The Art of Taxidermy

by Sharon Kernot

  FOX II

  I wore the stole at school,

  snuck it out of the house,

  carried it in my bag until I was out

  of Aunt Hilda and Father’s sight,

  then slipped it over my head.

  The sleeping fox

  warmed me,

  absorbed the sense of dread

  that had descended.

  It was nice to have Mother close.

  I felt her arms

  draped around me.

  The kids in the class said:

  You’re weird.

  You’re disgusting!

  It’s a dead fox.

  You stink!

  Jeffrey said:

  Red fox. He’s sly.

  And he stroked

  the soft fur hide.

  A NOTE

  Aunt Hilda waved an envelope.

  You must not take that fox to school.

  It is not right. It is not!

  I didn’t answer.

  I ate my dinner quietly,

  eyes downcast,

  my fork making swirling patterns

  in the thick, brown gravy

  on my plate.

  Later, Aunt Hilda spoke

  to Father, who was drinking port

  and staring out the window.

  Wolfgang! You need to

  snap out of this ennui…

  this Verzweiflung.

  I have a note from her school.

  She wore that stole—the fox!—to class.

  You must do something!

  It is not normal, Wolfgang.

  She is strange.

  You must do something.

  I slipped out to my laboratory,

  and hid my lovely fox at the bottom

  of a large cardboard box.

  NON-VERBAL READING

  The next morning

  as Father folded his newspaper

  his gaze caught my eye

  and held it.

  I waited for him to talk,

  but he studied me through half-closed eyes

  like I was a specimen

  in his laboratory.

  And then he nodded

  and smiled his close-lipped smile, and asked,

  How is school, Lottie?

  It is fine, I replied.

  He considered me further,

  took mental notes with the same furrowed brow

  he wore when he read or wrote.

  Good, he said. That is good.

  What are you reading? he asked

  of the library book in front of me.

  It’s about Egypt. It’s about tombs.

  Interesting. He paused. Is it interesting?

  Yes. Yes, it is.

  And how are you?

  I wondered what he meant.

  I am good. I am well.

  He scrutinised me a little more,

  gathering non-verbal evidence perhaps,

  before he finally said, I am glad.

  That is good news.

  We do not need to worry.

  He opened his newspaper

  and went back to reading.

  JEFFREY II

  Jeffrey walked home

  from school with me

  one warm afternoon.

  We went the long way,

  skirted the suburbs,

  crossed the paddocks.

  Jeffrey talked softly

  sometimes,

  but mostly not at all.

  He lifted rocks and logs

  and we watched worms wriggle

  and ants and slaters scatter.

  Where are the corellas?

  I asked when we walked

  in their empty territory.

  Jeffrey shrugged. They move.

  They fly away.

  Why stay?

  He caught a small skink,

  opened his hand to show

  the cool, flecked skin.

  He stroked the sleek back,

  smiled his slow smile.

  Then let it go.

  FRIENDS

  At home, the kitchen was warm

  with oven heat

  and the smell of apple strudel.

  Jeffrey sat at the table.

  I poured us milk

  and raided the cake tin.

  When Aunt Hilda bustled in

  she stopped and stared,

  fiddled with her apron strings.

  This is Jeffrey, Aunt Hilda.

  He’s come to look at my specimens.

  Jeffrey rose from his chair and nodded.

  Hello, Jeffrey. Nice to meet you.

  Aunt Hilda looked him up and down

  slowly, one eye narrowed.

  Then a smile lifted her face,

  and she said: Good, Lottie. This is good.

  It is nice to have a friend.

  DEAD

  We went to the shed,

  entered the dark womb of it,

  the fusty fug of it.

  I flicked the light, and my creatures

  were illuminated

  and so was Jeffrey’s big smile.

  His eyes shone—

  the oily liquid of them

  made my heart leap.

  He stood for a long time,

  his gaze travelling over

  fur and feathers, beaks and claws.

  His smile slowly closed.

  Eventually, he said:

  They’re all dead.

  His eyes, gentle and quizzical,

  turned to mine.

  Why do you keep them?

  I felt my heart tighten

  and slump.

  I thought he’d understand.

  I keep them because I love them.

  I keep them because

  they are beautiful.

  And then I surprised myself and said:

  I keep them because

  they remind me of Mother.

  MOTHER MEMORY II

  She is lying on my small bed

  crying—quietly, softly.

  I stand and stare at her

  wet face, her wet hair.

