Vanishing acts, p.23
Vanishing Acts, page 23
John Daniel moved along the back of the exhibit. His steps were slow and fluid; muscles rippled on his back. He was Anders’s favorite. “John Daniel was purchased from Harrod’s by Major Rupert Penny of the Royal Air Force as a present for his aunt. John Daniel had a variety of ailments, including rickets, but the aunt, a Mrs. Cunningham, fixed that. She raised him as she would have raised a small boy. A certain amount of indulgence. A certain amount of no nonsense. He ate at the table with them and was expected to get his own glass of water and to clear his own dishes. He was taught to use the toilet and, since he cried when he slept alone, was given a room next to the major’s. Mrs. Cunningham consulted no experts but used her own judgment in devising his diet, which included fruit, vegetables, and raw hamburger. And roses. He loved to eat roses, but only if they were fresh. He wouldn’t eat a faded rose.”
When he became too big to keep, Mrs. Cunningham sold him to a private park she believed would be ideal. Tragically, he ended up in the circus instead. Anders had lost his own indulgent mother at the age of eight. He thought he had some insight into John Daniel. He knew what it was like to suddenly, inexplicably, exchange one home for another far less happy one. John Daniel’s expression was intelligent but bewildered and bereaved.
Too subtle for sixth graders. Anders was down to an audience of four. “So interesting,” the teacher said brightly, although Anders did not think he had been listening. Probably he had been there with a different class last year and perhaps the year before that. Probably he had heard it before. Probably he had never listened. “Can you all thank Mr. Anders for showing us his gorillas?” the teacher suggested, and then, without pausing for thanks, “We won’t see the giraffes if we don’t press on.”
No one else was scheduled until three. Anders opened the workroom to get his own lunch and a book. He was studying Koko now, a gorilla raised by a Stanford graduate student and taught to sign. He planned to eat inside with his gorillas, but Miss Elliot arrived instead. “Have lunch with me,” she said. “I made cookies. It’s a beautiful day.”
Miss Elliot often came at lunchtime. She had no real interest in Anders, or so Anders thought. Her own upbringing as the baby of a large, loving family had left her with a certain amount of affection to spare. She regarded Anders as a project. No healthy young man could be allowed to molder among the exhibits. Get him out. Give him a bit of medicinal companionship. Miss Elliot wore a uniform with an elephant on the sleeve and below that the black circle. Miss Elliot showed the elephants, but they weren’t her elephants and Anders doubted she even understood the distinction.
If he refused her offer, he would face her brand of implacable, perky determination. He found it unendurable. So he nodded instead and put the book back beside his tools and his sketches. He joined her at the exit, opening the door.
Miss Elliot shook her head. “You always forget,” she said. Her tone was indulgent but firm. She reached back past him, brushing across the black circle on his sleeve, and threw the switch that turned the gorillas off. They ate lunch on the grass outside the Hall of Extinction. The cookies were stale. The flowers were in bloom.
Karen Joy Fowler is the author of seven novels, including Sarah Canary, which won the Commonwealth medal for best first novel by a Californian, and The Jane Austen Book Club, a New York Times bestseller. She has also written three short story collections, two of which won the World Fantasy Award in their respective years. Her novel We are all completely beside ourselves, won the Pen/Faulkner for fiction in 2013 and was shortlisted for the Man Booker. Her most recent novel, Booth, was published in March of 2022.
LINKS
MARK W. TIEDEMANN
Reverend William Fox wandered among the cages of pigeons. The tents flapped in a light breeze; everywhere the sound of muffled coos mingled with ardent conversation. Men in tall hats with badges pinned to their lapels moved from display to display, occasionally asking to have a particular bird taken out for inspection. A brilliant June sun burned across Cheshire.
Breeders greeted Reverend Fox with broad smiles and cordial bows. He had been buying birds all during the show, especially young ones, and he had not seemed too particular. Some fanciers doubtless thought him eccentric, or at best a novice who had yet to learn the finer points of the fancy. Still, none of them had really cheated him. If any of them knew what it was all about they might charge more.
