CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

The River.

Mr. Audubon's deep voice shouted from downstairs.

"Joseph! Let's go!"

Celeste could feel Joseph's heartbeat as she was jostled and swung back and forth in the shirt pocket. She felt each jolt and b.u.mp as Joseph bolted down the stairs two at a time.

The front door slammed. She knew they had left the house but didn't know where they were heading. She heard the snorts and footsteps of several horses. After a while the rocking and swaying of the shirt pocket lulled her to sleep.

Later, when loud voices woke her, curiosity got the best of her. She hung her paw over the edge of the pocket, finding a grip in the b.u.t.tonhole. She nosed her way under the pocket flap and saw that the men had tied the horses in the shade of some trees next to a river. Surrounding them was a forest of cane, tall gra.s.s that stretched up and up...taller even than the horses. A breeze was blowing in off the river, and the cane swayed and rustled like a million petticoats. That gra.s.s would make quite a basket, That gra.s.s would make quite a basket, thought Celeste. thought Celeste.

The men were soon boarding a small raft. Joseph and Mr. Audubon and some other men began poling the craft out into the river. Dash was at the front of the boat, wagging her tail and looking excited. A large expanse of water opened out in front of them, stretching for nearly as far as Celeste could see. Huge trees, some larger than a plantation house, lined the river on each side.

Thousands of birds-some dark, some light, some long necked, some short necked, but thousands of them-floated in groups, forming giant carpets on the water. Some chased and skittered and paddled after one another or dabbled their bills across the surface of the water. Some sat and busily preened their feathers; others napped contentedly in the sun. The air was filled with the din of quacks and honks and whistles. Above, hundreds and hundreds more were cascading from the skies, angling their wings and tails and dropping, splashing onto the surface of the river with feet braced for a water landing.

Celeste was thrilled. The breeze off the river was fresh and exhilarating, the clamor and activity on the water exciting. She gripped Joseph's b.u.t.tonhole tightly, feeling strangely proud to be in partnership with him on such a day full of possibilities. She was on a real adventure.

After poling some distance out into the river, she noticed the men were busying themselves with their guns. She smelled something new...something acrid and pungent and biting in her nostrils. Her whiskers twitched with apprehension.

The flatboat approached a flock of ducks. Celeste could plainly see the faces and the feather patterns of the closest ones. Suddenly, in less time than it takes to blink, she heard an enormous CRACK CRACK. Celeste squealed and burrowed deep into the shirt pocket just as another blast sounded.

"Got 'im!" she heard one of the men yell. "Me, too!" yelled another.

What are they doing? wondered Celeste. She was shaking and wild-eyed at the bottom of the pocket. wondered Celeste. She was shaking and wild-eyed at the bottom of the pocket.

She poked her head out again, and was immediately sorry that she had. Joseph and Mr. Audubon were pulling a dozen or so birds out of the water-the same birds with the beautiful feather patterns that she had been admiring moments before. The birds' bodies hung limp, drooped and lifeless. Dash was frantic, barking and sniffing. The remaining flocks of birds had lifted from the water with a roar of wings and were flying in chaotic zigzags down the river.

"Some good specimens, Joseph," Mr. Audubon was saying as they headed back to the sh.o.r.eline. "This teal is nearly perfect. The rest...well, fellows, it looks like roast duck for dinner!"

He tossed the teal to Joseph.

"Hold its head up," he said. "And its wings. Quickly, while it's still warm."

Joseph held the duck for a moment, cradling its soft body. The breast feathers were still damp from the river, and Joseph could sense the warmth of its body on his fingers. He pulled the wings up with one hand, supporting the head and neck with the other.

In a moment Audubon had pulled a large sheet of paper from his portfolio and had begun an outline of the "flying" teal. Joseph and the other men watched as Audubon added more and more details: contour feathers, spreading tail feathers, eyes, and bill.

But Celeste burrowed back down into the pocket. She had seen enough. There was no more excitement and thrill to the outing on the river. It seemed that all of Audubon's paintings started out this way. The birds were beautiful, alive, and then they were shot from the sky.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A Close One.

The men rode their horses slowly along the riverbank. It was tough going; they were hindered by the tangle of branches and roots from the huge trees.

Joseph put Celeste on the brim of his hat for part of the trip, a great vantage point for sightseeing. She perched, gripping the hatband, fascinated by the scenery pa.s.sing by. She had never seen such enormous trees. Their limbs stretched up, covered in hanging moss, reaching higher and higher until they ended in a blurred tangle. There were all sorts of strange and mysterious bird-calls and songs coming from them; Celeste felt tiny chills skitter across her skin.

