were empty. The Russians clomped through the marble halls in boots that had marched across frozen steppes, but only echoes greeted them. The walls were bare of paintings; the pedestals held no sculptures. The museums' contents had disappeared.
I never bothered to look any of this up. Hamilton explained it bit by bit over the next couple weeks. His vocabulary seemed to grow daily, though his pronunciation often had a hard time keeping up
.
"Empty museums," I said. "Got it."
"No, no. Taken away. Hidden."
"The museums were hidden?"
We were walking in the park. It was closer to September now, and I wondered if Hamilton would need to migrate soon. I was unsure if crows stuck around during the winter.
"Art! Art hidden!"
"Who hid it?"
"Everyone," he clucked, slightly softer, though carrying on a conversation with the bird always entailed him shrieking at some point. "Peasants, farmers, old ladies, houses, attics, cellars. Hidden." He cocked his head one way and then the other, a gesture I had learned was roughly equivalent to a human spreading his arms. "Empty museum."
Hamilton was explaining it all to me, but I still did not understand.
"She's letting me talk now," Hamilton said from the lamppost. I was sitting on the porch with a book. "Really talk."
"You've certainly gotten better," I said, trying to arch an eyebrow. "Who is?"
"Queen Mab."
"The fairy queen?"
The bird bobbed his head.
"Look," I began, "it's enough that I have a talking crow and --"
"We have to find her museum," he croaked, cutting me off. "Like in Dresden. But there, the people brought it back themselves. Not here. It's been too long."
Carla was inside, washing the dishes after dinner. It was the first time I had invited her to my place, and I had been surprised when she had not refused. I cooked pasta, and after we ate she made me go outside while she cleaned up. I had a server for creamer that was shaped like a tiny cow, and I could hear its ceramic hooves clinking against the sill of the window in the kitchen as she worked.
Suddenly everything seemed to click into place.
"Carla is the fairy queen," I said. "I fell in love with Queen Mab."
The crow cocked his head and looked at me like I was an idiot.
"Mab won't come. Or at least, you better hope she won't. She tends to put undue pressure on reality when she shows up. She needs you though, to start putting the museum back together."
"What museum?"
He spread his wings. "The one that used to be here."
A few minutes later Carla pushed the door open with her hip, bringing two mugs of coffee. Hamilton eyed her from the lamppost, and she smiled at him.
"Who were you talking to? I thought I heard voices."
I didn't like lying. "A neighbor."
"Oh." She took the other rocker on the porch and sipped from her mug. "Your cow creamer thing is gone," she said. "I'll get you another one."
"Shaped like a cow?"
She shrugged. "If you want."
Maybe things were not moving fast enough. Maybe I was dense, or I thought the talking crow was some kind of game or gimmick.
In any case, Mab did end up coming herself.
She didn't look like I expected. In plays and paintings she wore a dark gown with gems and leaves in her hair. In the rain, standing in the grass in the backyard, she looked far less human. One breast was painted black and the other silver. She had twigs in her hair.
I could not remember why I had stepped out into the backyard in the rain.
"Once upon a time," she was saying. She spoke as though resuming a discussion we had been having before something interrupted us. "There were two brothers who fell in love with Death. They saw her for the first time at the side of their father, who called them to his bed as he died. When their mother reached down to close his eyes, the two brothers saw Death standing there behind her in a black gown, and they loved her, for she was lovely."
Mab stooped, holding her hand a few inches above the ash sprout I had let grow up beyond the grass. She stood like that
I never bothered to look any of this up. Hamilton explained it bit by bit over the next couple weeks. His vocabulary seemed to grow daily, though his pronunciation often had a hard time keeping up
.
"Empty museums," I said. "Got it."
"No, no. Taken away. Hidden."
"The museums were hidden?"
We were walking in the park. It was closer to September now, and I wondered if Hamilton would need to migrate soon. I was unsure if crows stuck around during the winter.
"Art! Art hidden!"
"Who hid it?"
"Everyone," he clucked, slightly softer, though carrying on a conversation with the bird always entailed him shrieking at some point. "Peasants, farmers, old ladies, houses, attics, cellars. Hidden." He cocked his head one way and then the other, a gesture I had learned was roughly equivalent to a human spreading his arms. "Empty museum."
Hamilton was explaining it all to me, but I still did not understand.
"She's letting me talk now," Hamilton said from the lamppost. I was sitting on the porch with a book. "Really talk."
"You've certainly gotten better," I said, trying to arch an eyebrow. "Who is?"
"Queen Mab."
"The fairy queen?"
The bird bobbed his head.
"Look," I began, "it's enough that I have a talking crow and --"
"We have to find her museum," he croaked, cutting me off. "Like in Dresden. But there, the people brought it back themselves. Not here. It's been too long."
Carla was inside, washing the dishes after dinner. It was the first time I had invited her to my place, and I had been surprised when she had not refused. I cooked pasta, and after we ate she made me go outside while she cleaned up. I had a server for creamer that was shaped like a tiny cow, and I could hear its ceramic hooves clinking against the sill of the window in the kitchen as she worked.
Suddenly everything seemed to click into place.
"Carla is the fairy queen," I said. "I fell in love with Queen Mab."
The crow cocked his head and looked at me like I was an idiot.
"Mab won't come. Or at least, you better hope she won't. She tends to put undue pressure on reality when she shows up. She needs you though, to start putting the museum back together."
"What museum?"
He spread his wings. "The one that used to be here."
A few minutes later Carla pushed the door open with her hip, bringing two mugs of coffee. Hamilton eyed her from the lamppost, and she smiled at him.
"Who were you talking to? I thought I heard voices."
I didn't like lying. "A neighbor."
"Oh." She took the other rocker on the porch and sipped from her mug. "Your cow creamer thing is gone," she said. "I'll get you another one."
"Shaped like a cow?"
She shrugged. "If you want."
Maybe things were not moving fast enough. Maybe I was dense, or I thought the talking crow was some kind of game or gimmick.
In any case, Mab did end up coming herself.
She didn't look like I expected. In plays and paintings she wore a dark gown with gems and leaves in her hair. In the rain, standing in the grass in the backyard, she looked far less human. One breast was painted black and the other silver. She had twigs in her hair.
I could not remember why I had stepped out into the backyard in the rain.
"Once upon a time," she was saying. She spoke as though resuming a discussion we had been having before something interrupted us. "There were two brothers who fell in love with Death. They saw her for the first time at the side of their father, who called them to his bed as he died. When their mother reached down to close his eyes, the two brothers saw Death standing there behind her in a black gown, and they loved her, for she was lovely."
Mab stooped, holding her hand a few inches above the ash sprout I had let grow up beyond the grass. She stood like that
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