retrieved a heavier knife, with which he sliced deftly through the back of the bared skull, separating it from neck and tongue. The body adhered nowhere now. The skull, like the wings and leg bones, would remain with the hollow skin. Mr. Cruikshank laid the stumpy torso aside.
Dorrie was surprised when he told her to guide the tip of the fine knife around the socket of an eye. Her hand shook a little, and she was grateful when, for the first time, he reached in over her shoulder to steady it with his own. Together they loosened the dark brown balls, scooping one, then the other, out whole.
“Never, ever burst an orb, Miss Burr. Treat your specimen with respect.”
After the eyes, there remained the small matter of the brain. Three secret, judicious cuts and out it came.
He taught her a great deal in those few short hours—how to poison skin and bones with a coat of creamy soap, rendering them resistant to both insects and rot. “Take extra care about the wing bones, Miss Burr.”
She learned how to ease the skull back inside the skin, to tease the face and head feathers flat with the tip of a pin. Mounting the black bird then became an exercise in restoration—all they had removed, they now constructed anew. A brain of wadded cotton,a trunk of tow wound firmly with thread. Wires anchored in the new body gave shape to the neck, wings and legs. A fourth curved out beneath the tail, this last to be snipped off at its base in a week or so, once the skin had dried, allowing the tail feathers to set.
Threading a needle’s narrow eye, Mr. Cruikshank showed her where to sink the four small stitches that would hold the crow’s breast closed. When the last of these was tied, she bent its neck and limbs into a modest roosting pose.
“Be sure the flight feathers overlap one another cleanly.” He folded the wings, pinning each to the body at the wrist joint, then shoving a further two pins in either flank for support. Withdrawing a pair of pointed tweezers from his breast pocket, he handed them to her. “Neaten him up. Whatever state he dries in, that’s how he’ll remain.” She nodded and began picking over the crow, teasing every stray quill into place. Together they wound thread in complicated patterns about the pins that held the wings closed, further assurance against any hint of disarray.
It was then that he sent her to look for the eyes. She was only gone for a few minutes, but by the time she returned, both sockets were lined with moist putty, and Papa had come in from the fields. His moustaches were wet with labour, lank. He sucked at them, his eyes blazing. Mr. Cruikshank stepped away from her side to meet him.
Her memory of what followed is incomplete—she was so intent upon the crow, the final, unsupervised step of setting its ersatz gaze. Fragments of heated discussion filtered through.
“I don’t understand you, sir.”
“Don’t come the innocent with me. You Gentiles are forever sniffing around our women—”
The crow was black, yes, but not only. A shimmer of green about its shoulders, blue along its cawing throat.
“You think—my God, man, she’s a child!”
What more there was to it, Dorrie never knew. In truth, after doing the decent thing and naming the crow after him, she seldom spared her teacher a thought. His departure signified little, as he’d already set her on the path. Her mind was alight. So many creatures in the world, and all of them going to die.
Saddling Ink for the thirty-odd-mile ride to Salt Lake City, Erastus keeps his back to his first-born son. Can’t help hearing, though, the overeager rattle of him rigging up that blasted horse. Erastus bought the pretty, difficult gelding in a moment’s soft-headedness, made a first anniversary gift of it to Thankful. She kept the red sash he’d tied around its neck—turned it into a surprising set of drawers, in fact—but refused to go near the horse.
He never actually gave the palomino to Lal. Just left it festering in
Dorrie was surprised when he told her to guide the tip of the fine knife around the socket of an eye. Her hand shook a little, and she was grateful when, for the first time, he reached in over her shoulder to steady it with his own. Together they loosened the dark brown balls, scooping one, then the other, out whole.
“Never, ever burst an orb, Miss Burr. Treat your specimen with respect.”
After the eyes, there remained the small matter of the brain. Three secret, judicious cuts and out it came.
He taught her a great deal in those few short hours—how to poison skin and bones with a coat of creamy soap, rendering them resistant to both insects and rot. “Take extra care about the wing bones, Miss Burr.”
She learned how to ease the skull back inside the skin, to tease the face and head feathers flat with the tip of a pin. Mounting the black bird then became an exercise in restoration—all they had removed, they now constructed anew. A brain of wadded cotton,a trunk of tow wound firmly with thread. Wires anchored in the new body gave shape to the neck, wings and legs. A fourth curved out beneath the tail, this last to be snipped off at its base in a week or so, once the skin had dried, allowing the tail feathers to set.
Threading a needle’s narrow eye, Mr. Cruikshank showed her where to sink the four small stitches that would hold the crow’s breast closed. When the last of these was tied, she bent its neck and limbs into a modest roosting pose.
“Be sure the flight feathers overlap one another cleanly.” He folded the wings, pinning each to the body at the wrist joint, then shoving a further two pins in either flank for support. Withdrawing a pair of pointed tweezers from his breast pocket, he handed them to her. “Neaten him up. Whatever state he dries in, that’s how he’ll remain.” She nodded and began picking over the crow, teasing every stray quill into place. Together they wound thread in complicated patterns about the pins that held the wings closed, further assurance against any hint of disarray.
It was then that he sent her to look for the eyes. She was only gone for a few minutes, but by the time she returned, both sockets were lined with moist putty, and Papa had come in from the fields. His moustaches were wet with labour, lank. He sucked at them, his eyes blazing. Mr. Cruikshank stepped away from her side to meet him.
Her memory of what followed is incomplete—she was so intent upon the crow, the final, unsupervised step of setting its ersatz gaze. Fragments of heated discussion filtered through.
“I don’t understand you, sir.”
“Don’t come the innocent with me. You Gentiles are forever sniffing around our women—”
The crow was black, yes, but not only. A shimmer of green about its shoulders, blue along its cawing throat.
“You think—my God, man, she’s a child!”
What more there was to it, Dorrie never knew. In truth, after doing the decent thing and naming the crow after him, she seldom spared her teacher a thought. His departure signified little, as he’d already set her on the path. Her mind was alight. So many creatures in the world, and all of them going to die.
Saddling Ink for the thirty-odd-mile ride to Salt Lake City, Erastus keeps his back to his first-born son. Can’t help hearing, though, the overeager rattle of him rigging up that blasted horse. Erastus bought the pretty, difficult gelding in a moment’s soft-headedness, made a first anniversary gift of it to Thankful. She kept the red sash he’d tied around its neck—turned it into a surprising set of drawers, in fact—but refused to go near the horse.
He never actually gave the palomino to Lal. Just left it festering in
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