Information
Ophelie
Legacy Name: Ophelie
The
Lilac DragarthOwner:
MollyAge: 11 years, 3 months, 2 days
Born: January 23rd, 2013
Adopted: 11 years, 3 months, 2 days ago
Adopted: January 23rd, 2013
Statistics
- Level: 1
- Strength: 10
- Defense: 10
- Speed: 10
- Health: 10
- HP: 10/10
- Intelligence: 0
- Books Read: 0
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
I was nine when I met Pauline. It didn't take long for me to realize that my father loved her. Every night for months he'd slip out of the house in the dead of night, trying not to make a sound. I'd see his shadow, a dark knife along the floor, cutting through the familiar stream of light beneath my bedroom door. He'd return with the smell of meadow grass on his hands and in the morning, there would be small clumps of mud on the carpet.
More often than not, my mother was out in the afternoons. Some tea or lunch with a society lady and her daughter, the kind of girl my mother wished I'd spend more time with. My father had been acting strange for months, slipping out at all hours, returning with mud on his boots, dirt and the smell of meadow grass on his hands; and one day, while my mother was out, my father tried to slip through the front door. He'd been out all night. From my perch at the stairs I heard the old hinges creak and raced down to see him, breathless, hair dampened by sweat, and on his arm the prettiest thing I'd ever seen, even though I was loath to say it. He stammered, caught off-guard, and I simply stared, frozen.
"Ophelie, this is Pauline."
I couldn't speak, and neither could she. We were both shy, I guessed. But something about her seemed earnest to me, as if she hadn't asked for this, as if everything she wanted was out there, not in here. Father put a calming hand on her back, and my shoulder. I became his accomplice, after that, and I never told mother. It turns out that I didn't need to; she'd known for a long time, and had chosen to turn a blind eye so long as father promised never to bring "that creature," into the house. But try as she might, she couldn't stop me from spending time with my father, and she couldn't stop me from spending time with Pauline. In the summer, he would bring us out to the meadow at night and point up at the sky and the stars, telling stories about dead stars and old kings. My mother would watch us from the window as we walked back towards the house, my dress muddy from kneeling on the ground. Even before I was close enough to see her face, I knew that her expression was one of disappointment. She hadn't raised her daughter to spend nights in a meadow, hair loose and feet bare. Father would greet mother with a kiss, and return Pauline to her perch.
Father had purchased Pauline from an Indian falconer on a whim, following a recent penchant for falconry he'd developed after watching an overly glamorized show at the circus, all glitz and tricks. Louis Fuertes had written an article in National Geographic. She was a juvenile with little experience, and father turned her into the best gyrfalcon for miles. Pauline could learn any skill, take any quarry. We used to pile into the Ford and drive to the competition and father would let me hold her on my fist on the walk to and from the car. Through the thick leather gloves I felt the solid pressure of Pauline's talons and the thrill of carrying such a powerful bird, that she would sit so docile on my fist and moments later take a pitch of hundreds of feet in seconds before plunging to the ground after a hare.
Pauline died in 1945, when she was five. Father had been hunting in eagle territory in a season of sparse prey and Pauline had killed a rabbit, perched on it waiting for him to come to her and serve her its liver when a golden eagle raked her in the back. It stole the rabbit and Pauline's life, and we held a funeral in the woods with a ring of roses and a sprig of oleander. I was fourteen years old and I'd never cried so hard.
More often than not, my mother was out in the afternoons. Some tea or lunch with a society lady and her daughter, the kind of girl my mother wished I'd spend more time with. My father had been acting strange for months, slipping out at all hours, returning with mud on his boots, dirt and the smell of meadow grass on his hands; and one day, while my mother was out, my father tried to slip through the front door. He'd been out all night. From my perch at the stairs I heard the old hinges creak and raced down to see him, breathless, hair dampened by sweat, and on his arm the prettiest thing I'd ever seen, even though I was loath to say it. He stammered, caught off-guard, and I simply stared, frozen.
"Ophelie, this is Pauline."
I couldn't speak, and neither could she. We were both shy, I guessed. But something about her seemed earnest to me, as if she hadn't asked for this, as if everything she wanted was out there, not in here. Father put a calming hand on her back, and my shoulder. I became his accomplice, after that, and I never told mother. It turns out that I didn't need to; she'd known for a long time, and had chosen to turn a blind eye so long as father promised never to bring "that creature," into the house. But try as she might, she couldn't stop me from spending time with my father, and she couldn't stop me from spending time with Pauline. In the summer, he would bring us out to the meadow at night and point up at the sky and the stars, telling stories about dead stars and old kings. My mother would watch us from the window as we walked back towards the house, my dress muddy from kneeling on the ground. Even before I was close enough to see her face, I knew that her expression was one of disappointment. She hadn't raised her daughter to spend nights in a meadow, hair loose and feet bare. Father would greet mother with a kiss, and return Pauline to her perch.
Father had purchased Pauline from an Indian falconer on a whim, following a recent penchant for falconry he'd developed after watching an overly glamorized show at the circus, all glitz and tricks. Louis Fuertes had written an article in National Geographic. She was a juvenile with little experience, and father turned her into the best gyrfalcon for miles. Pauline could learn any skill, take any quarry. We used to pile into the Ford and drive to the competition and father would let me hold her on my fist on the walk to and from the car. Through the thick leather gloves I felt the solid pressure of Pauline's talons and the thrill of carrying such a powerful bird, that she would sit so docile on my fist and moments later take a pitch of hundreds of feet in seconds before plunging to the ground after a hare.
Pauline died in 1945, when she was five. Father had been hunting in eagle territory in a season of sparse prey and Pauline had killed a rabbit, perched on it waiting for him to come to her and serve her its liver when a golden eagle raked her in the back. It stole the rabbit and Pauline's life, and we held a funeral in the woods with a ring of roses and a sprig of oleander. I was fourteen years old and I'd never cried so hard.
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