  I touch the smooth skin of her cheek.

  She opens her swollen eyes,

  then gathers me up,

  folds me into a warm, damp hug.

  I smell her perfume,

  feel the beat of her heart.

  Adrianna, Adriaaanna.

  Where are you? Adrianna.

  Father gently calls from some dark

  other part of the house.

  REMEDY

  Wolfgang, Charlotte needs

  an interest, a hobby.

  Something to occupy her time.

  Why do I need a hobby? I asked.

  Father looked up from the morning paper.

  First at Aunt Hilda,

  then at me.

  A hobby? He frowned.

  Yes, Aunt Hilda said. It will keep her busy.

  Father nodded. I chewed my toast.

  I am busy, I said.

  It will keep you out of trouble.

  I am not in trouble.

  Hush! You need something

  to keep you busy—sport or something.

  Leave it with me.

  Father put down the paper

  rose, kissed my head,

  and left.

  INVASION

  The days warmed, and the shadows

  beneath the robinia strengthened.

  In the shed, the fusty

  smell of death swelled.

  One day, before school,

  I flicked a small black ant

  off the top

  of the aquarium.

  When I returned that afternoon

  there was a thick trail of ants

  climbing the shed wall.

  Inside, the floor was a dark sea

  and my poor creatures

  writhed as if alive.

  Ants marched up my legs

  biting flesh.

  I hit and slapped and swore

  and the air reeke
d.

  BURIAL

  Father dug a hole at the base

  of the apricot tree.

  With gardening gloves

  and kitchen tongs

  he removed my

  ant-infested creatures,

  my beautiful,

  spoiled specimens.

  Placed them all

  into the hole,

  covered them

  with dirt.

  The sound of shovel

  striking ground.

  The sound of earth

  layering earth.

  Like a blow,

  sunk my breath,

  filled my heart

  with the dead

  weight of

  death.

  SOLITUDE

  I did not go to school

  the next day or the next.

  I did not want to go

  ever again.

  I stayed in bed,

  lay on my back and slept,

  or stared

  at the blank ceiling and

  the dust motes

  that swirled around,

  catching light

  from a crack in the curtain.

  I watched them dance,

  sparkle and glitter.

  I longed to feel some

  of that magic,

  but I was weighed down, heavy.

  I too had been buried

  beneath a tonne of soil

  in that mass grave.

  DARK RECESSES

  On the third day

  I could hear the heated

  but hushed voices

  of Aunt Hilda and Father.

  Father came into my room,

  sat on my bed,

  studied my face,

  stroked my hair and said:

  It is hard to lose

  anything or

  anyone

  we are close to.

  It is good to feel sad.

  It is good to cry.

  It is good to grieve.

  Tears swelled in my eyes.

  Father’s voice was soft and gentle

  and full of pain.

  In his eyes I saw

  what I felt.

  It was as if I had travelled

  the distance

  to his heart,

  to the dark recesses

  of his grief.

  He offered me his hand.

  Come. Let us sit in the lounge,

  in the chair by the window

  with the sun.

  A GIFT FROM AUNT HILDA

  This is for you, Lottie.

  Aunt Hilda sat next to me,

  passed me a woven basket.

  Girls need to know how to sew.

  I took off the lid and inside were

  coloured cottons,

  multi-sized needles, a thimble

  and a needle threader.

  It is good to learn. It is useful.

  She passed me some fabric

  and an assortment of buttons.

  We will start with these.

  The buttons were easy to stitch.

  The time passed quickly, and

  Aunt Hilda was happy.

  You are good with the thread.

  She showed me how to sew

  a running stitch,

  a back stitch,

  a basting stitch.

  My favourites were the

  hemming stitch and

  the invisible stitch.

  My work was fine and neat.

  I did not dislike

  this small labour,

  this benign act.

  It buoyed me, and

  for some time

  it was all that I did:

  stitch, stitch

  stitch.

  FATHER’S REMEDY I

  A blackbird lay on a table.

  Its orange beak

  and sleek black feathers

  shone under a spotlight.

  An array of tools and materials

  were assembled next to the bird:

  a scalpel, silver scissors,

  a needle and thread,

  cotton wool and straw

  and a dish holding

  tiny black beads.

  The man sliced the belly,

  pulled out pink innards

  peeled the wings

  and body from the bones,

  scooped out cerebral matter,

  and removed the eyes

  and tongue

  until it was a formless

  feather jacket.