“‘Morning, sir.” A short man with broad features and heavy hands lightly clasping the lapels of his worn coat came up to him. His right hand was bandaged.
“Good morning,” Fox returned. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure …?”
“Well, sir, no, you wouldn’t. My name is Humphrey Paley. I’ve got a place a few miles south o’ here.”
“Do you breed pigeons, Mr. Paley?”
“Aye, sir, I do. One o’ the few pleasures I’ve got, if you take my meaning.” He turned partway and waved toward a stack of cages. “My birds are there.” He smiled briefly, showing uneven teeth. “I understand that you’ve been buying, sir.”
“Reverend Fox. Yes, as a matter of fact. Young birds mainly. I’m acquiring them for a friend in Kent. Do you have any to sell?”
“Aye, Reverend, I think I might, if you’d care to have a look.”
Fox fell into step beside the man and crossed the grass to his modest collection of birds. He peered through the wooden bars. “Nice pair of turbit there …”
“Oh, I couldn’t part with them, Reverend.”
“Of course, they look well presented. Any chicks?”
“Aye, but I didn’t bring them along.”
Fox straightened. Besides the turbit, he saw the usual collection of magpie and swallow and one old fantail that looked past its prime. Nothing remarkable.
“Forgive me, Mr. Paley, but I thought I knew everyone in the parish.”
The man blinked for a few moments, then looked surprised. “Oh, you’re that Reverend Fox! Well, I had no idea. Well, we’re not in your parish, Reverend. But I’ve heard many speak well of you.” He laughed self-consciously and looked around. “I do have a good stock o’ chicks you might be interested in. As I say, though, I didn’t bring them here. If you’d care to, Reverend, I’d be pleased to have you out to my place to look them over. As a matter of fact, I’d be most grateful, as there’s another matter upon which I’d be most appreciative of your opinion.”
“Oh? This isn’t something best left to your own deacon, is it?”
“Oh, no, sir, no. This has to do with birds and Reverend Gromley, if you don’t mind my saying, isn’t much about them. No, this is to do with birds. Or, I should say, with one bird. I have one that’s most curious and—well, Reverend, I’d appreciate a man of your stature and associations having a look.”
“My ‘associations’?”
“Yes, sir, like Mr. Hooker and Mr. Owen and Mr. Darwin.”
Fox felt his lips pucker in amusement. “You have more than a pressing familiarity with me, Mr. Paley. Is paleontology a hobby of yours?”
“We might have a good talk about that, if you’d be so good as to pay us a visit, Reverend. This bird, if I might call it that, is quite an odd example. I think you’d be quite interested.”
“You intrigue me, Mr. Paley.”
The man looked suddenly relieved. “Thank you, sir. Then may I tell my wife you’ll be coming?”
“Yes, I shall be glad to, Mr. Paley.”
“I am at a loss,” Fox wrote later to Darwin, “to explain my decision to visit this contradiction of a man. He had clearly misrepresented himself to me, but he did it in so mawkish a manner that I found it impossible to be offended. Rather than wonder why he had approached me in such a way I immediately wondered what it was that made him believe he had to.”
Paley’s farm consisted of about one hundred and fifty acres. Fox smelled the barley before the carriage topped the last rise. The residence was an old stone structure with a thatch roof. Smoke curled from one of three chimneys. Beyond he saw a newer wooden barn and an extensive yard wherein chickens mingled thickly. There was a thatch-roofed warren and attached to this a shed containing a few cows and horses. Even over the thunder of the carriage, Fox could hear the complaining of chickens. As he dismounted, he could also hear pigeons, loudly cooing, and, distantly, crows.
The door opened and Paley stepped out, grinning. “Reverend, it is good of you to come!”
Fox glanced in the direction of the barnyard and Paley gave the clamor a dismissive wave.
“You get so you don’t notice after awhile.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard such a racket.”
“Please, Reverend, come inside. It’s much quieter.”
