Read Online In the Land of Armadillos by Helen Maryles Shankman - Free Book Online

you to talk about these things, but someone has to say it. A man like you needs a man like me. Believe me, Toby. You have to get back to work.
    â€œI want you to write me a story,” Max continued. “A children’s book. A present for Peter.”
    Toby pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I know you mean well, Max,” he said dully. “But I can’t. I just can’t.”
    â€œI’ll help you,” he said, encouraging him. “You tell me the words. I’ll write it down.”
    â€œI’m clean out of ideas, Max. There’s nothing left.”
    His fingers drummed on his uniformed knee. “How about this. A good German story with a knight in it. Maybe he has to slay a dragon . . . rescue a princess . . . there’s a treasure.”
    â€œKnights and princesses?” Toby was half dismayed, half amused. “I don’t know. I’m not Walt Disney. It’s not really my style.”
    â€œWell, you’re the author. Do it in your own style.”
    Toby breathed on the windowpane. With his finger, he drew a forlorn little house in the fogged glass, a square with a triangle for a roof, a chimney with smoke coming out of it. “What do you have against dragons?”
    â€œDon’t be silly. Dragons steal sheep, ruin crops, burn down the town. They have to be destroyed. Even children know that.”
    The artist sighed and bowed his head. Max waited. Just when he was beginning to think that Toby was purposefully toying with him, the dark rumpled head snapped to attention, the pouchy eyes narrowed. The wisp of light in his pupils kindled into flame. “Once upon a time . . .”
    â€œNow you’re talking!” Max said enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together. “Is Peter going to be the knight?”
    â€œPatience,” Toby said. He closed his eyes, repeated the four words as reverently as if they were a prayer. “Once upon a time, there was a little boy.”
    â€œWait a minute! I need to write this down.”
    â€œHere, use this.” Toby pounced on his portfolio, slipped out another drawing. A clown and a skeleton flanked the wings of a dark stage, peering out of furled theater curtains. Below them, a naked beauty sat astride a prancing white steed with a flowing mane. A drawing for a theater poster advertising a play whose curtain had rung down long ago.
    â€œToby, this is beautiful. I can’t.”
    â€œOf course you can. This is important.” He swept away the tubes of paint with the side of his arm, slapped the drawing facedown on the desk. Then he returned to his post at the window, wrapped his bony arms tightly around his scarecrow body. “As I was saying . . . there was a little boy who loved birds more than anything in the world. When the boy was little, he begged his mother to leave food outside their window for the pigeons, and colored strings for the sparrows to build their nests. The year he turned ten, his grandmother gave him an illustrated book of birds with large, colorful plates. Instead of playing with the other boys after school, he would go home, climb upstairs to the attic, and study his picture book. In this way, he learned about big birds and small birds, swimming birds, flightless birds, drab birds, and birds that looked like they had been painted by madmen. He studied the faraway lands they came from, their individual calls, their diets, and their habitats.
    â€œIt was inevitable that one day the birds would communicate with him. The first bird to speak was the white stork, of the kind you can see nesting in tall chimneys. ‘Peter,’ it said in the voice of someone old and wise. ‘You who admire us and are loyal to us, you who have been a true friend to all birds, upon you we have bestowed the gift of flight. Go to the window. Flap your arms, and you will see you can fly.’ ”
    There was a loud slap as Toby flung