The Tale of Oat Cake Crag - By Susan Wittig Albert Page 0,67

creatures such as the vole he had brought home to supper. This was a distinct relief, for the owl had imagined that such a large competitor would have an enormous appetite and would very quickly clean out the regional larder.

The badger’s explanations may have partly satisfied the Professor’s curiosity about this Water Bird, as Bosworth had said the thing was called, but they had raised even further concerns in the owl’s mind. No matter what Mr. Baum’s machine ate or didn’t eat, and no matter that it bore such an innocuous (and misleading!) name, it was an undeniable threat to the people and animals around Windermere. The noise of the beastly thing obviously terrified horses and sheep and cows. It was only a matter of time before a horse became so frightened that it lost its head and plunged over a cliff and killed itself and its rider, or the cows refused to give milk, or the ewes abandoned their lambs.

The Professor shuddered at the thought of dead horses and motherless lambs. But there was worse. Motor-car engines were notorious for stopping unexpectedly in the middle of nowhere and not starting again until they were towed to a mechanic who could bully them back into operation. What would happen if the aeroplane’s engine stopped when it was high in the air? Why, the thing would come right down, that’s what would happen—and it wouldn’t come down in a graceful glide, like other respectable birds, landing lightly on the earth, then giving its wings and its tail a shake to settle its feathers.

No.

It would fall straight down.

Fall like a stone.

And whoever was standing beneath it would be smashed flat. If it happened to fall onto a house or a barn or a church, many persons might be smashed flat. And then there would be a great hue-and-cry and letters to The Times and threats of lawsuits, none of which would matter in the slightest, of course, to those who were smashed and dead, although the lawsuits might bring some comfort to the living.

The Professor scowled, reminding himself irritably that this sort of thing was exactly what one had come to expect from these presumptuous humans, who had no respect for their place in the Great Chain of Being. If Mother Nature had intended them to fly like owls and angels, she would certainly have given them wings. But Nature had not chosen to do so, and attempts by humans at flight—like that of the legendary wax-winged Icarus—could only end in ignominy, or worse. Flying was a business that ought to be left to the professionals. To himself, for instance.

But Mr. Baum and his pilot obviously intended no such thing. They had loftier goals, and the more the Professor thought about the impertinence of their uninvited, unwelcome invasion of his skies (his skies!), the more incensed he became.

How dare they? How dare they! Really, something must be done, and the sooner the better.

But Mr. Baum had already plummeted (like Icarus) from the lofty heights of Oat Cake Crag and perhaps would not survive the night. Nothing to be done there. Moreover, the owl was rather full of vole (it had been a truly delicious meal), the hour was late, and the wine had put him into that pleasant state which is known to the colonial Australians as half-cocked. And of course, there was absolutely no point in flying across the lake in the middle of the night to do something about the Water Bird, since the creature was clearly not nocturnal and would be sound asleep in its barn until the next day.

Which is why the Professor put up no resistance at all when a nap crept up stealthily behind him and seized him by the scruff of the neck, throwing him bodily down upon his bed and refusing to let him up until the sun had risen above the eastern shore of Windermere, crossed the lake to Claife Heights, and was peering into his windows.

The owl woke from his slumber refreshed and hungry. As he was preparing breakfast (coffee, toast, and a lightly scrambled pigeon’s egg with a bit of kipper), he recalled his intention of the night before.

“Yes, indeed. Something must be done about that Water Bird,” he muttered to himself as he tucked his napkin under his chin and sat down to his egg. “But in order to know what, I shall first have to learn more about the creature’s flying habits. I must spy out its strengths and