"Marta, somthing strange happened tonight. On the bank of the river I heard the owl call my name," and it was a question he asked, an answer he sought.
Once in a while, I like to take a look around my house, dip into a
bookcase and pull out a book I've
read before. I like to
relive the memories of reading it and remember what it was that I'd admired about the
author.
Margeret Craven's book,
I heard the owl call my name, happened to be the book I pulled out today. Its a
simple book, with a simple storyline about a young
vicar who was sent to one of the most
rural parishes in order that he may learn about
life and its
meaning... in order that he might be
ready to
die.
The
condition the young man suffered from was never
mentioned in the book, but it is
revealed at the beginning that he had less than two years to
live. After knowing this, the Bishop decided to
withhold the truth from him and dispatched the young man to an island near
British Columbia.
"So short a time to learn so much? It leaves me no choice. I shall send him to my hardest parish. I shall send him to Kingscome on patrol of the Indian villages."
The
brilliance of this book, and its author, lies in the
melancholy that is never expressed directly, but is hidden between the lines. The village is slowly dying and the
ancient traditions seeping away as one by one the young members of the tribe are sent outside to be
educated. The young vicar senses the silent
resistance of the villagers upon his arrival (they serve him
mashed turnip on purpose because they know no white man likes it). However, after some time he was accepted as a part of their tribe as he goes through several trials with them.
Curling up with this book on a
cold rainy day is just about the
best (and maybe also the
worst) way to read it. The unspoken words between the older generation and the younger, and the depth of loss felt, made me
tear. (I did not
weep. I just wiped my eyes occasionally as I read it.)
Near the end, the impending
death of the young vicar and his
acceptance of it, the
manner of his death and the villagers'
response to it really struck a
chord in my heart.
Never was language used so simply and so beautifully.
The
great thing about this book is that its not very thick (only 138 pages in length in my
edition), it can be read by a child of 10-12 years, and that it still manages to paint such a
tragically beautiful and gentle picture. I concede that I will never be able to master my words to such an
extent. This book will always have a place on my bookshelves.
She did not say, "Nonsense, it was my name the owl called, and I am old and with me it does not matter." She did not say, "It's true you're thin and white, but who is not? It has no importance."
She turned, spoon still in her hand, lifting her sweet, kind face with its network of tiny wrinkles, and she answered his question as she would have answered any other.
She said, "Yes, my son."