I have been talking to the great horned owl who lives in St. Helena’s Church steeple. He (or she, since I am not sure which sex does the territorial noise) starts calling soon after dusk–two louder whos and a series of fainter whos in a row. It is a noise I can imitate, tone for tone, rhythm for rhythm, so I try to engage the St. Helena owl in a conversation, and sometimes he seems to be answering me. Perhaps we are squabbling about territory.
I am assuming that this great horned owl roosts in the bell tower because the highest architectural point in town is an excellent lookout post. From it you can see if the French are coming, or the Yemasees, or the rats. There are no branches to get in the way of a line of sight to a delicious small mammal or rodent among the gravestones. During the day, an osprey sometimes perches on the cross on top the steeple, to look for fish. I have seen two ospreys sharing the two sides of the cross, demonstrating universal brotherhood.

The great horned owl swoops silently, I read, and I can back that up because I haven’t heard any of the Beaufort owls swooping, nor am I as knowledgeable as a National Geographic photographer about exactly when they might decide to swoop.

It is good, I think, that we have predators in the air at night, to catch and eat some of the rats that live in the Historic District. Owls are so intelligent-looking that they were associated with the goddess Minerva, who herself was born out of the brain of Jupiter, supposed to be a smart cookie himself, because he was the king of the gods. The great horned owl, despite his intelligence, cannot turn his head all the way around his body, like some owls, but he is said to attack animals as large as a possum or a porcupine (how, I don’t know, or from which end). He is indeed a noble-looking bird, but the only time we humans are likely to see a great horned owl is after it is stuffed.

The ecumenical orange tabby cat, whose name I do not yet know but who lives between the front walkway of St. Helena’s and the parish house of First Presbyterian and can be petted or fed by either denomination, had better not go out in the early evening, but perhaps both the owl and the pussycat live under some sort of divine injunction against the killing of church animals.

The noise of the great horned owl is in the air at night, in town. I haven’t heard a screech owl, which doesn’t screech but warbles in an eerie way, as if his cry were designed to make a human feel lonely, or a barn owl, who does screech in a very frightening way, sounding like a banshee, if you are near to it. Whip-poor-wills live in Beaufort County, but not around the town. I think they require space around them, and they are country birds. They can wake you up at night, they are so loud, if they roost in the eaves of your house.

There are great horned owls in at least three or four locations in downtown Beaufort. If you walk the town at night, you will hear them proclaiming their territory from street to street. Beaufort is an owl town at night, as well as a rat town and a palmetto bug town.

The great horned owl seems to go to sleep, or stop whoing, late at night or early in the morning, because he isn’t around at dawn, when the larky, chirpy, tweety, and raspy wren and crow types get up and tell you that you too should be getting out of bed, you sleepy head, to begin to carry out the duties of the day. Then the ecumenical pussycat can come to the sidewalks of either of the two churches and get his pets from the passersby.