The Boy, the Bird and the Coffin Maker

by Matilda Woods

  “Twrp!” the bird chirped. “Twrp!” it chirped again.

  With a flap of its glistening wings, the bird returned once more to the sky. This time, instead of flying south, towards the sea, it turned north and headed towards the hills that surrounded Allora.

  “Would you look at that?” said a toothless man sitting in the gutter of Allora’s main square. He was talking to a bucket of fish squirming near his feet. “No brighter bird I ever did see.”

  The man craned back his head and watched the rainbow bird circling by. He’d never seen one like it. Not in the south or in the lands to the north he used to call home.

  The man’s name was Alessandro Diporto, and as a child he’d heard stories of Allora: stories of how the fish flew out of the sea and fell down, like rain, on to the cobbles below. Then, as a man, he’d had a great idea. An idea as bright as the bird flying high above. An idea that would make him rich.

  He left the calm rivers of the north and headed south to make his fortune as the one and only fisherman in all of Allora.

  But there had been a fault in his plan. A fault so big, in fact, that it had ruined his plan completely. For what need did a town have for a fisherman when the fish basically caught themselves?

  So despite catching three thousand and eighty-nine fish, Alessandro Diporto had failed to sell a single one. This fact had led the townsfolk of Allora to give him a new name. A name that had become so well known everyone had forgotten his old one.

  “There he is,” people would say as they passed him sitting in the streets with a basket full of flapping fish and a faded sign that read Ten for a Single Copper.

  “Keep away from that one,” mothers would warn their children as they raced up and down Allora’s thin lanes.

  “Who’s that?” the tourists would ask of the man lying in rags by the gutter.

  “Ah,” the townsfolk would reply, “he is the foolish fisherman. The one and only in all of Allora.”

  The foolish fisherman sighed and stared up at the bird in the sky. Yes, he had been foolish to come to this town in search of his fortune. But he knew it would be even more foolish to leave. For what other place in the world could be as magical as this? Where else would he get to spend his nights watching silver fish rain down from the sky and bright birds that were so rare they had never been sighted by a grown man before?

  That is why Alessandro Diporto had chosen to stay in the town where everyone called him a fool. He had chosen to stay because when you came to Allora you just had to tilt your head towards the sky to see magic every day and deep into every night.

  WHO WERE YOU, MISS BONITO?

  Alberto woke with a start. During the night, cold air had crept through the shutters and now a piercing chill filled his workshop. He sat up and rubbed his frozen hands together. Slowly, blood and life returned to them. He relit the candle beside him, and a small pool of yellow light warmed the air.

  “Good morning, Miss Bonito,” he said when her body came into view. “I trust you slept well. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.” After shaking his legs awake, he opened the shutters and clean, salty air flew into the room. The hour was early and a few stars still shone in the sky. His garden smelled of salty dew and two silver fish lay, as if sleeping, in a flower pot below.

  “Right,” Alberto said when he had taken the fish into the kitchen and returned to Miss Bonito. Behind him, the bushes jumped like they had awoken too. “Time to get to work.”

  Though Alberto had finished his coffin thirty years before, it was not ready for Miss Bonito. He had to clean it, sand it, add handles to both sides and engrave her name on top.

  “It won’t be the best fit,” he admitted to Miss Bonito as he began to wipe away the dust. “It will be too wide and far too long. But at least you will fit inside, and I will try to make it comfortable.”

  While Alberto worked, he spoke to Miss Bonito as if she was still there. In the morning, he told her about his work.

  “The trick is in the measurements,” he said as a bird tweeted outside the window. “Not too big and definitely not too small. I’ve never, not in my whole life, made a coffin that was too small.”

  In the afternoon, he spoke about the weather.

  “The sea is wicked today. Wickedly windy too.” As if confirming this, the bushes outside rustled loudly and a giant mackerel flew through the window. It landed with a thud inside the empty coffin.

