The Aviary (27 page)

Mr. Booth slunk to the corner, where he stood with his face to the wall.

“Set Daphne free,” Clara said.

“I don’t know what you mean.…”

George circled the old man’s head twice, brushing him with his wings. “Set her free!” he repeated.

“Call off the birds!” said Mr. Booth. “I beg you.…”

George fluttered up to the rafters and stood watch. Cringing, Mr. Booth shaded his eyes and faced the room. “Have Daphne come here.”

Clara gently led her friend to stand a safe distance from Mr. Booth. Helen and Peter perched on Clara’s shoulders, ready to defend her, while Arthur and Frances paced at Daphne’s feet.

“You may begin now, Mr. Booth,” Clara told him.

Mr. Booth held Daphne with his gaze and hummed one low note until he had spent all his breath. And then he said these words:

“Turn aside from thy dark mirror. Daylight now awaken thee.”

With a loud clap of his hands, Mr. Booth dissolved the spell, and Daphne’s head snapped back in a manner that left Clara terrified.

“Daphne, it’s Clara. Speak to me.”

After a period of mild confusion, her friend regained her senses and looked about her in astonishment. “Where did I go?” she asked.

“Mr. Booth mesmerized you. Do
not
look him in the eyes again!”

“You evil man!” shouted Daphne. “To think I’d begun to pity you.…” She opened and closed her hands. “Did I fall in glue?”

“Never mind that now!” said Clara. “I need you behind me.”

Daphne backed up and grabbed the umbrella. “Go on.”

“Tell me, Mr. Booth,” Clara said. “Where is Elliot Glendoveer? And don’t dare look at me.”

“I do not know,” said Mr. Booth, covering his face.

“I’m going to give you one more chance to answer me, and then I will let the birds persuade you. Where is Elliot Glendoveer? Is he alive or dead?”

Mr. Booth did not say a word but drew his suit coat up around his head and cowered.

“Are you with me?” Frances asked her siblings.

Arthur let loose his eardrum-splitting laugh. “Bee-tee-TEE-TEE-EE-EE!” shrieked Peter as he dive-bombed Mr. Booth’s nose.

George landed on top of his suit coat and scratched through the wool until he brought up the sky-blue satin underlining. Helen orbited his head like a meteor while Frances pecked him at the back of the knees.

“He’s alive!” exclaimed Mr. Booth. “Please stop! Elliot is alive!”

“Stop!” said George, fluttering back up to his perch in the rafters. Instantly, the birds all retreated to their places.

“Where is he?” demanded Clara. “And don’t try to deceive us, for we intend to hold you until he’s been found.”

“Answer!” Frances said.

“He is on an island. Safe. Out in the bay.”

This news electrified the birds, and as they erupted in shouts of joy, Clara too felt a flood of emotion. “Where? Which one?!” she demanded.

“On Razor’s Slip,” he said.

“Where is that?” Daphne asked. “Do the ferries go there?”

“No, no,” said Mr. Booth, still talking from under his coat. “No one does. It is the farthest southeast island and very small.”

“Ask him what name Elliot goes by now,” Daphne said.

A small part of Clara feared the question. Suppose this Elliot was not the man who married her mother? “You heard Daphne,” Clara said.

“I believe,” said Mr. Booth, “he goes by Dooley. Nevan Dooley? Yes. He was raised by one of the islanders, and this is the name they gave him.”

“It
is
he!” Daphne cried.

But hearing Mr. Booth pronounce her father’s name so casually stoked Clara’s indignation. “How have you kept him there? Did you not know that he had a wife and child?” she asked.

“He does not remember them now,” Mr. Booth said simply. “But he is well. I have arranged it so that he does not suffer.”

Incensed, the birds clamored at him as Helen and Peter circled his head.

“Mesmerized him too, did you?” said Frances. “Why, I’ve half a mind to poke your eyes out right now!”

Mr. Booth quivered and coughed. “If you will promise the birds will keep their distance, I can explain.”

“Be quick, sir,” Clara said. “And know that if you make a move toward us, the birds will be back upon you.”

“Yes,” he said, poking his head out cautiously. Then, putting up his hands, he said, “Do not fear me.”