Joseph's hand reached up to the brim, and Celeste gratefully grabbed at an offered walnut. "You all right up there?" he called.

Just then Mr. Audubon heard a certain call from high up in one of the huge cypress trees. He loaded his gun and fired, bringing down a large black-and-white bird with a scarlet crest of feathers on its head. The shot had only wounded it, damaging one wing; and the bird floundered around on the ground and in the cane. "That one we can use for a painting. We haven't got an ivory-billed yet," Audubon shouted.

The bird cried piteously and repeatedly tried to stab the hands of anyone who grabbed at it. Back on the hat brim, Celeste watched the cheerless scene; maybe she could help the poor bird, she thought, once they got back to the plantation house.

"Haven't ever seen a woodp.e.c.k.e.r before, Little One?" Joseph asked, rubbing her behind the ears to calm her.

The men went out with their guns looking for wild turkey and other game. It was Joseph's job to walk through the cane, flushing out the birds. Stalks of cane towered way above Joseph's head and surrounded them like high walls of a small room. The dizzying tangle of waving green dwarfed them. They soon lost sight of the other men, and Celeste felt as if she was in another, strange world.

Suddenly they heard a shotgun fire, and then a sound like an arrow hitting a haystack; and immediately Joseph keeled back into the cane. His hat, and Celeste, flew into the air and landed some distance away.

Celeste was disoriented and trembled in shock. The tall cypress trees and the thick cane towered over her. Evening was coming on, and darkness was spreading fast. She could see Joseph's body lying a little distance away. His head was red with blood; it covered his face and ear and trickled into a puddle under him. It took a moment for Celeste to get her bearings and realize what had happened.

The shot had hit Joseph in the head.

Celeste panicked. She frantically started climbing over the jumbled labyrinth of cane reeds, wanting desperately to get back to the safety of Joseph's pocket. She needed to know that he was all right.

The stalks of cane lay this way and that. Up she climbed, down she leaped, trying her best to grasp and balance. When she got to a high spot she located where Joseph lay, checked her position, and then started out again. In a crazed burst of energy, she scrambled over the cane and reached Joseph in seconds.

"H-help! Help!" Joseph called out weakly. Celeste let out her breath. She was relieved to hear him speak. She climbed up his arm, found his shirt pocket, and tunneled in.

Joseph smiled. He could feel the mouse over his heart.

"It's okay, Little One," he whispered. "It's just a scratch."

Audubon and the other men raced over to the boy and gathered him up. The stray shot had grazed his head just above his right ear. A surface wound only, but a messy one. His hair was matted and crusting over with dried blood.

One of the men washed out the wound and then tore off strips from an old saddle blanket, making bandages from it. "You know, Joseph, I could have swore you were the biggest wild turkey I ever did see!" he joked, and everyone laughed.

They started back to the plantation. And although she was safely tucked in Joseph's pocket, Celeste thought only of going home, someplace safe, wherever that was.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

The Ivory-Billed.

Joseph hung his shirt on the door peg, with Celeste nestled in the pocket, and then collapsed on his cot, exhausted. Celeste could tell his head was throbbing, but the men had done a good job of cleaning and dressing the wound. She waited for his breathing to steady and slow, and finally he was asleep.

She watched the black-and-white bird, the woodp.e.c.k.e.r. It scooted awkwardly around the room. Joseph had left it some grubs to eat, but the bird ignored them. It cried pathetically most of the night and hopelessly hammered at anything wooden, reducing one of the chair legs to splinters.

The next morning Celeste saw it lying under the window listlessly. It seemed to have no fight left in it. Audubon took the bird and made sketches of it; but the drawings looked dull and lifeless, much like the woodp.e.c.k.e.r. Joseph took the bird outside to the garden, hoping that seeing the sky and trees would help. He laid the woodp.e.c.k.e.r under one of the magnolias, but it only stretched its neck out in the gra.s.s and stared up blankly. It again refused the grubs and worms that Joseph brought it. Celeste tried squeaking out encouragement from Joseph's pocket, but the woodp.e.c.k.e.r never responded.

Later that evening Celeste was perched in Joseph's pocket watching him sketch. The setting sun was streaming in through the bedroom window. They heard Audubon call out.

"Joseph! Fetch me some more pins!"

Dutifully, Joseph searched a wardrobe drawer for the pins.

As they entered Audubon's room, Celeste chittered in disbelief, then squeaked in horror. Audubon was carefully lifting the drooped and lifeless body of the ivory-billed woodp.e.c.k.e.r out of a canvas saddlebag. Its eyes were glazed over and cloudy. Its head hung down, jiggling like a knot at the end of a loose rope. The two wings, one broken and twisted, flopped forward and back as Audubon tried positioning the bird against a wooden board. Celeste could see that a small, dark purple streak of dried blood had oozed from the corner of its long, curved beak.