  “I don’t think I’ll be burying you,” Alberto said. He pulled the squirming fish out and hurried towards the kitchen with it. “I might have you for dinner.”

  And in the evening, he talked about the woman herself.

  “Who were you, Miss Bonito,” he asked, “and why did you come here?”

  He could guess where she had come from – she had spoken with a northern accent in life – but he had no idea why she had come to Allora. It was not exactly in the centre of things. In fact, it was right on the edge: the final place you went before you could go no further: the last stop on the railway line before you reached a sea too wild to cross. Had she hoped to start a new life, or did she know her first would soon end?

  The sun was setting when it came time for Alberto to place Miss Bonito inside.

  “There you go, Miss Bonito.” He placed a pillow beneath her head. “Nice and comfortable, see?” The setting sun caught the side of her face and the same golden glow that had lured artists to Allora made her dark hair shine a deep mahogany and her pale skin glow like honeyed milk. If Alberto had not just spent the day building her coffin, he would have mistaken her for being alive.

  “Oh, Miss Bonito,” he said, as he rearranged her hair over the cushion. “You were far too young to die. It should have been I who went instead.”

  A FUNERAL AND A THIEF

  Miss Bonito’s funeral was one of the smallest funerals Alberto had ever seen. The only funeral smaller was the one he had held for his own family. Even the priest hadn’t shown up to that one. He had died of the sickness three weeks before.

  In total, five people braved the windswept graveyard at the top of Allora Hill: Enzo the baker, the Finestra sisters, the town’s current priest and Alberto himself. The clock tower chimed eleven when they arrived but fell silent when the service began. Unfortunately, two people standing at the back didn’t show the same respect.

  The Finestra sisters had dressed for the funeral as if it was a wedding. They wore wide straw hats and hideous floral dresses that floated around them in the salty sea air, giving the unfortunate, and unintended, impression that they were as fat as the mayor.

  At first, Alberto thought they were making up nasty rumours about Miss Bonito, but when the wind carried their words his way he heard the mayor’s name instead. Apparently, his late night visit two days before had not gone unnoticed.

  “What do you think it means?” Rosa whispered.

  “You only visit the coffin maker for one thing,” Clara said wisely.

  Rosa nodded just as wisely, before asking, “What’s that?”

  “A coffin, Rosa.”

  Clara spoke so loudly that the priest paused in the middle of a prayer to see what was wrong. Upon seeing the Finestra sisters, he gave a little sigh, said a silent prayer – Lord, save me from their wicked tongues – and carried on.

  “He must be dying,” Rosa said. “And quickly too. He looked in a rush the other night.”

  “But of what?”

  “Tuberculosis? Our cousin had that.”

  “Or nephritis,” Clara mused. “Our other cousin had that. It was awful, wasn’t it? Her whole body swelled up—”

  “—that fits with the mayor,” Rosa was quick to observe. “He’s been swelling up for forty years.”

  “And then all that blood,” Clara continued. “Remember the mess it made of the carpet?”

  “Remember?” Rosa exclaimed. “I was the one who cleaned it up, and it wasn’t just blood…”

  Thankfully, Alberto didn’t hear the rest. The wind changed direction and blew their words acr
oss the sea. He hated gossip, but at least they were not gossiping about Miss Bonito. Their words were wicked when it came to men, but their tongues were like acid when they spoke of women, particularly the younger ones.

  When the service was over and Miss Bonito buried, Alberto headed for home. He had work to do. For the first time in thirty years, he didn’t have a coffin of his own and he felt almost naked without one.

  Though Miss Bonito’s life had ended, the other lives in Allora carried on. Enzo continued to bake bread every morning, the mayor continued to make laws every day and the Finestra sisters continued to gossip every evening.

  As life continued, deaths did too. Alberto spent the daylight hours working on coffins for those who had just passed away and when night fell he worked on his own. Despite the vast number of coffins he made, Alberto never forgot the names of the people he placed inside. Miss Bonito joined this list, unique because he did not know her first name. He tried to think of her often, for he feared no one else would, but as the weeks passed his mind drifted to other things.

