“Lost birds.”
Our glasses met with a slightly plastic clunk.
“It’s good to see you again, Fitz. We didn’t get a chance to talk last night.”
“No, I noticed that.”
She cupped the glass in her hand and began to rock it gently so that the wine moved around in circles.
“I’d wanted to call before. You didn’t reply to my letters, though. I wasn’t sure. Then when Karl asked about you, it seemed a good excuse.”
She hadn’t needed an excuse, but I didn’t say so. We sat for a moment and looked at each other, not sure where to take up again. Eventually she began to talk, updating me on her project in the Amazon, how it had developed since we last saw each other, the sort of work she was doing there. Her eyes lit up as she talked about the successes, the little skirmishes won against a tide I knew would sweep her away. I’d kept up with my reading, and I could see she was relieved that I could still talk about the latest science—island biogeography, conservation corridors—the sorts of issues that her project was grappling with. By mutual consent we avoided the other stuff, the things we’d never talked about—those last days, the photograph by my bed, a life we’d left behind us. Instead we talked ratios and pie charts and variable extinction rates. Eventually, as I knew it would, the conversation edged around to the subject of the previous evening.
“There’s something I wanted to ask you.” She put her glass down and put both hands behind her neck, flicking her hair outward as if to free it from her collar. It was a gesture I recognized. “You didn’t like Karl very much, did you, John?”
“Was I supposed to?”
“Not really. I thought you’d be interested.”
“It was interesting that he wanted to give me fifty thousand dollars for making some phone calls.”
“I told him the money was a mistake. I said you’d either help him or you wouldn’t.”
“You were right. I wouldn’t.”
She looked at me with that familiar, questioning intensity. It felt oddly normal to be talking to her, as though we were carrying on a conversation from the week before. She stood up and moved around the table to the chair next to mine.
“I want to tell you about Karl,” she said, leaning forward, her weight on the edge of her chair.
I turned to her and shook my head. Even though I was trying to keep my voice level, there was probably a trace of panic in it somewhere. “I’m not sure I want to hear.”
“Let me tell you, Fitz. He isn’t what you think. I could see in your eyes last night what you thought. I wondered if that was why you wouldn’t help.”
“You can think what you like.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. Karl is an interesting man. He’s a bit of a troublemaker, and you should like that. And he’s always been given a rough time by the establishment. They won’t take him seriously because he’s not an academic, but he’s still better at finding things than they are, and that makes them look stupid. You and he should be on the same side.” She paused, and looked down at her wine. “But that’s not why I introduced you. You know the sort of work I’ve always wanted to do, John. Well, now it’s happening. Good work. Valuable work. It’s making a difference to the whole way people think about conservation areas. And when I met Karl, the project was hanging in the balance. We’re broke, Fitz. Everyone works for nothing, and the grants we get from Europe don’t even cover our computers. Karl pumped money in when we needed it, and he’s been doing it ever since.”
She lowered her voice and carried on. “I thought like you did when I first met him. I thought he was the worst kind of charlatan—a collector, the sort of person we were protecting things from. But he hasn’t asked for anything from us. Anything from me. He meets the bills when things get particularly bad, that’s all.”
“He isn’t known for philanthropy.”
“Oh, I know he gets something in return. We give him stature and a way into the conservation world. I’m not so naïve as to think it’s purely for me. But I could do worse for a backer.”
“And in return you’re going to help him find Joseph Banks’s lost bird?”
“He doesn’t need my help. He has a lead, something that tells him where to look. But he can’t be sure it’s going to work out, and that’s why he wants you on his side rather than on someone else’s. You see, he’s sure you know something. He says you’ll have read the right books.”
“I don’t know what he means, but it doesn’t sound as though he really needs my help. And even if he did, I wouldn’t help him.”
“Then help me.” Her hand moved on my arm and her grip was suddenly tight. “If you won’t help him, help me. I need to find this bird, Fitz. It means everything to the work we’re doing.”
“I don’t understand.”
She was still looking at me very hard, her head slightly tilted toward mine.
“This is my introduction to Ted Staest, Fitz. Karl is as generous as he can be, but Staest is in a different league. At the moment he’s only interested in his DNA ark. But if we can help him with the bird, if I can get him to take an interest in the project…He gives out grants that would make your mouth water, Fitz. And without something like that I don’t think we can keep going for long. The sort of money Staest could give us would keep the project going for years. Literally. Five years of good work. It could mean the survival of a dozen species, Fitz. Think of that.”
The little kitchen suddenly seemed too hot. I moved from the table and walked around to the window. There I put my hands on the kitchen taps and tried to draw in their coolness. Helping her, helping Anderson, helping the project…I felt I was being drawn into a tangled, jangling net.
And then I remembered it was all built on a mistake.
“Gabby, there’s a problem with all this. I don’t know anything. There’s no special key I can give you that might make a difference.”
“You have all the contacts. And your notes…I thought there must be something…”
I shook my head. However much I wanted there to be, there was nothing useful in my notes about the Ulieta bird. I got up and walked back to the sink so that my face was turned away from her.
