The Art of Taxidermy

by Sharon Kernot

and psittacus funerous.

  Psittacus for parrot.

  Funerous for their sombre plumage,

  as if they're dressed for a funeral.

  John Gould called them

  Funeral Cockatoos

  like the name Oma used.

  Some Aboriginal people

  call them Wylah.

  Wy-la, Wy-la, Wyyy-laaaa,

  the words floated through

  my mind,

  and I pictured

  those beautiful birds

  floating darkly

  in the sky, crying

  their mournful cry.

  VISITING

  On a bright winter’s day

  I found my way to

  Jeffrey’s house.

  The sky was Wedgwood blue

  and the clouds like

  white figures on a china bowl.

  The sun threw long shadows

  on the road, from

  naked street trees.

  The yellow heads of soursobs

  bobbed and swayed

  in the gentle breeze.

  At Jeffrey’s door, I knocked,

  and a grey-haired woman

  answered, tipped her head to one side.

  Yes? May I help you?

  Her words were rounded,

  clear and resonant.

  Is Jeffrey home? I croaked

  like a cockatoo.

  There was a slight hesitation

  before she opened the door,

  showed me to the lounge,

  asked me to please, sit.

  The room was full of china figurines—

  horses and dogs and deer and

  ladies in beautiful dresses.

  Ornately framed paintings

  of English landscapes

  hung on every wall.

  Jeffrey stood stiffly in the doorway

  like a dark ornament,

  dressed neatly

  in pressed shorts

  and long socks, as if

  about to go to church.

  I asked him to come for a walk

  to see the corellas,

  but he shook his head, said:

  I see them every day.

  They fly round and round,

  calling, screeching, crying.

  A DANCE

  I watched a documentary

  about Aboriginal people.

  The painted men danced, morphed

  into kangaroos and emus.

  The music—clapping sticks

  and didgeridoos—

  vibrated and resonated.

  I saw a boy like Jeffrey—

  a slow smile,

  white, white teeth,

  dark skin and hair,

  gentle eyes.

  The narrator explained

  Aboriginal culture

  in the rounded vowels

  of the Queen.

  That night, I dreamed

  I was running, hiding from the drone

  of a didgeridoo

  as an old man

  pointed a sharpened bone

  and a flock of corellas

  swirled in the sky

  calling Jeffrey’s name.

  FATHER

  Father took me to work

  when Aunt Hilda

  had a doctor’s appointment.

  His office was lined

  with books, piles of papers

  and filing cabinets.

  He swivelled in his chair

  and read with raised eyebrows,

  while I drew pictures

  sitting on the other side of his desk.

  When a student knocked

  softly on his door

  I left them to talk, and I walked

  the long campus corridors,

  imagined I was a mouse or a rat

  escaping the lab,

  tunnelling my way out.

  I went into the high-ceilinged library

  with its ornate pillars and

  rows and rows of reading tables

  and shelves of hard-backed books.

  Its coolness,

  its hushed tones,

  were like a church,

  where everyone whispered

  as they do at a funeral.

  LUNCH WITH FATHER

  We walked to the museum

  to the Egyptian room,

  where I stood in the gloom—

  the half light—

  and stared at the head

  the feet, the hands.

  They had not moved.

  Nothing had changed.

  Even the tingle that stirred

  in the pit of my stomach

  was the same.

  I remembered the names

  of the bones

  Mr Morris had uttered:

  Talus, calcaneus,

  metatarsals, phalanges,

  hallux.

  I stared

  with a longing

  I did not understand.

  Then Father

  touched my shoulder,

  led me

  to another display.

  DEATH POINTERS

  As we threaded our way out

  of the museum

  I glimpsed photos

  of dark-skinned people.

  Not in white socks

  or polished shoes.

  Women and children

  scantily dressed,

  hair long and free.

  Men with spears and shields,

  wearing feathers and white paint.

  Like the people

  in the documentary.

  In a glass case were two

  long sharp bones labelled

  ‘death pointers’.

  The yellow bones were joined

  by a twisted band of hair

  glued with plant resin.

  I was careful not to

  line myself up with the point

  of the bones, but

  Father did not seem to mind.

  I tugged at his arm and said,

  Father, please move. The bones,

  the death pointers,

  are pointing at you!

  He studied the bones for some time

  and said, Do not worry, Lottie,

  I’ll be fine. It is only superstition,

  like Oma’s cockatoos.

