Read Online Anila's Journey by Mary Finn - Free Book Online Page B

too starved. A Hemavati at her worst.
    â€œI’ll draw Balor for you.”
    Balor cocked his head when I said his name. He watched the pencil in my hand as it moved over the paper. But only with the good eye of course. The other he kept turned away so that I had to draw him in profile, that vain bird.
    â€œMy mother used to say that all birds have a secret,” I said. “She didn’t believe I could find out what their secrets were by watching them and drawing them.”
    â€œHow, then?”
    â€œShe said the secrets were found in the stories people passed on. But there were lots of birds that we had no stories for so my father and I would get cross with her about her reasoning.” Quickly I looked away and began to shade in Balor’s wing feathers. Purple-grey, black-grey, silver-grey. Water grey.
    Little one, tell Malati why the poorest grey pigeon wears jewel colours round her neck. She might put your story into her dance
.
    â€œThose are the very kind I’m looking for, Anila.” Mr Walker laid his hands, palms up, on the table. “The birds with no stories because nobody has noted them down. Let me tell you this. The reason I want to journey upriver, up the Ganga, is to find a bird with no name.”
    I did not understand him.
    â€œA magical bird?”
    â€œNo, Anila. I am explaining it badly. I mean no name that we Europeans know for of course all creatures have been named by somebody, by their nearest neighbours.”
    He told me then that if we found such a bird – a new
species
, he called it – he wanted more than anything to name it after his sister. He sounded shy, almost, when he said this.
    â€œEveline was my twin. She died when she was just sixteen, of a chill. We had been swimming in the Tay – that’s a river near my grandmother’s place – but it was too early in the year and we should have been cannier. It was my notion, of course. She was ever so much more learned than I, so much more promising. Every day of my life I miss her.”
    A chill
.
    â€œSometimes she ransacked my wardrobe and dressed herself in much the way that you dress, I’ve noticed. Once she passed herself off as me to my father and went with him to Sunday Meeting, riding my horse. That was how like we were then, though she was finer looking.”
    He cleared his throat.
    â€œHave you heard of Mr Linnaeus? Perhaps your father might have known of him?”
    â€œWas he a Writer?”
    Mr Walker smiled and shook his head. He reached for my drawing and turned it round.
    â€œThis is the very spit of that rascal parrot. We’ll give it to Chandra and he’ll forget his grizzling and be your friend for life.”
    There was a boom on the front door, a worse din than I’d imagined when I was outside. And, straightaway, a similar monstrous noise sounded in the room, just as loud. Balor flew up to his high perch and looked down at us, his beak half open and his purple tongue curled round itself. He looked as pleased as a child that has learned to take its first step.
    Mr Walker groaned.
    â€œHe’s never attempted to ape the doorknocker before. You’ve appealed to his devil’s side, Anila. Poor Chandra!”
    He stood up and motioned me to take my bag and go ahead of him. Out on the street, there was our carriage, no buggy this one but a proper four-wheeled carriage with a roof, and a horse that looked like it knew how to run. Chandra fussed around us but Mr Walker sent him inside.
    â€œI’ll tell you about Mr Linnaeus in the carriage, Anila. Now let us get on our way to the Gardens before the high-born ladies start taking the air.”

THE GARDENS
    THE FERRY BOAT FOR the Gardens sat in the water like a slice of watermelon. It was painted a bright green, and front and back it rose up into carved points but its middle was snug and wide and held the seats. From my bedroom window in Garden Reach, I had often seen such boats crossing