The night had been interminable. Cynthia eventually bowed to Martha's sobs and crept into her room, spending most of the dark hours holding the grieving child. Later, much later, Dean had spelled her, sitting up with Martha, who was far more upset with the prospect of flying Bird Song's nest than she let on during the daylight hours. Fear didn't dictate her mood-it was a sense of resignation and total helplessness, as if she'd been sucked into a black hole of bureaucracy where she'd remain forever. Toward dawn, her conversation became fixed on the skeleton-man she'd discovered in the depths of the mine as if he too was a forever forgotten soul, equally immersed in lonely darkness. In her half-asleep despair, she was convinced no one but the Deans would even believe her. She was obsessed with them locating him and transporting his bones to the light of day. It was as if rescuing these long forgotten remains from oblivion would somehow prove such a resurrection from years of absolute dark and loneliness would make anything possible. Martha eventually slipped into a troubled sleep when Cynthia, with Dean by his side, again convinced the child they believed her, and promised to see the young girl's discovery reach daylight.

When Saturday's daylight arrived to David Dean's exhausted eyes, the time had slipped past his usual rising hour and voices and footsteps rattled the old timbers of Bird Song. After a hurried shower, he dressed and joined his silent wife in serving the gathering guests. Martha sat at her cereal bowl-oatmeal, an unseasonable but favorite treat-eating slowly, red-eyed and sullen, her new suitcase next to her chair.

Fred O'Connor plodded down the stairs carrying a wrapped present and set it by her chair. She looked down at it and up at him. He bent down and kissed her cheek.

"Open it," he said.

Martha complied, not with Christmas enthusiasm but a quiet hint of pleasure. The box contained a large, snow white stuffed owl. Martha hugged it and murmured a thank-you.

"I bought it at Ouray Toys yesterday," Fred said. "I wanted a bird to remind you of Bird Song, and that you're gonna fly back here real soon."

"Owls don't sing," Martha said, her voice muffled against the plush toy, "but I love him anyway." She held it out and looked at it. "He has sad eyes, like me."

"I know owls don't sing, but I didn't like the song birds as well as this guy. It's a Lou Rankin design," Fred answered. "He's a sculptor. Sad eyes are his trademark. I got the owl so's you'd know we give a hoot."




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