A Bird's Eye (12 page)

The lion had died while confined in the hidden space under the cage floor. It couldn't have suffocated as the compartment was properly ventilated. Nor were there any signs of injury. Likely it had died of a heart attack.

“Without a lion, we don't have an act,” said Moses Ludwig in his office. “I don't know where to get another one. Besides, he was eating me out of house and home. I've already put a lot of dough into this. And if there's a war? Actually, I should say
when
there's a war.”

“But the act worked,” I said. “The audience — did you hear them?”

“I hate to tell you this. There's a magician I know, working the circuit already. He's willing to buy the act from me — cage, set, costume, script, the works. I'll break even. Next month we're going to start showing pictures. Sorry, Benjamin, it's just the way things are.”

I didn't say anything. In my hand was Corinne's note. I had already read it, but I hadn't 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 couldn't go back to my parents' 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 they'd know I wasn't 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 — 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 couldn't 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 Brant's 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
Valentine's Fall
, which was a finalist for the Toronto Book Award,
The Mermaid of Paris
,
Felix Roth
, as well as several books for children. He has been an editor and contributor to several magazines and newspapers, including the
Globe and Mail
and the
Montreal Gazette
. His books have been published in the U.S., Canada, and Germany. He was the winner of the Jewish Book Committee Prize for Fiction, and most recently, his collection of short stories,
My Life Among the Apes
, was longlisted for the Scotiabank Giller Prize.

House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi's commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada's pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”