  With each coffin Alberto made, he went to another funeral. He had not missed a single one in thirty years. It was when he returned from one of these funerals – Adamo Totti, maple, 85 × 25 inches – that he first noticed something was missing.

  The first thing that went missing was Alberto’s lunch: a sandwich layered with salted ham and cheese. Then, a few nights later, his dinner disappeared: a bowl of stew and two slices of buttered bread. Soon, every time he left the house he returned to find another item gone.

  In the beginning, the thief took what Alberto left on the kitchen table. But soon he or she took things from the cupboards as well: jars of chutney, pickled eggs and two whitefish he had caught floundering on his doorstep.

  But while the food in the house was disappearing, something new took its place. Alberto started to feel a change – a presence – in the house. He had never been a superstitious man (as a coffin maker he couldn’t afford that), but now as he worked he could not shake the feeling that eyes were watching him. Not the eyes of the dead, looking up, unseeing. But the eyes of the living, looking everywhere and seeing everything.

  Alberto put up with the sneaky eyes and the missing food for three weeks, but when a whole loaf of fresh bread went missing and half a wheel of his favourite cheese, he could stand it no longer. So he came up with a plan to catch the thief.

  Alberto set out early for a funeral that did not exist. His plan was simple. He would walk up to the graveyard and then turn straight back. He would be gone for all of ten minutes: long enough to lure the thief out of hiding, but not long enough for them to finish the bowl of steaming porridge in the kitchen.

  But as soon as Alberto closed the front door, his plan went awry.

  “Coffin Maker! Coffin Maker!” a breathless voice called from further down the cobbled lane.

  Alberto turned to see the sweaty face of the mayor wheezing up the hill.

  “Glad – I – caught – you.” He came to a stop outside Alberto’s front door.

  “What can I do for you, Mister Mayor?” Alberto said, trying to hide his annoyance.

  “Could we, er, go inside?” the mayor asked, still struggling to catch his breath.

  “I’m actually on my way out.”

  “Oh.” The mayor’s face fell. “I just brought those measurements you asked for.” With one eye on the Finestra sisters’ house, he pulled a piece of folded paper from his pocket and handed it to the coffin maker.

  “Oh, good,” Alberto said. “I’ll be able to order the wood. It might take a while. Golden oak is ve—”

  “Shh,” the mayor hissed. “I don’t want the whole town to hear.” Again he glanced towards the sisters’ home.

  “Of course. Forgive me, please.” Alberto slipped the note into his pocket without another word. He said goodbye to the mayor and walked on a little further. Then he turned back and hurried down the hill. When he reached his front door, he silently pressed the key into the lock and pushed it open.

  Alberto stepped into the hall and listened. Sounds came from the kitchen: cutlery clinked, a bottle opened and liquid sloshed into a cup. His eyes lit with triumph and he edged down the hall. But before he could open the door, a person spoke on the other side.

  “That was some nice milk, Fia. Real nice.”

  Alberto paused, one hand on the handle. He did not recognize the speaker, but he could tell they were a child.

  “And this porridge,” the boy in the kitchen said, delight clear in his voice. “It’s still warm. Would you look at all the steam?”

  Alberto wondered what to do. He had assumed the thief was an adult. Not for a moment had he thought it might be a child. Should he confront the boy or sneak back outside and leave him be?

  Before Alberto could make up his mind, a little bird made the decision for him.

  “Twrp!” came a chirp from inside the kitchen.

  All sounds of slurping, chewing and clinking stopped.

  “What is it, Fia?” the boy whispered. He spoke with a faint northern accent. “Is someone there?”

  Alberto pulled back from the door so suddenly that the floor beneath him creaked. Not wanting to frighten the young thief, he edged back down the hall. But he was too late. The kitchen door flew open and a boy darted past. A bird – the brightest bird he had ever seen: a bird that swam with shades of gold, turquoise and lapis lazuli – flew in panicked circles around his head.

