tell you this. Thereâs a magician I know, working the circuit already. Heâs willing to buy the act from me â cage, set, costume, script, the works. Iâll break even. Next month weâre going to start showing pictures. Sorry, Benjamin, itâs just the way things are.â
I didnât say anything. In my hand was Corinneâs note. I had already read it, but I hadnât taken it in, not really. I put on my jacket and knapsack and closed the door behind me. I went down the back stairs and out into the lane behind the theatre. The ground was slick and caught the reflection of the light over the door. The actor who played Hitler hurried past me. I couldnât go back to my parentsâ house, not with Corinne gone and not without performing to look forward to. In my knapsack I had a marked deck, my chop cups, a few essentials.
I hunched my shoulders in the damp air. Magic could make people forget whatever they needed to forget for a little while, and that was it. I knew there were bigger things going on out there, catastrophes awaiting, but none of it meant anything to me right now. I planned to write my parents a letter when I got a chance, just so theyâd know I wasnât dead.
When my father got home, he did not look for my mother but instead went straight to my room. He turned on the light, but even as the bulb flickered on, it made a popping sound and went out. In the gloom, he moved over to the dresser where he could see the shapes of the mechanical toys he had made so long ago â monkey, fish, crocodile, lion, bird. He picked up the key, put it between his teeth, and lifted the large bird with both hands. He carried it to the open window.
He had to put the bird down on the bed to haul up the window. The rain had stopped. Carefully, he wound up the spring mechanism, keeping one hand over its back so that the wings couldnât move. They pushed against his fingers, not with the frantic energy of a real bird, but with the steady and insistent pressure of a machine. He had never wanted to risk trying it out so that he might continue to hold on to the possibility of it actually working. But now he held it out as a pigeon fancier might hold one of his racers and awkwardly shoved his arms through the open window as he let go.
The bird flapped hard. Laboriously. The body dipped downwards, but the wingbeat levelled it and the second caused it to thrust forward as if it were paddling through water. The mechanical whirr was as loud as a dozen cicadas. The wing flaps steadied as it rose and, wheeling, just missed the chimney of the house across the street.
It flew on. Over streets, over the buildings of the university with the zigzag pattern on their roofs, over the playing fields towards the downtown. Anyone seeing it from below would have thought it some large bird of prey, sick or wounded, struggling up through the air. It rose higher still, over businesses and shops, over Brantâs Vaudeville, over church spires. It gazed down with its glass eye, and then its beak opened and it gave out a single rasping call.
Many thanks to everyone at Anansi, especially Melanie Little for presenting the manuscript in the best light, Jared Bland and Sarah MacLachlan for their enthusiasm and editing skills, and Janice Zawerbny for seeing it through to the end. Once again Rebecca Comay and Bernard Kelly gave first readings and offered valuable suggestions. Patrick Crean has been very supportive of my recent work, and gracious as well. And a final but most necessary acknowledgement and thanks to Marc Côté.
Grants from the Canada Council and Ontario Arts Council gave me the necessary time.
Cary Fagan is an award-winning author who is known for timeless stories that reveal complex and universal themes. He has written several novels, including Valentineâs Fall , which was a finalist for the Toronto Book Award, The Mermaid of Paris , Felix Roth , as well as several books for children. He
I didnât say anything. In my hand was Corinneâs note. I had already read it, but I hadnât taken it in, not really. I put on my jacket and knapsack and closed the door behind me. I went down the back stairs and out into the lane behind the theatre. The ground was slick and caught the reflection of the light over the door. The actor who played Hitler hurried past me. I couldnât go back to my parentsâ house, not with Corinne gone and not without performing to look forward to. In my knapsack I had a marked deck, my chop cups, a few essentials.
I hunched my shoulders in the damp air. Magic could make people forget whatever they needed to forget for a little while, and that was it. I knew there were bigger things going on out there, catastrophes awaiting, but none of it meant anything to me right now. I planned to write my parents a letter when I got a chance, just so theyâd know I wasnât dead.
When my father got home, he did not look for my mother but instead went straight to my room. He turned on the light, but even as the bulb flickered on, it made a popping sound and went out. In the gloom, he moved over to the dresser where he could see the shapes of the mechanical toys he had made so long ago â monkey, fish, crocodile, lion, bird. He picked up the key, put it between his teeth, and lifted the large bird with both hands. He carried it to the open window.
He had to put the bird down on the bed to haul up the window. The rain had stopped. Carefully, he wound up the spring mechanism, keeping one hand over its back so that the wings couldnât move. They pushed against his fingers, not with the frantic energy of a real bird, but with the steady and insistent pressure of a machine. He had never wanted to risk trying it out so that he might continue to hold on to the possibility of it actually working. But now he held it out as a pigeon fancier might hold one of his racers and awkwardly shoved his arms through the open window as he let go.
The bird flapped hard. Laboriously. The body dipped downwards, but the wingbeat levelled it and the second caused it to thrust forward as if it were paddling through water. The mechanical whirr was as loud as a dozen cicadas. The wing flaps steadied as it rose and, wheeling, just missed the chimney of the house across the street.
It flew on. Over streets, over the buildings of the university with the zigzag pattern on their roofs, over the playing fields towards the downtown. Anyone seeing it from below would have thought it some large bird of prey, sick or wounded, struggling up through the air. It rose higher still, over businesses and shops, over Brantâs Vaudeville, over church spires. It gazed down with its glass eye, and then its beak opened and it gave out a single rasping call.
Many thanks to everyone at Anansi, especially Melanie Little for presenting the manuscript in the best light, Jared Bland and Sarah MacLachlan for their enthusiasm and editing skills, and Janice Zawerbny for seeing it through to the end. Once again Rebecca Comay and Bernard Kelly gave first readings and offered valuable suggestions. Patrick Crean has been very supportive of my recent work, and gracious as well. And a final but most necessary acknowledgement and thanks to Marc Côté.
Grants from the Canada Council and Ontario Arts Council gave me the necessary time.
Cary Fagan is an award-winning author who is known for timeless stories that reveal complex and universal themes. He has written several novels, including Valentineâs Fall , which was a finalist for the Toronto Book Award, The Mermaid of Paris , Felix Roth , as well as several books for children. He
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