Celeste witnessed a change in Joseph's appearance. His eyes were somber. His voice quivered a bit, stumbling for words.

"This doesn't seem right...."

"What doesn't?"

"I don't know...the way we're doing this, the paintings."

"What about them?"

Celeste noticed Joseph's face getting red, and he was fl.u.s.tered as he spoke.

"You are looking to capture its life on paper, but by killing it first? By pinning it to a board?"

"I am painting their portraits; this is how they sit for me."

"It was so majestic up in that enormous cypress tree...."

"There are plenty more woodp.e.c.k.e.rs where this one came from," Audubon retorted. "There were possibly dozens in the woods where I took this one. One bird less won't make any difference."

"Maybe we could-" Joseph offered.

"What?" Audubon shot back. "Do you want to hold the bird for me while it is still alive and have its bill slice through your hand?"

"Perhaps a cage-"

"No! A caged bird will sit like a caged bird. I want my specimens posed like I want to paint them. Wings outstretched...as if they were alive!"

"But to kill them in order to make them look alive...." Joseph shook his head.

Audubon glared at the boy, his eyes dark and angry. For a moment Celeste was afraid for Joseph, but Audubon just lowered his voice and held out his hand.

"The pins, Joseph."

Joseph handed the packet of pins to Audubon, who continued, "Your duty is to master the techniques of watercolor botanicals, not to question my handling of the bird specimens. I am preserving their beauty forever. If I could paint their portraits as well another way, I would. Now go!"

Joseph's face was red, his mouth rigid. He turned and strode down the hallway, leaving Audubon to sketch the pinned and trussed ivory-billed woodp.e.c.k.e.r.

He paused, thinking: A landscape with no woodp.e.c.k.e.rs? A landscape with no woodp.e.c.k.e.rs? His life had seen lonely moments, and probably would again; but he couldn't imagine the loneliness of being the last of his own kind on Earth. His life had seen lonely moments, and probably would again; but he couldn't imagine the loneliness of being the last of his own kind on Earth.

He thought about the ivory-billed; there were certainly other woodp.e.c.k.e.rs all along the river valley. But what if there was only one more? How would it spend the rest of its days? On an endless and futile search up and down the valley, looking to find another ivory-billed woodp.e.c.k.e.r?

As if sensing Joseph's melancholy thoughts, Celeste burrowed farther down in the shirt pocket.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Cornelius.

Another afternoon, another lesson. Audubon's hand glided across a sheet of paper, guiding a stick of charcoal.

"Observe," he commanded. The charcoal scratches eventually formed the outline of a crested head, a beak, and the posed body and wings of the ivory-billed.

Joseph sighed, trying to muster up interest in the lesson. To him, trying to listen to Audubon's instructions sometimes felt like pulling nails out of a plank. Instead of watching the charcoal, he stared out the window. He was wishing both he and Celeste were out exploring the woods around the plantation, looking for plant specimens.

Celeste's nose twitched as she watched from her pocket perch. The odor of putrefying flesh had begun to hang closely in the hot room, and flies hovered constantly around the bird.

They heard shouts below the bedroom window. Two young boys, the sons of one of the farmhands, were outside in the yard. The older one clutched something carefully to his chest.

"Mr. Joseph! We got something for you!" he cried out. With excitement, he cautiously revealed a tiny portion of a feathered body. "It's a bird! Everybody says you wants to get birds. Well, we got one for you!"

Joseph raced outside and gingerly pulled back more of the old shirt. He saw a yellow bill and soft, creamy white breast feathers spotted with dark brown. "A wood thrush," he murmured. "Beautiful! Thanks, boys!"

"We found him in the lower barn. He must've flown in and couldn't get back out. It was easy catchin' him. He was scared."

"It was easy!" the younger boy agreed.

"Well, nice job, boys. This thrush will make for a beautiful painting." He gave the boys a coin from his pocket, and they ran off.

The little wooden cage soon had a new occupant. The panicky thrush, which probably had never been enclosed in anything smaller than the lower barn, now beat its wings against the twig bars, fluttering nervously about the cage. Thankfully, as night fell he became quiet.

The next morning, after Joseph had gone outside to wash, Celeste scrambled down the shirt to the floor and then carefully clawed her way up the brocaded drape and leaped to the tabletop.

"h.e.l.lo!" she said to the thrush.

"h.e.l.lo!" the thrush called back. His voice was low and silvery.