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Authors: Richard Zimler
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outraged, surrounded by a growing crowd. His wife stood by in tears as he lifted one cage after another, offering proof of our robbery.
“What else can I believe?” asked his wife in a trembling voice to one of the women in the crowd. “All our beauties have been turned to wood.”
“Woman, you’re pissing mad,” snapped her husband, banging a cage down. “They’re carved and painted. Anyone with bloody eyes can see that!”
“This very jay,” she replied, holding up the carving she gripped in her gnarled hand, “this jay turned to wood as I reached in for him. You explain that if you can!”
Daniel gave me a gleeful look; proof of supernatural intervention was far better than we could have hoped for.
“It is a miracle given to us by St. John himself,” called out a slender lass in the crowd. “A miracle!”
Daniel stared at her in astonishment and took a step toward her, as though tugged by an invisible lead. But she crossed her arms over her chest defensively and raised her eyebrows, as though daring him to disagree with her, and he immediately retreated.
A tall man with a mangled ear then lifted up a cage with a wooden goldfinch perched inside, held it high over his head, and addressed the crowd. “The lass speaks the truth! St. John has changed feather to wood.”
It was shameful to let this talk continue, but I didn’t have the courage to confess our hoax.
The birdseller spit. “It’s your head that’s been changed to wood, my friend. Someone has hoodwinked me” – he raised both his hands like angry claws – “but I shall find out who and then I will strangle him. Those beauties were my silver and gold. I’ve lost everything!”
His wife licked her lips and spoke in a vengeful whisper. “You choose your words more carefully, you silly man! It’s witchcraft.” She turned in a slow circle, as though to catch sight of the perpetrator. “We must have a very powerful enemy somewhere, and you” – she turned back to her husband – “ought not to provoke her with your threats.”
“Be still, woman! It is you who is doing the provoking.” He raised his great callused hand as though to clout her. “Someone will pay for this, and if you wish it to be you, continue to defy me!”
Daniel ran forward. In my innocence, I believed he was about to confess after all. Instead, he shouted in his most proper voice, “Please, sir, show us the miracle – show us all the birds!”
“You … you only wish to see how I have been made the fool,” said the birdseller, his dark eyes glinting with fury. “All of you are against me!”
“Show us what St. John has accomplished,” Daniel begged. “Please, sir, don’t let your pride deny us a look at a miracle.”
Others in the crowd seconded this noble request until the birdseller, indignant, found himself trumped by Daniel’s acting. Making the best of the situation, the poor man unloaded the rest of the cages containing our carvings from his wagon, slamming down each one of them onto the cobbles. A dwarf woman draped in a black shawl shouted to him, “You have been chosen by St. John himself.”
The birdseller could contain his rage no longer and kicked one of the wire-mesh cages at her. It hit the ankle of a stout merchantin a high-collared blue dress coat, who threatened to clock the careless wretch with his cane for such an affront.
By now, a hundred onlookers were pointing, gawking, and even praying on their knees, moved by this union of heaven and earth, the possibility of witchcraft abandoned in favor of saintly intervention.
“John, come with me,” Daniel said, tugging me away.
We crouched down behind a gig thirty paces from the chattering crowd. “Wait underneath,” Daniel said.
“What for?”
“So you’re hidden.”
“But why do I want to be hidden?”
“There’s no time, John,” he snorted. “Just do as I say.”
God forgive me, I squatted down under the gig. He raced away, only to return, moments later, out
“What else can I believe?” asked his wife in a trembling voice to one of the women in the crowd. “All our beauties have been turned to wood.”
“Woman, you’re pissing mad,” snapped her husband, banging a cage down. “They’re carved and painted. Anyone with bloody eyes can see that!”
“This very jay,” she replied, holding up the carving she gripped in her gnarled hand, “this jay turned to wood as I reached in for him. You explain that if you can!”
Daniel gave me a gleeful look; proof of supernatural intervention was far better than we could have hoped for.
“It is a miracle given to us by St. John himself,” called out a slender lass in the crowd. “A miracle!”
Daniel stared at her in astonishment and took a step toward her, as though tugged by an invisible lead. But she crossed her arms over her chest defensively and raised her eyebrows, as though daring him to disagree with her, and he immediately retreated.
A tall man with a mangled ear then lifted up a cage with a wooden goldfinch perched inside, held it high over his head, and addressed the crowd. “The lass speaks the truth! St. John has changed feather to wood.”
It was shameful to let this talk continue, but I didn’t have the courage to confess our hoax.
The birdseller spit. “It’s your head that’s been changed to wood, my friend. Someone has hoodwinked me” – he raised both his hands like angry claws – “but I shall find out who and then I will strangle him. Those beauties were my silver and gold. I’ve lost everything!”
His wife licked her lips and spoke in a vengeful whisper. “You choose your words more carefully, you silly man! It’s witchcraft.” She turned in a slow circle, as though to catch sight of the perpetrator. “We must have a very powerful enemy somewhere, and you” – she turned back to her husband – “ought not to provoke her with your threats.”
“Be still, woman! It is you who is doing the provoking.” He raised his great callused hand as though to clout her. “Someone will pay for this, and if you wish it to be you, continue to defy me!”
Daniel ran forward. In my innocence, I believed he was about to confess after all. Instead, he shouted in his most proper voice, “Please, sir, show us the miracle – show us all the birds!”
“You … you only wish to see how I have been made the fool,” said the birdseller, his dark eyes glinting with fury. “All of you are against me!”
“Show us what St. John has accomplished,” Daniel begged. “Please, sir, don’t let your pride deny us a look at a miracle.”
Others in the crowd seconded this noble request until the birdseller, indignant, found himself trumped by Daniel’s acting. Making the best of the situation, the poor man unloaded the rest of the cages containing our carvings from his wagon, slamming down each one of them onto the cobbles. A dwarf woman draped in a black shawl shouted to him, “You have been chosen by St. John himself.”
The birdseller could contain his rage no longer and kicked one of the wire-mesh cages at her. It hit the ankle of a stout merchantin a high-collared blue dress coat, who threatened to clock the careless wretch with his cane for such an affront.
By now, a hundred onlookers were pointing, gawking, and even praying on their knees, moved by this union of heaven and earth, the possibility of witchcraft abandoned in favor of saintly intervention.
“John, come with me,” Daniel said, tugging me away.
We crouched down behind a gig thirty paces from the chattering crowd. “Wait underneath,” Daniel said.
“What for?”
“So you’re hidden.”
“But why do I want to be hidden?”
“There’s no time, John,” he snorted. “Just do as I say.”
God forgive me, I squatted down under the gig. He raced away, only to return, moments later, out
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