As the heavy oak door closed the sound diminished significantly. Fox stood still while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He handed his hat and cane to Paley and surveyed the large main room. Chairs gathered close to the big hearth. Just behind these stood an old, scarred table. An enormous cabinet contained china service and another held perhaps two score of books. Lanterns hung on support beams, unlit now with daylight flooding in through the squarish windows. Curtains blocked either end of the house. Fox smelled the aroma of stew cooking from one end. He assumed the other to be their bedroom.
“This appears quite old,” he said appreciatively.
“Aye. It’s been in my family for about five generations now, but it’s older than that.”
“You own it yourself then?”
“Aye, sir.” Paley swept the room with a proud look. “Mind you, it’s not easy. Not quite hand-to-mouth, but almost. Still, we make out all right. There’s not many of us left anymore, you know. A family like us, no titles or any real background to speak of, owning its own place like this. Not for so many generations like this. Lot of places are selling out to local gentlemen, deacons, petty lords, businessmen, and the like. Not many of us left, but, God willing, the Paleys will hang on.”
“You and your wife?”
“Aye. Annie! Come out and greet our guest.”
A woman came out from behind the lefthand curtain. Her nearly white hair was tucked under a worn lace cap tied beneath a strong chin. She was half a head taller than her husband and barely spoke. She curtsied shyly to Fox and excused herself to get back to the kitchen.
“She’s a good one, Annie is,” Paley said. He gestured for Reverend Fox to come sit by the unlit fireplace.
“Do you smoke, Reverend?” Paley asked, taking a pipe from his pocket.
“No, thank you. You have children?”
“Two boys. Grown. Both of ’em are in the Crimea. Annie worries over them. They’re good boys, I’ll be proud to have ’em take over the place when they’re old enough. Or when I’m tired enough.” He laughed.
“It must be difficult with just your wife and yourself.”
Paley nodded. “That’s true enough. I sometimes wonder what would become of Annie were I to take sick. But we manage. Sometimes by the skin of our teeth, if you take my meaning, but we manage. It’s a responsibility, though. My grandfather near lost the place, when the factories went up in the cities. All the sons went there to work for wages. Now it’s the war.” He shook his head. “If it weren’t for Annie sometimes I’d just as soon throw in and walk away. Annie and my pigeons.”
“Yes, your pigeons. About them, Mr. Paley—”
“You’re collecting them for Mr. Darwin, aren’t you? I’ve heard talk around the other fanciers. I’m a member of the Borough Club, though you might not know to look at me.”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Hmm. Thought so. I’ve read Mr. Darwin.”
“Indeed?”
“Aye.” He aimed the stem of his pipe toward the books. “I own a copy of his Journal of Researches from the Beagle.”
Fox blinked. “Well, if you don’t mind my saying, sir, that surprises me.”
“Oh, I read, Reverend. ‘Course lately there hasn’t been much time or money for books. But I quite admired that book. I don’t mind that it’s Mr. Darwin, but I would like to know what he intends with ’em.”
“I’m afraid I can’t say with any authority myself. He may be my cousin, but sometimes the workings of the man’s mind … if you take my meaning.”
“An acquaintance o’ mine from Monmouth told me he’s been collecting barnacles for some time. Packages from all over the world, he said.”
“That’s true.”
“Now it’s pigeons. Hm. Can’t say I see the relation myself, but Mr. Darwin’s a smarter man than me.”
“You indicated yesterday that you had something out of the ordinary.”
“That I did.” Paley leaned forward and stared for a time into the dead hearth. “I’ve got problems with foxes.”
“Foxes.”
“Eggs are a good portion of my livelihood. I keep on average about two hundred hens. Foxes get to be a problem for poultry farmers. I hunt them, of course, but there’s not always time for that. So I lay traps. Of course, I don’t always catch foxes in my traps. The occasional rabbit, now and then a hedgehog. I caught me a hawk once. It had pounced on a mouse and just happened to do so in one o’ my traps. Still had it clutched in its claws. Poor thing had a broken leg, but it flew off anyway. Don’t know what became of it.”
“I take it you snared this out of the ordinary something in one of your fox snares?”
“Indeed I did. Knowing Mr. Darwin’s interest in the unusual it seemed reasonable he might be of a mind to see this.”