  TAXIDERMY I

  On the way to the exit

  I saw dead animals,

  large and small—

  climbing, crawling,

  standing, rearing.

  Father! Look!

  They are perfect—

  perfectly dead.

  Not shrinking?

  Not disintegrating?

  There was no pungent smell,

  just the soft wheaty scent of pelt.

  They are preserved.

  They have been stuffed

  by a taxidermist.

  Taxidermist?

  I tried this new word,

  rolled it around in my mind

  and my mouth.

  Father’s voice shifted

  into lecture mode

  as he steered me back

  to the campus:

  Taxidermy is the art

  of skinning and preserving,

  then stuffing and mounting

  the skins of animals…

  TAXIDERMY DREAMS

  All afternoon I tried

  to recreate

  the taxidermy animals.

  While Father wrote,

  I drew the beautiful,

  dead creatures

  from memory,

  and longed to return

  to study them again.

  That night in bed,

  in the haze between

  wakefulness and sleep,

  I revived them all.

  Imagined them coming to life

  with the magic of taxidermy,

  which didn’t just preserve—

  but brought them back

  from the dead.

  MOTHER'S ROOM
II

  Annie and I crept into

  Mother’s room.

  It had been closed,

  and the air was chilled

  and so still that I felt as if

  we had entered a tomb.

  I opened the wardrobe,

  ran my hands along

  her jackets and skirts,

  coats and cardigans,

  dresses and shirts.

  I rubbed the woollen coat

  I had seen in the photographs

  along my cheek.

  I inhaled Mother’s smell—

  a floral perfume

  like the one on her dresser.

  I powdered my nose,

  rouged my cheeks,

  painted my lips dark red.

  When I twirled

  in the long woollen coat,

  Annie gasped—You are Mother!

  I stared at the reflection

  in the mirror,

  tried to decipher

  what the dusty image

  was trying to tell me

  about myself,

  about my mother.

  I looked into the eyes

  that were hers,

  that were mine,

  but could not see

  what was behind.

  FOX I

  We opened a drawer,

  unleashing the scent of lavender

  uncovering silky lingerie,

  sheer stockings,

  pointy satin bras.

  Another drawer

  contained gloves and scarves

  and something animal

  wrapped in tissue paper.

  A skinned fox.

  I lifted it out of its resting place,

  stroked its reddish fur,

  its little snout, its stiff ears.

  Its mouth was clamped on its tail.

  Its eyes were closed.

  I put the sleeping stole—

  the beautiful fox—over my head.

  It tickled my neck,

  hugged my shoulders, and

  warmed my heart.

  DEATH AT THE FUNERAL

  We arrived darkly,

  dressed in many layers.

  I clutched the bundle

  hiding under my coat.

  Oma wept and moaned,

  waddled and groaned.

  Like a black cockatoo

  in her cloak.

  Aunt Hilda hovered over Oma,

  clutching her bird-thin shoulders,

  nodding and muttering,

  dabbing a hanky at her red eyes.

  Annie and I stood at the door

  of St Mark’s, where my eyes traced

  the spire high into the sky, until

  I was hustled inside—

  into the chilly air,

  where we slow-stepped

  towards the open casket

  at the front of the church.

  Aunt Hilda grabbed my arm

  sat me down on a pew

  in the front row. Muttered, Death

  is not for children.

  I pulled Mother’s stole

  from beneath my coat

  placed it around my neck,

  then rejoined the queue

  at the coffin.

  Annie and I stared down

  into the strange face

  of death—

  the face

  of Uncle Bernard,

  Father’s twin.

  We held hands

  and stared and stared

  at the dead body,

  at the familiar face,

  until Aunt Hilda roughly

  bustled me back to my seat.

  Her reddened eyes widened

  at the sight of the sleeping

  fox around my neck.

  UNCLE BERNARD

  All through the service

  I thought of the face

  of Uncle Bernard.

  It was stone still

  like the mummies,

  but it was my uncle.

  It was my uncle

  but it wasn’t. It looked

  like him, but it didn’t.

  I knew he was dead,

  but I did not feel it.

  I hovered over

  my feelings. And they

  hovered over me.

  It was hard to feel sad.

  It was hard to feel

  anything, except confusion.

  I didn’t understand.

  I liked my uncle and

  knew I would miss him,

  but this was not real.

  The man in the coffin

  did not resemble my uncle.

  The essence of him

  had gone. His spirit had gone,

  and in his place

  a prostrate lifeless statue lay.

