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page 14
The ornithology gallery A case of greenshank The light is quiet and used-up, faded by distance. Evening light after rain, transparent grey, yellow to the west. A dusting of gold on the air. A loch, silvery and perfectly flat. Gauzy mountains slope down to the water, floating in the pause before dusk begins to thicken. Close to the glass, two wire-legged birds are composed in an arrangement of twigs. Their feathers are sleek, stippled like lichen and stone, their black eyes alert. They have turned their heads. There is no sign of disturbance, but something out of sight on the shore has caught their attention. Three young men are tying up a rowing boat. They will gather their hunting bags and their guns and set off down the track to a lodge where a gong will be struck for dinner. One will remark that the sky has cleared and tomorrow will be fine. And this is what two of them will talk about when they return years later: the gauzy mountains, the light on the loch. And how the next day was fine, but by then they were on the train, rattling south. The birds will never leave for their wintering grounds. 8
page 15
Hummingbirds Five hummingbirds: confections of feather and wire, like fishing flies. Each bird is mounted on a wooden peg, as if a child could wind a handle and the automata would bob their heads and flap their stiff wings. Trictrac. A hummingbird’s heart beats a thousand times a minute. What does it mean to inhabit so intensely the space of a minute? Skins After prayers for the guide they had buried in a clearing, they supervised the stowage of tents and nailed shut crates for the journey downriver. For weeks they carried the forest in their bodies. Peppery green air folded into their sleep; they dreamed green-lit paths through the understorey. Little chirruping frogs were scarlet alarm clocks. Wednesday, 5am. Sharp whistles, trills. An enchanting call of ‘Eeh o lay and where are you?’ Bold whistles, repeated. Tin trumpet. Months later at the museum they opened crates of feathery pouches stuffed with straw. Each bird had been emptied of its body, dusted with arsenic powder and skewered before it was packed for travel. Lungs, eyes and voice box discarded. Now the birds were furled umbrellas. Military standards. Jumping jacks. Wings could flap open like notebooks. Now the birds were mnemonics for birds. Eeh o lay and where are you? a bird called in the clearing. They tied labels to the legs: species, place, date of death. The name of the man who had shot it. Now the histories of birds could begin. 9

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The ornithology gallery

A case of greenshank The light is quiet and used-up, faded by distance. Evening light after rain, transparent grey, yellow to the west. A dusting of gold on the air. A loch, silvery and perfectly flat. Gauzy mountains slope down to the water, floating in the pause before dusk begins to thicken. Close to the glass, two wire-legged birds are composed in an arrangement of twigs. Their feathers are sleek, stippled like lichen and stone, their black eyes alert. They have turned their heads. There is no sign of disturbance, but something out of sight on the shore has caught their attention. Three young men are tying up a rowing boat. They will gather their hunting bags and their guns and set off down the track to a lodge where a gong will be struck for dinner. One will remark that the sky has cleared and tomorrow will be fine. And this is what two of them will talk about when they return years later: the gauzy mountains, the light on the loch. And how the next day was fine, but by then they were on the train, rattling south. The birds will never leave for their wintering grounds.

8

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