“You say it’s a bird?”
Paley’s face compressed as if in pain and he gave a slight shake of his head. “Mr. Darwin’s a smarter man than me. I’d say so, but only at first look. Matter of fact, Reverend, I can’t say honestly what it is. Of course, you hear stories, especially out here among us rustics.” He laughed dryly. “If feathers make a thing a bird, then I guess it is.”
“You certainly have my interest, Mr. Paley. I would very much like to see this creature.”
Paley looked at him then and Fox felt uneasy. The man’s eyes locked on him, an ember of fear wavering within them.
“Don’t torment the Reverend,” Annie broke in suddenly. She stood by the part in the curtains, glaring across at her husband. “Show him. If he wants it, make a price and finish it.”
Paley returned a bitter look, then nodded. “Come with me, if you will, Reverend. It’s in the barn.”
The moment they stepped out of the house the clamor of the barnyard struck Fox again. He winced as he followed Paley quickly to the barn. The chicken coops extended from its left rear corner out along the length of the fenced yard in which the hens milled. To Fox’s eyes they seemed unusually agitated. They pressed as a group away from the wall, toward the far end of their enclosure.
“I’ve had it a week now,” Paley said as they stepped into the gloomy interior. “The nature of it is such that I kept it hid till I knew what to do with it. I’m sure you’ll appreciate my position, Reverend.”
Hay filled the air with a pleasant musky odor. Paley led Fox to the rear and climbed a ladder set against the edge of the loft. At the top Fox found himself in a cluttered space, piled with crates and canvas-covered objects stacked against the walls. It was darker still and he had to pick his way with care following Paley through the maze. From here the chickens sounded like a roomful of people chattering excitedly.
Paley stopped within a small cleared area near the back wall. Fox could only see Paley’s back as he bent over, searching for things. But he heard a faint rustling and a delicate clicking like fingernails on glass.
Suddenly Paley struck a lucifer and lit the wick of a lantern. Paley dropped the glass in place and a soft glow filled the space. He turned and motioned Fox closer. Then, with a nod, he indicated a cage on top of an old barrel.
For a moment Fox thought he was looking at a falcon of some kind. But as he looked closer he grew puzzled. It was the size of a small goose, but the proportions were all wrong. It crouched on legs much too thick. Its chest puffed out above a slim waist and its neck was short. What struck Fox most odd, though, was the head. Too large for a duck or goose, more the size and proportion of an owl, but shaped wrong. The skull looked prominently domed. A thick crest of feathers rose along the center of the skull, framed by back-swept tufts on either side. Paley had a leather muzzle on its beak. Above this the eyes glared out, shifting between Fox and Paley.
The eyes were too large and vaguely wolf-like. It blinked once, slowly and deliberately. The irises looked oily black with only the yellow point of reflected lantern glow to give them any sense of surface.
“My God …”
“Look close at the feathering,” Paley said. “Watch.”
Paley raised the lantern and lowered it to let the light shift over the thing’s body. The feathers that had appeared white now shimmered irridescently with a faint rainbow play of color. Fox moved forward. The creature stepped back, eyes now fixed on him. The crest on its head lifted slightly.
“Are those …?”
“Feathers? You might well wonder. Here.”
Paley handed him a shaft. Fox turned it over in his palm. “This isn’t a feather,” he said. “It’s solid, more like …”
“Scales?”
“Yes … scales. Except for right here at the end it starts to separate. Still, it’s terribly stiff even there. My God, man, what have you found here?”
“Do you think p’haps Mr. Darwin would be interested?”
“Yes, surely. If not him I know a dozen zoologists offhand who’d like to see it.”
“What do you think he’d be willing to give for such a find? Not meaning to be blunt about it, Reverend, but—”
“Oh, quite. Well … why don’t you tell me your price?”
“Well. I’ve gotten as much as two hundred pounds for one o’ my prize fantails … I couldn’t part with it for less than three hundred.”
Fox blinked at him. “That’s a considerable sum.”
Paley rubbed his face briefly. “It’s a considerable find.” He nodded curtly. “Let me show you the rest.”
