A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [56]
“Where do they come from? South America, I should think.”
“Most of these are from Central America. The one with what looks like a worm in his beak is a three-wattled bellbird. Over there is the crimson-collared tanager. He was one of my first successes. The odd one with the large eyes isn’t an owl, it’s the common potoo.” He seemed to enjoy naming his prizes. Dublin had slipped in behind the two men and was staring at the array of color. Indeed, it reminded Rutledge himself of a feathered rainbow.
Hamish said, “My granny would say he’s bewitched.”
“What took you there? An interest in these birds?”
“Good God, no. I hardly knew one species from another. I went there to hire myself out as an engineer on the construction of the Panama Canal. The first try, the one that didn’t succeed. In the end most of us came down with malaria or yellow fever, and we hardly knew what we were about.”
“But you stayed.”
“I stayed because there was nowhere else to go. I trekked through jungle looking for ruins and gold. I climbed volcanoes and dragged myself through caves. I reasoned that the Spanish couldn’t have found it all. But they must have done. All the gold I saw was on the high altars of churches, great mountains of it, ceiling to floor. Nothing like it in England. I just stood and stared at the first one I came across. I worked for a time translating invoices and bills of lading for a coffee plantation outside a place called Antigua, then moved on to manage a banana company’s plantation on the Caribbean coast. It wasn’t a life I’d recommend.”
Rutledge said as Quincy reached out to smooth the wing of one of his specimens, “With that background, you must have been in demand.”
“Oh, it wasn’t as exciting as it may sound,” he went on dryly. “Sometimes I guided people coming out to look at land. I learned to use a foot loom in a village on the side of a volcanic lake. Atitlán, it was. Whatever came to hand. By that time I was drunk most of the day and all of the night, and finally I went to see a shaman, to find a way to sober up. Saint Maximón, they called him. Only it wasn’t a man, it was a lump of wood draped in shawls and wearing a black hat. They’d told me he was wise. I brought cigars and wine and a watch I’d stolen, as gifts. The room was dark, filled with incense and smoke, and I thought I’d suffocate before my turn came. The man who interpreted for him—it—told me that my salvation was in the colors of the rainbow. I thought him as mad as I was.”
Satisfied that all was well with the bird, he added, “Then I remembered the birds, and the more I thought about them, the more the obsession grew. I went back into the jungle for them, and up and down the coast, and climbed into rain forests and sailed down rivers, looking for them.”
“What did you intend to do with them? Bring them back to a museum?”
Quincy laughed. “Hardly that. No, I tell you it was an obsession. I just wanted them. And then one day I realized that they were all dead. Not flying about, not mating, not bringing up their young or foraging for food. They were dead. And