“We do not!” said Frances.

“Of course,” he said, trying to regain some of his former smoothness. “I must say that I never expected
to be addressed by birds,” he told Clara. “They respond as if they understand. Even the Great Glendoveer’s birds could not do that outside of a rehearsed presentation.”

“But these
are
George Glendoveer’s birds,” Clara said.

Mr. Booth’s head wobbled, and he appeared unsteady on his feet. “Impossible,” he breathed.

“Do not contradict her,” George said.

“Yes, um, sir,” said Mr. Booth, blinking. He coughed again. “What is it in the air down here? Do any of you feel a burn?”

“You shall burn, if there is any justice!” cried Frances.

“You killed Nelly,” said George. “As surely as if you’d been there yourself.”

Mr. Booth sputtered and pleaded to Clara and Daphne. “It was an accident! It wasn’t meant to go so wrong. Why, I loved Nelly myself. I grieved over her.”

“Boohoo,” said Frances. “How difficult for you.”

“If I could trade places with her—with any of them—I would. It was my life’s greatest mistake.…”

Frances turned her back on him. “We don’t need to hear any more, Clara; let me go get Elliot.”

Clara was also growing impatient. After Mr. Booth informed them that Elliot was in a cabin on the island’s north shore, Clara said, “Tell us how to wake Elliot. Is it the same incantation you used for Daphne?”

“It is always the same,” said Mr. Booth.

“I would give everything,” said George, “to have known those words on that terrible night.…”

Woodruff Booth stood for a moment. He appeared to be making some kind of difficult calculation.

“Don’t even think about running,” said Daphne, holding the umbrella in front of her.

“I’m not moving. Just please tell me,” said Mr. Booth. “Who
are
these birds?”

“Guess,” said Frances. And then, flapping up to rest on his shoulder, she spoke in his ear while he trembled:
“Victor victima fit!”

“The conqueror becomes the conquered,” he murmured. And as Frances flew to join George on the rafter, Mr. Booth counted the birds in the room. “There is one for each child,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. He turned to Clara. “Good God! How was it done?”

“Turn back around,” she said. “It is you who are explaining to us. Who is the man who took the children out on the boat?”

“There is no man,” he said.

At this, Arthur shrilled and launched himself at Mr. Booth. “Liar!” said Frances. “George knows! He bit him! A mean, ugly man.”

“You misunderstand me!” said Mr. Booth, shielding his face. “I meant only that he is with us no longer. He is dead.”

“BEE-tee-WEE!” said Peter to the rest.

“Tsip-tsip!” answered Helen.

“I agree,” said George. “It is a good thing that he is dead.”

Clara noticed that George did not say this with anger. He sounded sober and reflective and a little bit tired. Perhaps he’d been living with the thought of that man in his dreams for the last fifty years.

“Frances? Arthur?” said Clara. “Are you prepared to fly to Razor’s Slip? Can you travel so far?”

“SQUAWWWW!” cheered Arthur as he ascended to the little open window.

“At last!” said Frances. “We’re bringing our Elliot home.”

The girls waved and wished them well while the remaining birds closed in on Mr. Booth, just in case.

“There they go,” Clara said, looking out at the square of blue sky. She was saying a silent prayer for their safety when she felt a nudge at her elbow. Daphne’s eyes were red-rimmed, as if she’d been crying.

“It’s very close in here,” she said with a cough. “Do you think we could take Mr. Booth to the aviary now? We’ve no more need of the lye.”

“Lye, you say?” exclaimed Mr. Booth. “My dears! Did you mean to burn me? And here I’ve hardly managed to stand upright without the aid of my cane.” He rubbed his back and made a pitiful face.

Although Clara saw that he was trying to engage their sympathy, she could also see he was truly weary from standing
on his own. He certainly couldn’t run far, even if he were to break away. “Very well,” she said. “George, would you ride on Mr. Booth’s shoulders? Helen and Peter can lead the way outside.”

Helen flew down, but Peter chattered and called her back.

“What is it?” asked Clara.

“He says
not
to go,” George said in a low voice.

“Bee-TEE!”

“He tells us to listen,” George whispered. “Shhhh.”