“I’m sorry. If you have any sense, you’ll go back to Anderson and be very nice to him until he finds the bird.”
It probably wasn’t the most sensitive thing I’ve ever said. But I wasn’t feeling very good about things just then.
Gabby stood up. I watched her reflection in the kitchen window. She wasn’t looking at me.
“Tomorrow I fly to Germany,” she said, her voice neutral. “I’ll be back in a couple of weeks. I’ve promised I’ll meet Karl then. He thinks he might be here for a month before it’s all sorted out.” She began to put on her jacket. “If I find out anything useful in the meantime, I’ll pass it on. You can choose what you want to do with it.”
She moved to the door but didn’t go through it. I turned to look at her and found she was looking at me, her expression suddenly sad.
“Do you remember when we first met, John? The bird I brought you?”
“Yes, I remember. A Spix’s macaw.”
“Do you know the latest?”
I nodded. The bird Gabby had found dying in a market cage had been one of the last of its kind. Ten years ago the total number of Spix’s macaws in the wild was down to three. Eight years later there was only one, a single, aging male. The experts had expected it to succumb quite quickly to age or loneliness. But as far as we knew it was still there, alone, going steadfastly about the business of living. When it was gone, there would be thirty or so specimens left in captivity. None of them were breeding pairs.
Gabby and I looked at each other for a moment.
“I’ll call you when I get back, John. I’d like to talk again.”
I waited by the taps until I heard her pull the front door behind her. It was only as I cleared up the glasses that I noticed her raincoat on the hook behind the door. Like a promise, I thought. Or just a careless good-b
ye.
That wasn’t quite the end of my day, though it probably should have been. I needed to stop and go over things. And I needed some sleep. But the books on my wall wouldn’t let me rest. What had Anderson said? Something about reading the right books. I tried to imagine I was finding out about the Ulieta bird for the first time. Where would I look? There were two books that would be the obvious places to start and I had them both, dust-free, in front of me. I took them down thoughtfully. The first was easily the most authoritative, Extinct and Vanishing Birds of the World, by James Greenway. I opened it carefully and turned to the page about the Ulieta bird. The little that was known was laid out with admirable clarity. I studied the page very carefully, checking for markings on the paper, any sign that someone else might have been reading it the night before. But why should they? My edition was the most recent paperback. You could get hold of a copy tomorrow if you wanted one.
I turned to the second book, Some Notes on Rare Avian Species, by R. A. Fosdyke. This one was quirky where Greenway was scientific and slapdash where Greenway was rigorous. Fosdyke was an amateur in the 1960s whose hobby had been to trace references to rare and extinct birds in old science journals. The book didn’t pretend to be comprehensive, but anyone who was serious about the subject had a copy because every now and then Fosdyke came up with a reference that no one else had.
I moved the book into the light and opened it carefully. Mine was a first edition, signed by Fosdyke himself shortly before he died. Was a signed first edition worth anything? Worth breaking in for? Apparently not, because this one was still here, clean but very un-stolen. Inside, Fosdyke listed two references to the bird—both also listed in Greenway—and limited himself to the same conclusion: last seen in the collection of Sir Joseph Banks.
I closed the book wearily. Was that the clue Anderson was so concerned about? If so, it was a disappointing one. Those two entries were the sum total of my knowledge, and neither offered any help at all. Except, perhaps, a vague indication of where to start. And that was with Joseph Banks, the naturalist, sometime in the late 1700s.
LONDON WAS stifling after the shady woods of Revesby, but Banks was too intent on the actions ahead of him to stop and take note of it. His time was full of the practicalities surrounding his departure, and so pressing were the demands that the breathless heat of the streets scarcely slowed him. During his days in Revesby some matters had not progressed in the manner he had wished, and in addition there were bills to be paid, tradesmen to interview, provisions to be secured, and innumerable letters to be written. His energy was fierce and unforgiving.
His engagement to Harriet Blosset was settled a few days after his return. He had met her only a few months earlier, and his flirtation with her had not seemed beyond the commonplace. But on the day his place on Cook’s expedition was first discussed seriously, he was due to call on her guardian and, left alone with her in the garden, he found himself observing her in a different way. It was as if the prospect of his journey gave him a new perspective, as if he viewed everything more clearly. He watched her lean forward and was struck by the incredible beauty of a woman’s form, by the perfect line that curved from her neck to her shoulder. When she walked ahead of him he marveled at the narrowness of her waist and the delicacy of her arms and wrists as if he had never seen their like before. And then, when she looked at him, he saw in her eyes such pleading that he reached out and took her hand. That a creature so perfectly formed should look at him in that way seemed both astounding and wonderful.
He kissed her in the rose garden, as a lover should, and she flushed from her cheeks down to her shoulders. Then her hand tightened around his and she kissed him, harder and longer than before. Then she took his hand, suddenly full of laughter, and as she pulled him toward the house, it seemed she might never let go of it. As he thought of her later, when he had returned to his rooms, he felt a surge of tenderness and a wonder at the happiness it was in his power to bestow.
