Effigy by Alissa York

showed he’d taken her to be the age she looked.
    The three of them sat in silence for a time, the visitor sipping the plum juice he’d been given, Mama seating herself before a pail of potatoes, turning one after another against her knife. The spotty ones she passed to Dorrie, who dug in her knifepoint to twist out bruises and sprouting eyes.
    Mr. Cruikshank held his tongue until they’d peeled close to half the pail, then reached down to the case at his feet. “Do you mind, Mrs. Burr?”
    Mama glanced up. “Go right ahead.”
    A leather tongue held the two halves closed. When he thumbed its brassy hasp, the case sprang wide, a hairless creature that had been holding its breath. Reaching into the nearest half, he withdrew a glossy wooden box. Its dimensions were those of a modest jewellery case. Its contents proved infinitely more precious than any locket or brooch.
    The bird would have fit snugly in the cup of her hand. It was neat-headed, chubby, perfectly preserved. Heavenly blue marked with a cirrus waft of white. Mama smiled. Dorrie felt herself stand and draw close to the stranger and his prize.
    “Budgerigar,” he said softly.
    “Budge-eri—”
    “Or just plain budgie.”
    “Budgie.” Her mind was racing. “How—”
    He grinned, patting the open case at his feet. Dorrie knelt for a better look. Glint of bottles, gleam of blades. Mama set her potato aside and peered over the table’s edge. “Why, Mr. Cruikshank, what on earth?”
    It turned out that what appeared to be magic was in fact the result of a series of physical acts. Once Dorrie had secured Mama’s permission, she led Mr. Cruikshank around back of thebarn, finding to her delight that the crow Papa had stoned that morning had yet to be carried off in the mouth of a fox. She stooped for it, and Mr. Cruikshank, comprehending, laughed.
    “Very well. Have you a table where we can work?”
    The butcher block in the shed would do nicely. He was a generous teacher, talking her through the process step by step, letting her learn with her hands. They began by loosening the wings.
    “Bend them back until you feel the shoulders touch. Gently now, you don’t want to break any bones.”
    She obeyed, easing the feathered limbs together across the crow’s back.
    “You can mount a bird with broken wing bones, but it’s sloppy work. A professional takes every precaution to avoid mutilating his specimen. Remember that.”
    The initial cut taught her much—how to slide the knife like a finger’s feeling tip, deep enough to sunder skin while leaving the flesh beneath it intact. Mr. Cruikshank kept up a steady stream of instructions, sprinkling handfuls of cornmeal over the crow’s body from time to time. “You can always clean the feathers later if you must, but it’s better not to spoil them in the first place.”
    She smiled at the ease with which the skinny legs pushed up out of their skin. Mr. Cruikshank handed her the heavy scissors, and she snapped through each of them at the knee. After stripping the toothpick bones clean, she thrust them back inside their leathery socks.
    Next he talked her thumb and forefinger down either side of the ribs until they met at the small of the back. “Sever the tail at its root. Use the scissors. Careful you don’t cut into the quills—your tail feathers will drop out if you do.”
    The skin could be peeled back now. The crow became a raw hand emerging from a glossy glove, its skull the final joint of themiddle finger. Dorrie cut through both shoulders cleanly, releasing the black fans of the wings. Which left the delicate work of the head.
    “Never pull,” her teacher said quietly. “Use your thumbnail. Push the skin gently from the bone.”
    Dorrie felt her way. The folds that were tucked into the ear holes came out with a combination of prod and pluck. Mr. Cruikshank took over to work around the eyelids but allowed her the satisfaction of skinning down to the crow’s black bill. Stooping to his case, he