Read Online In the Land of Armadillos by Helen Maryles Shankman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Helen Maryles Shankman
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open the attic window.
âPeter threw open the windows,â he continued in a thrilling, powerful voice. âIt was a warm evening in late spring; a cloudless sky beckoned him. He spread his arms, closed his eyes, and jumped.
âThe birds were true to their word: The boy could fly. Flapping his arms, he swooped over the roofs of the town. In a delirium of joy, he soared over the school playing fields, he made loop-de-loops over the churchâs bell tower.
âMeanwhile, in the town square, a crowd was gathering. What was it? âA bird,â someone ventured. No, it was judged to be too large. âAn eagle is large,â said someone else. âThatâs no eagleâ was the reply. Someone shouted that they saw horns. Another, sharp teeth. A third, a whiplike, pointed tail.
âOne of the boyâs classmates picked up a loose paving stone and let fly. The stone struck the creatureâs head and bounced off.
âIt seemed to hang in the air for a moment, dazed by the blow. Now each villager reached for a missile. Under a barrage of pebbles, bricks, and stones, it plummeted to earth.â
Tobyâs voice changed now, dark, fluid, impassioned, like a tune played on the Pied Piperâs flute.
âWhen the citizens of the town gathered around the corpse of the demon they had stoned out of the sky, they saw only the broken body of the dreamy little boy who had lived in the house on the edge of the square. One of his classmates recalled that he had loved birds. Also that he had been good at playing marbles.
âJust then Peterâs mother came out of her house, drawn by the crowd in the market square. The throngs of villagers parted guiltily before her. âWhat happened?â she cried, cradling her sonâs lifeless body.â Toby thrust out his arms as if reaching for the boy himself. âThere was a long, drawn-out silence. And then the mayor spoke. âHe jumped out from there,â he said, pointing at the open attic window. âHe thought he could fly.â
âThe boyâs blood ran between the cracks of the paving stones. As it soaked into the earth, a sapling shot up out of the ground at the very center of the market square. While the people watched in awe, it grew into an enormous acacia tree, towering over every building in town. Stranger still, upon each branch sat a bird: strange, exotic birds, of every shape and color, birds that were not native to the town or even to the continent of Europe. The birds stared down at the townspeople; the people stared up at the birds. As if someone had given a sign, the birds all rose up with a deafening cacophony, their wings flapping, each bird cawing or clattering its bill. The birds flew around the town square once, then disappeared.
âAll at once, nature went silent. No nightingales sang, no mockingbirds. No doves cooed, no hummingbirds flew, no starlings, no sparrows, no wrens, no owls. The storks abandoned their nests, the pigeons, the square. Even the crows deserted the town.
âAfter burying her son, Peterâs mother hurriedly moved away. As if by agreement, no one spoke of the shameful incident.
âYears passed. In the summer, the tree gave shade. In the spring, racemes of tiny heart-shaped flowers. In the winter, its bark was a beautiful collage of silvers and grays. But in the fall, the leaves flamed a bloody red, and the people would remember the boy who had loved birds, and the atrocity they had committed together in the name of fear and superstition.â
Here, Toby paused, aiming a sideways glance at Max. Max grew impatient. What was he waiting for? âGo on,â he urged. He wanted to know how it ended.
Toby shot him a look of incredulity before going on. âNo one knows who left the first note,â he said. âBut one day there it was, lying in the treeâs roots, pinned to a red poppy. It read, I remember.
âBy the next day, there were twenty notes, by the
âPeter threw open the windows,â he continued in a thrilling, powerful voice. âIt was a warm evening in late spring; a cloudless sky beckoned him. He spread his arms, closed his eyes, and jumped.
âThe birds were true to their word: The boy could fly. Flapping his arms, he swooped over the roofs of the town. In a delirium of joy, he soared over the school playing fields, he made loop-de-loops over the churchâs bell tower.
âMeanwhile, in the town square, a crowd was gathering. What was it? âA bird,â someone ventured. No, it was judged to be too large. âAn eagle is large,â said someone else. âThatâs no eagleâ was the reply. Someone shouted that they saw horns. Another, sharp teeth. A third, a whiplike, pointed tail.
âOne of the boyâs classmates picked up a loose paving stone and let fly. The stone struck the creatureâs head and bounced off.
âIt seemed to hang in the air for a moment, dazed by the blow. Now each villager reached for a missile. Under a barrage of pebbles, bricks, and stones, it plummeted to earth.â
Tobyâs voice changed now, dark, fluid, impassioned, like a tune played on the Pied Piperâs flute.
âWhen the citizens of the town gathered around the corpse of the demon they had stoned out of the sky, they saw only the broken body of the dreamy little boy who had lived in the house on the edge of the square. One of his classmates recalled that he had loved birds. Also that he had been good at playing marbles.
âJust then Peterâs mother came out of her house, drawn by the crowd in the market square. The throngs of villagers parted guiltily before her. âWhat happened?â she cried, cradling her sonâs lifeless body.â Toby thrust out his arms as if reaching for the boy himself. âThere was a long, drawn-out silence. And then the mayor spoke. âHe jumped out from there,â he said, pointing at the open attic window. âHe thought he could fly.â
âThe boyâs blood ran between the cracks of the paving stones. As it soaked into the earth, a sapling shot up out of the ground at the very center of the market square. While the people watched in awe, it grew into an enormous acacia tree, towering over every building in town. Stranger still, upon each branch sat a bird: strange, exotic birds, of every shape and color, birds that were not native to the town or even to the continent of Europe. The birds stared down at the townspeople; the people stared up at the birds. As if someone had given a sign, the birds all rose up with a deafening cacophony, their wings flapping, each bird cawing or clattering its bill. The birds flew around the town square once, then disappeared.
âAll at once, nature went silent. No nightingales sang, no mockingbirds. No doves cooed, no hummingbirds flew, no starlings, no sparrows, no wrens, no owls. The storks abandoned their nests, the pigeons, the square. Even the crows deserted the town.
âAfter burying her son, Peterâs mother hurriedly moved away. As if by agreement, no one spoke of the shameful incident.
âYears passed. In the summer, the tree gave shade. In the spring, racemes of tiny heart-shaped flowers. In the winter, its bark was a beautiful collage of silvers and grays. But in the fall, the leaves flamed a bloody red, and the people would remember the boy who had loved birds, and the atrocity they had committed together in the name of fear and superstition.â
Here, Toby paused, aiming a sideways glance at Max. Max grew impatient. What was he waiting for? âGo on,â he urged. He wanted to know how it ended.
Toby shot him a look of incredulity before going on. âNo one knows who left the first note,â he said. âBut one day there it was, lying in the treeâs roots, pinned to a red poppy. It read, I remember.
âBy the next day, there were twenty notes, by the
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