pulse of worry was throbbing at the back of my head. If we were caught, the birdseller would cane us to our knees, and my mother would never live down the shame. I could already hear the lecture my father would give me upon his return: I thought that any son of mine would know better …. I’d likely never be allowed a dog.
The astounding thing was that I truly did not care a damn. I didn’t regret my rash behavior, even if it meant my demise.
Though the birds were now free, we did not rush away, for there was still the last part of our plan to bring to fruition. Daniel handed me five of our painted birds, keeping six for himself. We began placing them in the cages, twisting the wire feet of each wooden creature around its perch so that it posed in a lifelike position.
Most people would have considered it a waste of time to carve and paint our birds only to give them away, but gift-giving was Daniel’s unspoken motivation; he wished not only to right a terrible wrong but also to create for the world something beautiful .
As he was fixing the last carving in place, we heard the birdseller and his wife coming.
“Hurry!” I said.
In his haste, Daniel dropped the woodpecker. It fell with a dull thud to the bottom of a wicker cage.
“ Merda! Shit!”
“It will be a good selling day,” the wife said. “No fog this morning.”
By the time Daniel had a firm grip on the bird, they were stepping up to their seat in the front of the wagon. The birdseller shouted an obscenity at his horses and lashed them away. I fell back against the wooden frame of the wagon and grabbed hold of the canvas in order to steady myself. Daniel was making wild, incomprehensible hand gestures.
“What do we do now?” I mouthed.
“Depenados e prontos para a panela!” he mouthed back. We are plucked and ready for the pot!
Had I been thinking clearly, I could have simply jumped out of the wagon at that moment, for it had not yet reached full speed. As for Daniel, he was not about to end this adventure just yet; he thrived on danger, after all.
On we rattled, now at a full gallop. Daniel motioned for me to crawl as quietly as I could to the back of the wagon. I did as he commanded, and together we reached the edge. After a few moments, he lifted up the flap and peered out.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“We have to jump.”
“Jump?”
The cobbles were flowing away from us like a cascading river of stone. I shook my head vehemently. There was a carriage about fifty feet behind us that would undoubtedly crush us under its wheels.
“Go!”
“No!”
Daniel grabbed my arm. “Now!”
We landed hard. I lurched to my left and tumbled over, skinning my knee badly and banging my shoulder. I regained my wits just in time to see the bald birdseller’s wagon trundling down the street.
I heard a shout. A horse with a white patch over its nose was huffing at me, plainly just drawn to a halt. A driver in a red and blue uniform, gripping his reins with fists, was screaming. “You there, beanhead, what d’ya think you’re doing? You could’ve been killed.”
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked, rushing to the side of the road.
Spinning around in search of Daniel, I found him sitting by a stone fountain on the other side of the road. Though he had twisted his ankle badly, he was grinning like a fool.
“That was insane,” I said, brushing dirt and blood from my skinned knee.
Daniel spat in his hand and rubbed my wound. Wincing along with me in my pain, he said, “Does it hurt much?”
“No, not so badly.”
“You’re more hardy than you let on.” He smiled, then he did something strange: He held my shoulders and kissed me on the cheek as though he had just received me as a present, almost as if I were his wee brother.
I could not speak after that.
*
Daniel and I limped on to the stalls of the bird market. The birdseller, in a plumed green cap and festive waistcoat of rose-colored velvet, was standing by his wagon,
The astounding thing was that I truly did not care a damn. I didn’t regret my rash behavior, even if it meant my demise.
Though the birds were now free, we did not rush away, for there was still the last part of our plan to bring to fruition. Daniel handed me five of our painted birds, keeping six for himself. We began placing them in the cages, twisting the wire feet of each wooden creature around its perch so that it posed in a lifelike position.
Most people would have considered it a waste of time to carve and paint our birds only to give them away, but gift-giving was Daniel’s unspoken motivation; he wished not only to right a terrible wrong but also to create for the world something beautiful .
As he was fixing the last carving in place, we heard the birdseller and his wife coming.
“Hurry!” I said.
In his haste, Daniel dropped the woodpecker. It fell with a dull thud to the bottom of a wicker cage.
“ Merda! Shit!”
“It will be a good selling day,” the wife said. “No fog this morning.”
By the time Daniel had a firm grip on the bird, they were stepping up to their seat in the front of the wagon. The birdseller shouted an obscenity at his horses and lashed them away. I fell back against the wooden frame of the wagon and grabbed hold of the canvas in order to steady myself. Daniel was making wild, incomprehensible hand gestures.
“What do we do now?” I mouthed.
“Depenados e prontos para a panela!” he mouthed back. We are plucked and ready for the pot!
Had I been thinking clearly, I could have simply jumped out of the wagon at that moment, for it had not yet reached full speed. As for Daniel, he was not about to end this adventure just yet; he thrived on danger, after all.
On we rattled, now at a full gallop. Daniel motioned for me to crawl as quietly as I could to the back of the wagon. I did as he commanded, and together we reached the edge. After a few moments, he lifted up the flap and peered out.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“We have to jump.”
“Jump?”
The cobbles were flowing away from us like a cascading river of stone. I shook my head vehemently. There was a carriage about fifty feet behind us that would undoubtedly crush us under its wheels.
“Go!”
“No!”
Daniel grabbed my arm. “Now!”
We landed hard. I lurched to my left and tumbled over, skinning my knee badly and banging my shoulder. I regained my wits just in time to see the bald birdseller’s wagon trundling down the street.
I heard a shout. A horse with a white patch over its nose was huffing at me, plainly just drawn to a halt. A driver in a red and blue uniform, gripping his reins with fists, was screaming. “You there, beanhead, what d’ya think you’re doing? You could’ve been killed.”
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked, rushing to the side of the road.
Spinning around in search of Daniel, I found him sitting by a stone fountain on the other side of the road. Though he had twisted his ankle badly, he was grinning like a fool.
“That was insane,” I said, brushing dirt and blood from my skinned knee.
Daniel spat in his hand and rubbed my wound. Wincing along with me in my pain, he said, “Does it hurt much?”
“No, not so badly.”
“You’re more hardy than you let on.” He smiled, then he did something strange: He held my shoulders and kissed me on the cheek as though he had just received me as a present, almost as if I were his wee brother.
I could not speak after that.
*
Daniel and I limped on to the stalls of the bird market. The birdseller, in a plumed green cap and festive waistcoat of rose-colored velvet, was standing by his wagon,
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