He knew full well the expectations raised by his letter from Revesby. Finally, when the demands on his time allowed him to call, it was a short interview. She was flushed but contained, and in her kiss there was a girlish elation that touched him and sent him on his way feeling wise and a little paternal. No announcement was to be made until his return, when such things could be done properly. Even so, those who saw them together thought her very much in love. Her fairness and her round blue eyes were of the kind that caught the eyes of strangers, and she laughed gaily as she walked on his arm. If he moved away to talk to others, she would quickly follow him, brighter and happier in his presence. Her pretty face at his shoulder made him feel strong and protective. Only when she talked of his return as if it were certain and imminent did his smile fade a little. And when he tried to speak of the dangers of the voyage, and of his hopes for it, she silenced him by taking his hand and kissing each of his fingers.
When he was not with Harriet Blosset, Banks sought the company of men. Cook was stern and practical in the last days before their departure, and Banks warmed to him. His plainness and his sense stood out among the noise and excitement of the many, and as their journey grew closer, Cook seemed to grow in stature, until in the final days he was the only person to whom Banks would defer. When the day finally came, Banks and Solander traveled together from London to Plymouth, where they were to meet Cook and join the Endeavour. The journey took four days and in part it was a somber one. Both now had to face the reality of the danger ahead of them. It was not until they were both on board, at anchor off Plymouth and looking out at the country they might never see again, that an inquiry from Solander made Banks think of Revesby.
“Things were well there,” he replied, and looked out over the town where the docks were still busy. “I was able to say my farewells to both the place and the people.” A smile crept into the corner of his mouth. “And I was given a lesson in lichen by a student of the local flora.”
“Indeed?” Solander smiled. “I had not realized that Revesby was such a center of learning.”
“Oh, you underestimate Revesby at your peril, my friend. What would you say if I told you I’d discovered a botanical artist there whose skill is the equal of any of those who go with us?”
“I should say you exaggerate. Did you bring any examples of his work that might support such a claim?”
Banks’s face suddenly grew serious again. “No, I have none of that work to show you. And who knows? Perhaps I was mistaken.” He looked out to where the sun was low in the sky. “It is time for us to go below, my friend. They will be waiting for us.”
IN THE HOUSE at the end of the village, the summer continued to beat on her door and every evening she would sit with her father until nightfall. Then she would tiptoe down the bare corridor to her bed and sit at the open shutter for a time, looking at the dark trees rippling in the breeze. She heard rumors of Banks’s engagement only after the Endeavour had sailed, and in the hot, slow hours between sunset and dawn she would imagine him journeying with that unknown woman close to his heart. She thought of him standing on the edge of new worlds, hungry for life, drinking in the sights and the sounds as a gift to bring back for that one who was waiting for him.
She hadn’t understood that without him the woods would be far emptier than before. Indeed the whole of Revesby seemed to shrink on his departure and suddenly people were once again as they had been before, mean-spirited or spiteful as the mood took them. She had known well that his presence that summer changed things for her. After he’d gone she paid the price she had expected to pay and her loneliness was barbed with jibes that he had never even guessed at.
To his own surprise he wrote her two letters in the first weeks of his voyage. The first was while the Endeavour was still at anchor, with Solander on deck overseeing their effects:
It was with great regret that I learned your father’s condition was such that one who has only your interests at heart should be kept away from your door. I had some small items that I wished to leave w
ith you for the duration of my journey, items I feel sure would have been of use to you in your studies. It is a matter of regret to me that these materials will now lie useless instead of fulfilling the use for which they were intended.
In a few hours my voyage will begin in earnest and those of us who have chosen to embark on this venture are all too aware of the risks we undertake. It is therefore quite possible that we shall never meet again. I should like to thank you for the pleasure of your company during my last days in Revesby and to wish you well in the future.
I am yours, etc,
Jo Banks
Eighteen days later he found that letter still on the desk in his cabin and tore it sharply in two. It was the night when he felt that his voyage had truly begun. The sea was a deep blue and there was no scent of land on the breeze. But most of all the night was clear, and when he stood near the prow of the ship he felt the huge arch of the sky embrace him. The air was warm against his skin and the stars were bright and as he stood there he felt a huge burden of responsibility fall from his shoulders. All at once he felt free to be happy.
Slowly the light faded and he watched until the blue was truly black and the sky and the sea merged seamlessly at the horizon. Then he went below and lit his lamp and wrote her a second letter.
The sea turned green today, just for a moment in the morning light, a deep, deep green of the sort you never see from land. Above the sea, high above it, a single swift. I watched amazed to find it so far from solid earth. It seemed to wave a last farewell from all things to do with land.
I have little time here to think of Revesby but when I do I am saddened at the manner of our parting. But most I am saddened that you cannot see this sky. The colours seem to change every moment as the clouds pass and the moon begins to rise. You would wish to paint this sky.
At that point there were sounds outside his cabin and he wrote no more that night. The letter was never finished.
The Conjurer's Bird Page 6