  And then he rebuilt the bird:

  filled its body and breast

  and eye sockets,

  wired the wings,

  stitched the wound and

  mounted the little feet on a branch.

  TAXIDERMY II

  I could not think of anything

  other than that beautiful bird

  as I sewed on buttons

  and stitched fabric

  for Aunt Hilda.

  Wolfgang! she had cried

  last night over dinner

  when I told her of the magical man

  who brought the blackbird

  back to life.

  It was like a remaking,

  a re-creation, a reinvention.

  Father smiled at me

  from his chair,

  his knife and fork glinting.

  Wolfgang! That is ghoulish.

  This is not the solution.

  Aunt Hilda waved a ladle in the air.

  She is a girl. A girl!

  What were you thinking?

  RAINBOW

  On the circular side table

  the button box sat,

  as I unpicked, unpicked, unpicked

  and restitched, restitched

  until perfect.

  A bright strip of light

  lit up the faded shirt

  on my lap. There was a sudden

  loud smack!

  A drip of blood from my thumb,

  a needle prick.

  Did the window crack?

  On the pane of glass

  was a dark smear.

  I sucked my thumb,

  drew out more blood

  and a metallic taste.

  I watched a dark drip

  slip slowly down the windowpane.

  A reddish tinge

  mixed with the green and white

  stain of bird shit.

  Outside, on the ground,

  lay a rainbow lorikeet.

  It was warm to hold.

  Its eyes were closed.

  I lifted its downy-feathered chest

  to my cheek, but

  could feel no heartbeat.

  IMPLEMENTS

  When the bird was boxed

  under my bed,

  Annie and I collected the implements,

  tools of the trade:

  tweezers, fabric scraps,

  needle and thread,

  sharp sewing scissors.

  That night,

  while Father was dozing

  in front of the television,

  when Aunt Hilda

  had gone home,

  Annie and I slipped into the study

  in search of a knife.

  We closed the door,

  flicked on the light,

  silently opened drawers,

  until we found

  the wood-encased

  folded pocketknife

  with its shiny razor tip.

  MIDNIGHT I

  When the house settled

  and father’s soft snores

  moved from lounge

  to bedroom,

  we lay down a sheet,

  set up our tools,

  slid the boxed bird from

  under the bed,

  lifted the corpse

  onto our makeshift

  operating table.

  We cut and sliced,

  gouged,

  pulled and tugged,

  disembowelled.

&n
bsp; There was some fluid,

  a little dried blood.

  We balled fabric

  to stuff the cavity,

  threaded the needle and sewed

  the newly formed,

  strangely figured shape.

  When the bird was upright

  its blue head

  flopped heavily.

  Its flaming chest

  was unevenly puckered.

  Its wings and legs

  had no strength.

  It eyes, red-rimmed,

  had lost their sheen.

  It was not beautifully remade;

  it was awkwardly dead.

  A FLARE OF LIGHT

  School was a fog; my head

  leaden from lack of sleep

  lolled on the desk.

  All day the little corpse,

  the grotesque mutation,

  fluttered through my thoughts.

  I wanted to open it up,

  to begin again,

  unsew, unstuff, repeat.

  I thought about the stages

  of the taxidermy demonstration,

  focused on the details.

  Mr Morris droned on

  about elements and compounds

  and ignited a ribbon of magnesium,

  and in that flare of light,

  there was a flash of memory—

  I must lighten the head,

  remove the tongue,

  scoop out the brain,

  then remodel, restuff, restitch

  the crumpled little bird

  that lay in its box

  beneath my bed.

  BLOOD I

  On the walk home from school

  Annie and I passed a cluster

  of bottlebrush trees.

  Their fallen flowers created

  perfect red circles

  like pools of blood.

  The afternoon was warm.

  Fat dark clouds skimmed the sky.

  Annie sniffed the air

  like some albino wolf.

  There will be rain tonight,

  she said. A storm is coming.

  We studied the birds:

  sparrows, galahs, magpies.

  We watched the way they moved—

  their waddle, their flit, their hop,

  the stretch of their wings

  and the way they cocked their heads.

  I thought of my mangled lorikeet.

  It is a raggedy bird

  full of dead cotton.

  You need wire and sawdust

  and beads for the eyes.

  Annie was right. I needed

  materials, more tools.

  We will rummage the shed

  when we get home,

  Annie said. We will raise

  that bird from the dead.

  BLOOD II