Daphne trained her sights on Mr. Booth while Clara surveyed the room. She heard no sound, but something about the way the light entered under the back door caught her attention. Was there a shadow on the threshold?

Clara crept nearer to the door and reached her hand toward the key still lodged in the lock when
BOOM-BOOM!
The door bulged twice in the center like a beating heart, and Clara stepped aside. With another
BOOM!
the door fell forward with a crash, dragging the frame with it. There, silhouetted against the sun, stood a man in shirtsleeves with ropy arms.

The shock of his sudden appearance immobilized Clara. She stood there taking in everything about him: close-clipped gray hair, weathered skin, clenched fists, and a chipped front tooth showing through his snarl. And though he was old and his clothes hung on him, Clara could see by his taut neck and forearms that this man was still strong.

“Get her!” cried Mr. Booth.

Only then did Clara move, jumping back and brandishing the cane.

The man grabbed at her, seizing the cane at the end and yanking her forward.

“LET GO OF THE GIRL OR I’LL SHOOT!” boomed a deep voice.

Clara knew that this was George; but when the man loosened his grip and scanned the room for the hidden stranger, she took full advantage and ran to a corner behind some boxes.

“That’s a confounded bird, Jimmy!” said Mr. Booth.

“Says who?” Jimmy growled.

“Says me! It’s a cockatoo, you idiot!” Booth pointed to the ceiling. “He’s up there somewhere, hiding. There are others too, so watch yourself.”

Jimmy took time to scratch his head and look around. Clara climbed up on a box. Daphne was nowhere to be seen, and Clara hoped that perhaps she had found a way to run outside.

“Did you get the papers?” Jimmy asked.

Mr. Booth stamped his foot. “There are no papers! It’s a trap.” He shaded his eyes. “What’s become of the blonde? Did she leave?”

“What blonde?” Jimmy asked. “I never saw a blonde.”

Clara grabbed the envelope and waved it over her head. “I have the papers.”

“Snag them, Jimmy,” said Mr. Booth. “And pull out your pistol.”

Jimmy put his hands on his hips and snarled. “A pistol? For a little girl?”

“Just do it!” said Booth. “If you see a bird come near me, I want you to shoot it. Shoot ’em all, as a matter of fact.”

Jimmy groaned and fished a gun from the waistband of his pants. Clara’s knees began to knock.

She surveyed the floor below her to her right. The rattraps she had set were massed in the shadows. She had hoped that climbing up on the box would help keep Jimmy’s eyes from the floor; but now that he had his gun at the ready, she felt too exposed. Would Jimmy really shoot her?

He moved a few steps forward, holding out his free hand and wiggling his fingers. “Give it over,” he said. “Don’t make me come get you.”

Hearing the thrum of her heartbeat in her ears, Clara shook her head. “I can’t. I’m afraid of the gun.”

“The sooner you give over the papers, the sooner we’re gone,” Jimmy said.

“Then take it and leave!” Clara said. “Please.” She extended her hand and dangled the envelope. She watched Jimmy come toward her, hoping the birds might descend on him. They had been so fearless up until now. Had they been cowed by the sight of the gun?

And then she heard an echoing click—something
like a gun cocking, only louder. A rattrap going off! She watched Jimmy examine the ground, sneering, “Why, you little …”

Clara brought her shoulders up around her ears, sure that he would fire, when she spied the flash of a white dress. Coming at Jimmy from behind with a face full of fury was Daphne Aspinal!

Daphne had leapt up from her hiding place and run at Jimmy with all her might. He toppled face-forward, setting off trap after trap, screaming. His gun went skidding toward Clara, who immediately hopped down to grab it; but there were too many set traps surrounding the weapon for her to get to it quickly.

Jimmy’s face contorted as he dragged himself on his stomach toward her. His left hand still wore a rattrap clamped on the little finger.

“Stand up, you idiot!” said Mr. Booth.

“Stay down!” boomed George from the ceiling.

Jimmy twisted his neck and looked for the voice. George swooped, extended his talons, and swiped at the fallen man’s head. Meanwhile, Helen and Peter buzzed Mr. Booth as he swore under his breath.