  “Wait,” Alberto called. “Come back. I won’t hurt you.” But the boy and the bird were out the back door before he could catch them.

  Alberto stepped into his garden and peered over the fence. The hill was so steep he could see the white froth of the ocean crashing below. He feared the boy would trip and topple down into the raging sea. But thankfully his legs remained steady as he bounded through the shrubs with the little bird flapping around his head. Alberto was about to call out again, when someone called to him instead.

  “Alberto, is that you?” a woman yelled from the garden next door.

  “Yes, Clara,” he said with a sigh. Further up the hill, the boy jumped over the gate of the graveyard and landed safely on the other side.

  “It isn’t Clara,” the same voice replied. “It’s me, Rosa. Why do you always think I’m Clara?”

  Alberto didn’t bother replying. He was too busy thinking about the thief. Though he had only seen the boy’s face for a moment, it had looked very familiar. That hair. That nose. Those eyes. The likeness of that face he had seen before. He could not be mistaken. It looked like the face of a woman he had buried five weeks before.

  A MOTHER’S BROKEN PROMISE

  The boy did not stay in the graveyard for long. As quick as he fled the house at the top of Allora Hill, he fled the town of Allora itself. Keeping to the shadows he slipped through the town gate and headed north, towards Vita Valley. His legs did not stop until he reached the small cottage that stood in its centre.

  The boy raced inside and closed the door. Fia – his little bird and only friend – fluttered down the chimney to join him.

  “That was close, Fia,” the boy said in between gasps for air. “Real close.”

  “Twrp!” chirped the bird fluttering beside him. Her wings shone green and then blue and then gold in the dark.

  “But at least we got some porridge. And hot porridge at that!”

  Fia settled on to the boy’s shoulder and he walked into the next room. In the cold darkness, he picked a faded blanket off the floor and went to sit beside the unlit fire. He wrapped the blanket around himself and Fia and stared at the three pieces of grey wood lying in the fireplace. He had no matches to light the wood but sometimes, if he closed his eyes extra tight, he could feel heat crackling off imaginary flames.

  After the boy’s breath returned and his racing heart slowed, a different feeling fell upon him and he sighed.

  “I’m still hungry, Fia,” he said. “Almost like I haven’t eaten anything at all.”

  The rain
bow bird peered out from under the grey blanket and stared into his face.

  “Twrp,” she said and pointed her beak towards the door.

  “But we can’t!” the boy replied. “We can’t go to Allora. What if we get caught? What if they find out the truth? What if they make me go back?”

  Fia gave a stern, “Twrp,” and gently pecked his cheek. Well, you’ve got to find food somehow, she seemed to say.

  The boy looked around the small room. His eyes fell upon an old suitcase and an empty jar that once held strawberry jam. His stomach started to rumble. There was no food here, not even a single crumb on the floor. And even if a fish somehow managed to fly this far inland, he had no fire to cook it. The only food was in the town of Allora.

  “This is not how it was meant to be,” the boy whispered to the bird beside him. “She said we would be safe. She said we would be OK. She promised that once we got to Allora we would never go hungry again.”

  A LITTLE THIEF GETS A NAME

  “Miss Bonito had a child,” Alberto said to the man lying before him. The man’s name was Mr Adessi, and even in death he smelled of tobacco. “But how?”

  One day had passed since he spotted the boy and his bird stealing porridge from his kitchen and he was still trying to figure it all out. He had never seen Miss Bonito with a child nor heard mention of one from someone else, not even the Finestra sisters and they mentioned everything, far more than they should. True, Miss Bonito rarely came into town, but surely after a whole year someone should have seen something. Unless… ?

  “She was hiding him.” Alberto began the sentence as a question but ended with certainty. “But why?”

  Alberto looked down at the silent form that used to move with the life of Mr Adessi, but was now still.