Abel's Island: Chapters 11–14

In late November, Abel was on his way home from the book, mulling over a chapter he had just read.

The sky was gray. Nature looked its drabbest.

There he poked the quill into the soft, rotting wood of his floor, where it stood erect, a sort of talisman. He owned something of the owl’s, from his very body, but the owl had nothing of his. This gave him a sense of advantage, at least for the moment.

He found himself uttering an incantation at the feather, not knowing where the words came from:
Foul owl, ugly you,
You’ll never get me,
Whatever you do.
You cannot hurt me,
You cannot kill,
You’re in my power,
I have your quill!

Still full of forebodings of a hard winter, he foraged about for what he was sure was the last edible stuff on the island: various seeds, dry berries, mushrooms.

Still full of forebodings of a hard winter, he foraged about for what he was sure was the last edible stuff on the island: various seeds, dry berries, mushrooms.

Still full of forebodings of a hard winter, he foraged about for what he was sure was the last edible stuff on the island: various seeds, dry berries, mushrooms. He crammed his rooms full of these viands.

Perhaps it was more than he would need to see the winter through, but he had no way of knowing. Anyway, his abundant store eased his misgivings.

Engrossed one day in these practical chores, he was shocked to see the owl again, up on a branch in a tree near his house.

It was asleep, but its erect posture, like that of a sentinel of hell, its eyes, which even shut seemed to stare, the tight grasp of its talons on the bough, and the bloody sunset in the sky behind it, filled poor Abel with wintry dread.

Abel, back in his log, knelt in prayer and asked a question he had asked before, though never so urgently: Why did God make owls, snakes, cats, foxes, fleas, and other such loathsome, abominable creatures?

Abel, back in his log, knelt in prayer and asked a question he had asked before, though never so urgently: Why did God make owls, snakes, cats, foxes, fleas, and other such loathsome, abominable creatures?

There was no question he’d be getting off the island, though as yet he had no idea how. He was patient; that is, he considered himself patient. Because what other love-longing, wife-craving, homesick creature would remain so pacingly calm, so nervously resolute, so crazily sane, as long as Abel had?

If the owl was offended at Abel’s insults, it didn’t show that it was. Solemnly, it blinked and stared.

The chase went on and on, sometimes reversing direction.
This mad carrousel so offended the owl’s ancient sense of decorum that it grew confused and crashed into the tree.

It had to go off somewhere to sit in a huff, unruffle its feathers, and regain its ruthless composure.

Without waiting to catch breath after his heroic skirmish, he began uttering, over these detested feathers, the most horrible imprecations imaginable.

Without waiting to catch breath after his heroic skirmish, he began uttering, over these detested feathers, the most horrible imprecations imaginable.

December grew steadily colder. Abel began tearing margins from the pages of his book and using this paper to fill the chinks in his doorway whenever the stones were set in place. Even so, the cold lanced through, especially when it was windy.

The snow descended from the bleary sky in thick, heavy curtains, through a long night.

Curled up in his bed, Abel listened despondently to the howling and yowling, the lashing and whistling of the wind.

It was February, as Abel had surmised, and now winter really took hold.

It was February, as Abel had surmised, and now winter really took hold. January had been only the prelude.

It was a time when even the most stalwart of mice would wish to be an infant again in his mother’s warm embrace.

He tottered about, shivering, and stuffed every open chink as well as he could with his palsied paws, until no light came through anywhere.

He donned his entire wardrobe, got all his mats together, all the paper he had torn from the novel, whatever milkweed fluff he could find in his storerooms, and half sitting, half reclining against a wall, he quilted himself all around with these paddings and buried his face in Amanda’s scarf.

He was sick. He was weak; merely to turn over took great effort; and he was wretched.

If she were less dreamy, more attentive to reality, if she had tied her scarf on tighter, he would now, this moment, be at home, wearing his velvet jacket and satin-lined pantofles, ensconced in an easy chair among plump pillows, reading a good book, or perhaps merely looking out his window at the snow.

He became somnolent in his cold cocoon. In his moments of dim-eyed wakefulness he had no idea how much time had passed since he was last awake—whether an hour, a day, or a week.

There were two crocuses in the snow, sure harbingers of spring.

Enlivened by this miracle, the dainty flowers braving the cold, he bustled about outside his log, setting things in order.

He wound his watch, listened in rapture to its steady ticking, and went to read his book, really more to be back in his old routine than for the sake of reading.

The river, swollen with freshets from the thawing, was swifter than ever, exultantly rushing along.

All this time of burgeoning life and joy, he hadn’t failed to carry his spear and watch out for the owl.

Abel saw his whole world suffused with green.

Violets, dandelions, pinks, forget-me-nots bedecked the island.

He bathed in the fresh cold water at the river’s edge and lay on his back under the sun, trying to fathom the firmament.

He bathed in the fresh cold water at the river’s edge and lay on his back under the sun, trying to fathom the firmament.

Overjoyed at hearing civilized speech again, Abel ran over to the recumbent frog and looked down at him, beaming with candid delight.

Overjoyed at hearing civilized speech again, Abel ran over to the recumbent frog and looked down at him, beaming with candid delight.