  CLINGING

  When you are a child,

  when you are small,

  you are almost invisible.

  I do not think you understand.

  It is not healthy.

  Wolfgang, it is not normal.

  Annie and I sat next to Oma,

  who clung to

  a procession of mourners.

  Annie’s hair shone

  like a bright sun, like a star

  amid the dark clothes.

  The fox, the stole!

  She is stealing through rooms—

  that room.

  Aunt Hilda was holding a plate

  of sandwiches,

  hissing into Father’s ear.

  Father scratched his beard

  with his thumb and glanced at me.

  Leave it with me, Hilda.

  It is time to let go, Wolfgang.

  Clear it all out. Why hold on?

  Let it go. Let her go.

  I stroked the furry hide

  hugging my neck and

  wondered what they meant.

  MOTHER MEMORY I

  There is the frantic scurrying.

  The calling, the yelling.

  The white skin whiter.

  Lottie, Charlotte.

  Come. Come now. Come. Now!

  My arm being stretched,

  as I try to keep up.

  My legs not managing,

  falling, stumbling.

  Being picked up, roughly

  swung onto a hip.

  Crashing against bone.

  Clinging to Mother’s neck,

  her dark hair knitted

  between my fingers.

  And then tumbling, both of us.

  Heavily onto the soft earth.

  The smell of grass.

  The smell of cow manure.

  The grey dam.

  The grey, grey dam.

  A shout echoing,

  reverberating.

  Stay! Sit! Stay there!

  Fierce eyes, dark circles, faded lips.

  The sound of splashing water.

  SPRING

  The days warmed and brightened,

  but Father’s mood darkened.

  He stood at the window and

  stared out at the garden,

  his hands in his pockets,

  his mouth clamped shut.

  His papers and books were left

  unopened, his dinner untouched.

  Eat, Wolfgang. You need to eat.

  Aunt Hilda hovered, clutching her apron.

  I am sad, too. Her voice softened

  and faltered, sounded

  unlike Aunt Hilda,

  more like Oma.

  She dabbed at a tear

  that trickled down her cheek.

  We all miss our dear Bernard.

  We miss him very much, but…

  Her brow knitted together.

  You have to think of Lottie.

  Her hands opened in despair,

  but Father did not respond.

  Later that night she said:

  It is hard for him, Lottie.

  They were very close.

  It is like that for twins.

  He has lost y
et another

  part of himself.

  WANDERING

  The next day, Annie and I wandered

  the streets in search of specimens,

  leaving Father to stare at his window.

  The sky was full of cottony clods

  and, in the distance,

  a small, black cloud loomed.

  We passed cherry and

  almond blossoms, and acacias

  heavy with yellow wattle.

  A bottlebrush was loaded

  with crimson flowers

  and two rainbow lorikeets

  hooked upside down

  like colourful chrysalises

  stripping the tree.

  We skipped along the road,

  happy to be outdoors where

  Annie’s hair sparkled and glittered.

  At the edge of the suburbs

  where the paddocks began to spread

  there were no corellas.

  They’ve gone, Annie said.

  I thought they would stay forever

  and ever. But they too have left.

  We followed a dirt track,

  our ears listening to the birdsong,

  hoping for a raucous corella call.

  FLIGHTLESS BIRDS

  Look! Annie pointed

  at a small bird on the ground—

  a baby magpie, lying on its back.

  I inspected the bald head

  twisted to one side

  the long slender beak and bulbous eyes.

  It was ugly and beautiful.

  We looked up into the tree

  and there was the nest.

  We climbed up and up, until

  a rush of air, a flap of wing and something

  sharp struck my head.

  I slipped down the trunk,

  clung with one arm to a branch.

  Lost my grip and dropped.

  Then Annie yelped and tumbled

  like a flightless bird,

  landing on the ground with a thump.

  We dusted ourselves off,

  bagged our perfect baby

  and limped home.

  BRUISES

  There were bruises

  from the fall

  on my shins and knees,

  and scratches

  from the rough bark.

  Father did not notice

  my limp or the cuts

  surrounded by blue

  or the shadows

  under my eyes.

  The baby bird slept soundlessly

  in a shoebox—

  a too-big coffin—

  on a bed of woolly cotton.

  I examined its flesh,

  the patchy down of feathers—

  black, white and grey—

  the tiny under-formed wings,

  the long sinewy neck,

  the way its beak remained ajar,

  the downward turn of mouth

  radiating sadness.