Read Online The Owl Keeper by Christine Brodien-Jones - Free Book Online
Authors: Christine Brodien-Jones
Tags: Fiction, General, All Ages, Children's Books, Fantasy, Action & Adventure, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Action & Adventure - General, Magic, Fantasy & Magic, Ages 9-12 Fiction, Nature & the Natural World, Social Issues, Animals, Human-animal relationships, Children: Grades 4-6, Friendship, Nature, Body; Mind & Spirit, Family - General, Social Issues - Friendship, Magick Studies, Prophecies, Owls, Birds, Environment, Nature & the Natural World - Environment
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"But what do you do specifically?" Max persisted, secretly wishing his father were a spy instead of a factory worker. "You have an important job, right?"
Mr. Unger fiddled with his tie. "Of course it's important. Last year I never missed a day's work." He nodded toward the framed certificate on the wall--a watercolor sketch of Cavernstone Hall--his award for perfect attendance.
"I know, Dad," said Max. "It looks like an awesome place. When do I get to see it?" His father had long ago promised him a tour of the factory, but so far it hadn't happened.
63
"As soon as I can arrange it, Max," came the reply. It was the answer his father always gave.
Max's mother returned with the lava cake. "Enjoy, you two," she said, setting it down in front of Max. One whole side had caved in completely. Seeing it made his stomach roil.
"I'm going up to bed now. It's been a long day and I'm feeling rather fragile." Nora Unger kissed her husband on his forehead.
"Good night, dear Max, I'll see you tomorrow." Her lips grazed Max's head, soft as moth wings. The gesture nearly broke his heart.
As she drifted out of the room, a memory came back to him. He was five or six, running with his mother and Gran through a field of poppies and tiny blue flowers, sunlight streaming down, leaves tumbling around them, all three laughing uproariously. He struggled to hold on to the memory, to savor it. But moments later the colors blurred and the details slipped away, leaving him with a blank space inside his head.
When Gran was alive, his mother didn't wear bifocals or take antianxiety tablets. Those memories, he knew, were true. She never fell asleep at the dinner table either, the way she did now.
He watched the middle section of the cake ooze out as his father sliced into it with a butter knife. Ewan Unger had a toothbrush mustache and hair parted down the middle. His wife called him an old-fashioned gentleman, reserved and polite. He was also, Max observed, somewhat austere and high-strung. When Max was little his father used to make up goofy jokes, but he hadn't kidded around with Max in a long time.
"Gran loved silver owls more than anything, right, Dad?" Max asked.
64
Mr. Unger cleared his throat. "She loved you more than anything." He handed Max a wedge of cake. "Owls were second. Of course, the owls are extinct now. Pity."
"What did Gran die of, Dad? Nobody ever said."
Mr. Unger cut a smaller slice for himself. "It all happened very fast. She was healthy one day and gravely ill the next. I don't remember the details."
Max frowned, sensing his father was holding something back. Couldn't he just answer the question? "Okay, but I need to know one thing. Why didn't I go to the funeral?"
"Funerals are not for children." His father's voice went flat and dead, like Max's old robot when the batteries ran down. "Your grandmother died of complications and we were sad to see her go." Setting his fork next to his uneaten cake, he stood up. "Let's leave it at that, shall we? She's gone, Max, she's not coming back. Nothing we do can ever change that."
"I know, Dad." Seeing the pain on his father's face, Max knew he should drop the subject. But stubbornly he went on: "Where's Gran buried? In Cavernstone Grey?"
"We'll discuss the matter another time, shall we? I'm off to bed now, it's been a difficult day. Good night, Max, enjoy the cake." He gave Max's shoulder a brisk tap and strode out of the room.
Max stifled a sob. "Good night," he whispered.
But he knew there was nothing good about it at all.
65
CHAPTER EIGHT
[Image: The owl.]
"I'm going to be an explorer one day, because explorers dig up ancient bones and buried cities," said Rose that night as she reached for a low-hanging branch. "My dad says it's a highly elevated profession."
Max knelt beneath the owl tree, trying not to think about his parents. He pictured a black
"But what do you do specifically?" Max persisted, secretly wishing his father were a spy instead of a factory worker. "You have an important job, right?"
Mr. Unger fiddled with his tie. "Of course it's important. Last year I never missed a day's work." He nodded toward the framed certificate on the wall--a watercolor sketch of Cavernstone Hall--his award for perfect attendance.
"I know, Dad," said Max. "It looks like an awesome place. When do I get to see it?" His father had long ago promised him a tour of the factory, but so far it hadn't happened.
63
"As soon as I can arrange it, Max," came the reply. It was the answer his father always gave.
Max's mother returned with the lava cake. "Enjoy, you two," she said, setting it down in front of Max. One whole side had caved in completely. Seeing it made his stomach roil.
"I'm going up to bed now. It's been a long day and I'm feeling rather fragile." Nora Unger kissed her husband on his forehead.
"Good night, dear Max, I'll see you tomorrow." Her lips grazed Max's head, soft as moth wings. The gesture nearly broke his heart.
As she drifted out of the room, a memory came back to him. He was five or six, running with his mother and Gran through a field of poppies and tiny blue flowers, sunlight streaming down, leaves tumbling around them, all three laughing uproariously. He struggled to hold on to the memory, to savor it. But moments later the colors blurred and the details slipped away, leaving him with a blank space inside his head.
When Gran was alive, his mother didn't wear bifocals or take antianxiety tablets. Those memories, he knew, were true. She never fell asleep at the dinner table either, the way she did now.
He watched the middle section of the cake ooze out as his father sliced into it with a butter knife. Ewan Unger had a toothbrush mustache and hair parted down the middle. His wife called him an old-fashioned gentleman, reserved and polite. He was also, Max observed, somewhat austere and high-strung. When Max was little his father used to make up goofy jokes, but he hadn't kidded around with Max in a long time.
"Gran loved silver owls more than anything, right, Dad?" Max asked.
64
Mr. Unger cleared his throat. "She loved you more than anything." He handed Max a wedge of cake. "Owls were second. Of course, the owls are extinct now. Pity."
"What did Gran die of, Dad? Nobody ever said."
Mr. Unger cut a smaller slice for himself. "It all happened very fast. She was healthy one day and gravely ill the next. I don't remember the details."
Max frowned, sensing his father was holding something back. Couldn't he just answer the question? "Okay, but I need to know one thing. Why didn't I go to the funeral?"
"Funerals are not for children." His father's voice went flat and dead, like Max's old robot when the batteries ran down. "Your grandmother died of complications and we were sad to see her go." Setting his fork next to his uneaten cake, he stood up. "Let's leave it at that, shall we? She's gone, Max, she's not coming back. Nothing we do can ever change that."
"I know, Dad." Seeing the pain on his father's face, Max knew he should drop the subject. But stubbornly he went on: "Where's Gran buried? In Cavernstone Grey?"
"We'll discuss the matter another time, shall we? I'm off to bed now, it's been a difficult day. Good night, Max, enjoy the cake." He gave Max's shoulder a brisk tap and strode out of the room.
Max stifled a sob. "Good night," he whispered.
But he knew there was nothing good about it at all.
65
CHAPTER EIGHT
[Image: The owl.]
"I'm going to be an explorer one day, because explorers dig up ancient bones and buried cities," said Rose that night as she reached for a low-hanging branch. "My dad says it's a highly elevated profession."
Max knelt beneath the owl tree, trying not to think about his parents. He pictured a black
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