd man, Leonard was. Even as a child he was what folks would call different. It was said that after he came back from the war his oddness was more extreme, his behavior a little more unexplainable. Not that he was a bad man. People liked him; they just thought him a bit odd. When you looked at him, even before he spoke or moved, you saw a tall, gangly man with ears that stuck out from his head farther than it seemed possible, like Dumbo’s, but on a human face. When he talked, he leaned into you and completely violated your personal space, and if you backed away a bit his face with those big ears would follow you and stay just inches from you as he spoke. You would look up at him, this tall man, and notice that his nose was incredibly tall and thin also, and there were what seemed like thousands of grey hairs pushing out from his nostrils. A personal conversation with him could be a bit discomforting.

Some people avoided him, though everyone in town knew that he was harmless. He never held a regular job that anyone could recall, but many of the townspeople hired him to do odd jobs, and it was said that his sister used to give him money or buy him groceries even though she was poor herself. He did a lot of gardening work and handyman jobs, usually with a Camel cigarette, unfiltered, dangling from his lips. When he was invited into someone’s house to sit down for a lemonade or a drink of water and some rest, he would talk so much that the ash grew on the cigarette as the paper burned away until it was impossibly long and looked like it would drop onto the floor or tablecloth and start the place on fire. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any longer, he would deftly take it from his lips and manage to balance the ash in mid-air and then suddenly tap the whole thing into the cuff of his pant leg.

Leonard was awkward with people, but he had a way with animals. Dogs would jump up on his lap and stay there until he got up, even if he ignored them the entire time. Cats would rub his legs, possibly pushing some of the ashes out of his pant leg and onto the floor beneath. Even in the garden, the rabbits seemed to know he was harmless and watched him turn the earth. He had countless animal stories. He told a story of how he once calmed a black bear that had cornered him by talking to it and assuring it that he meant no harm. One could imagine the bear backing away and Leonard continuing to get up in its face as he spoke. He told of training squirrels to bring him walnuts and he told of how he used to catch eagles and other raptors so that he could study their behavior and understand them better. Nobody believed him, but his stories seemed harmless, so nobody challenged him about them.

One day, though, Leonard was telling one of his raptor stories at the café where townspeople gathered for coffee in the morning when the owner, a veteran like Leonard, challenged him. Patrick was a black-haired blue-eyed Irishman who could tell stories with the best of them, so it surprised everyone when he spoke up and said, “You ain’t never caught a bird with your bare hands. Not an owl, not a robin, not even a sparrow. Don’t even try to tell us you did.”

Leonard looked at him and countered. “You’ve gone fishing with me. You’ve seen me pull fish out of the creek with my bare hands.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Fish are a lot slipperier than owls and eagles.”

“And you’re a lot slipperier than any fish.”

“Huh. Well, you don’t have to believe me, but you know I’ve got no reason to lie to you.”

“Fish are also a lot smaller and less dangerous. No talons.” Patrick walked away. That was his exclamation point and he wasn’t about to argue it any further.

Nobody thought any more of the story until about two weeks later. Patrick was sweeping the floor of the café, cleaning up for the night after closing, when there was a loud knock at the front door. He yelled toward the door. “We’re closed!”

The person at the door knocked again, louder, and then started banging at the door. Patrick’s face turned a bit red as his temper started to flare up. He just wanted to close up and go home for the night. He was tired. He wasn’t about to fire up the grill and serve anyone after closing time, even if it were his own hungry mother, God rest her soul. He went to the door and unlocked it, swung it open, about ready to swing his fist as well, when he saw Leonard standing in front of him, holding an owl by its feet. Not just any owl, either. It was a great horned owl. There was blood all over Leonard’s tee shirt and one big scratch under the sweat on his left cheek. Leonard smiled. “I got your owl,” he said.

“I didn’t ask for an owl. What are you . . .” Patrick stopped in mid-sentence as he recalled challenging Leonard a couple weeks earlier. “Are you kidding me? How . . .” He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Leonard moved closer to Patrick, leaning into him. The owl flapped its wings, striking Patrick’s arm. “Shh, settle down, buddy,” Leonard said to the owl, and the owl immediately pulled its wings back and folded them into its side. Then he turned to Patrick. “Well, I don’t know how others might do it, but what I do is listen for that distinctive hoot, follow that call to a tree, and then start climbing up until it flies to the next tree. Then I run over there and start climbing and it flies to another. Eventually it gets tired and lands on the ground or a lower branch where I can sneak up on him and grab him. After I get him, I talk to him and let him know I mean no harm. They usually calm down about then.”

Patrick was stunned by the sight in front of him, and not quite sure whether to believe the story, but Leonard and the owl were at his door and he couldn’t deny that. “Okay, you proved yourself,” Patrick said. “Let’s let him go. If a game warden sees you with that thing, well, you just never know. And I’ve heard those owls, the great horned ones, they represent death to some people. It makes me nervous. We should let him go. We don’t want to invite death in the door.”

Leonard looked at Patrick and seemed unable to understand the fear. To him all animals were his brothers and sisters and not to be feared, and death was as inevitable as men and women gathering in the café for coffee and conversation in the morning. He stepped outside the door and let go of his grip on the owl. It flew immediately to the top of the store across the street where it landed and seemed to be looking down at the two men.

Leonard turned to Patrick and spoke. “I’ve witnessed death and suffering in ways that most people never have, and I know you have, too. Look at that bird. He’s alive. I’m alive. You’re alive. He’s free. You and me, we may be alive, but we’re not free. Not like that fellow. Even in my hands it was freer than you and me will ever be, at least until we die. This is what I’ve learned from studying them. It’s why I gave up owl catching years ago.”

One night several years later, after closing the café, Patrick and his son headed down the street to the house. It was a clear starlit night. Suddenly, a great horned owl swooped down in front of them and landed in a nearby tree.

“Wow, Dad, did you see that?”

“I sure did.” Patrick went silent for a moment. They stood and stared at the beautiful bird for a moment. “It reminds me of my old friend, Leonard.”

“Who’s that? I never heard of him.”

“Oh, he was an odd old man,” Patrick started. “But a good and wise man. He was a Jack-of-All-Trades, an owl catcher, a storyteller, among other things.”

“An owl catcher? People can’t catch owls. Where is he now? What kind of stories?”

Patrick looked up at the tree and spoke. “Oh, he’s off flying free somewhere. Let me tell you about him.” The owl let out a hoot that sounded a bit more plaintive than usual and then silently flew off into the night. Patrick put his arm around his son as they walked away and he started to tell the boy a story.

– Callen Harty