“Then good day to you,” said Alvin. “You might oil your locks and hinges from time to time. They’ll stay in better condition if you do.”

  The taxidermist got a quizzical look on his face. He was still opening and closing his silent, smooth-hinged door as they walked back down the alley to the street.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Alvin. “We’ll never find your John-James Audubon before we have to leave.”

  Arthur Stuart looked at him in consternation. “And why won’t we?” He whistled a couple of times and the bluejay fluttered down to alight on his shoulder. Arthur whispered and whistled for a few moments, and the bird hopped up onto Arthur’s head, then (to Alvin’s surprise) Alvin’s shoulder, then Alvin’s head, and only then launched itself into the air and flew off up the street.

  “He’s bound to be near the river this morning,” said Arthur Stuart. “Geese are feeding there, on their way south.”

  Alvin looked around. “It’s still summer. It’s hot.”

  “Not up north,” said Arthur Stuart. “I heard two flocks yesterday.”

  “I haven’t heard a thing.”

  Arthur Stuart grinned at him.

  “I thought you stopped hearing birds,” said Alvin. “When I changed you, in the river. I thought you lost all that.”

  Arthur Stuart shrugged. “I did. But I remembered how it felt. I kept listening.”

  “It’s coming back?” asked Alvin.

  Arthur shook his head. “I have to figure it out. It doesn’t just come to me, the way it used to. It’s not a knack anymore. It’s. Alvin supplied the word. “A skill.”

  “I was trying to decide between ‘a wish’ and ‘a memory.’ ”

  “You heard geese calling, and I didn’t. My cars are pretty good, Arthur.”

  Arthur grinned at him again. “There’s hearing and there’s listening.”

  There were several men with shotguns stalking the geese. It was easy enough to guess which was John-James Audubon, however. Even if they hadn’t spotted the sketchpad inside the open hunter’s sack, and even if he hadn’t been oddly dressed in a Frenchman’s exaggerated version of an American frontiersman’s outfit—tailored deerskin—they would have known which hunter he was, by one simple test: He was the only one who had actually found the geese.

  He was aiming at a goose floating along the river. Without thinking, Alvin called out, “Have you no shame, Mr. Audubon?” Audubon, startled, half turned to look at Alvin and Arthur. Whether it was the sudden movement or Alvin’s voice, the lead goose honked and rose dripping from the water, staggering at first from the effort, then rising smoothly with great beats of his wings, water trailing behind him in a silvery cascade. In a moment, all the other geese also rose and flew down the river. Audubon raised his shotgun, but then cursed and rounded on Alvin, the gun still leveled. “Pour quoi, imbecile!”

  “You planning to shoot me?” asked Alvin.

  Reluctantly, Audubon lowered the gun and remembered his English, which at the moment wasn’t very good. “I have the beautiful creature in my eye, but you, man of the mouth open!”

  “Sorry, but I couldn’t believe you’d shoot a goose on the water like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s—not sporting.”

  “Of course it’s not sporting!” His English was getting better as he warmed to the argument. “I’m not here for sport! Look everywhere, Monsieur, and tell me the very important thing you do not see.”

  “You got no dog,” said Arthur Stuart.

  “Yes! Le garçon noir comprend! I cannot shoot the bird in the air because how do I collect the bird? It falls, the wing breaks, what good is it to me now? I shoot on the water, then splash splash, I have the goose.”

  “Very practical,” said Alvin. “If you were starving, and needed the goose for food.”

  “Food!” cried Audubon. “Do I look like a hungry man?”

  “A little lean, maybe,” said Alvin. “But you could probably fast for a day or two without keeling over.”

  “I do not understand you, Monsieur Americain. Et je ne veux pas te comprendre. Go away.” Audubon started downstream along the riverbank, the direction the geese had gone. “Mister Audubon,” Arthur Stuart called out.

  “I must shoot you before you go away?” he called out, exasperated. “I can bring them back,” said Arthur.

  Audubon turned and looked at him. “You call geese?” He pulled a wooden goose call from his the pocket of his jacket. “I call geese, too. But when they hear this, they think, Sacre Dieu! That goose is dying! Fly away! Fly away!”

  Arthur Stuart kept walking toward him, and instead of answering, he began to make odd sounds with his throat and through his nose. Not goose calls, really, or not that anyone would notice. Not even an imitation of a goose. And yet there was something gooselike about the babble that came from his mouth. And it wasn’t all that loud, either. But moments later, the geese came back, skimming over the surface of the water.

  Audubon brought the shotgun to his shoulder. At once Arthur changed his call, and the geese flew away from the shore and settled far out on the water.

  In an agony of frustration, Audubon whirled on Arthur and Alvin. “When did I insult you or the cauliflower face of your ugly mother? Which clumsy stinking Philadelphia prostitute was your sister? Or was it le bon Dieu that I offended? Notre Pere Celeste, why must I do this penance?”

  “I’m not going to bring the geese back if you’re just going to shoot them,” said Arthur.

  “What good are they if I don’t shoot one?”

  “You’re not going to eat it, you’re just going to paint it,” said Arthur Stuart. “So it doesn’t have to be dead.”

  “How can I paint a bird that will not stand in one place?” cried Audubon. Then he realized something. “You know my name. You know I paint. But I do not know you.”

  “I’m Alvin Smith, and this is my ward, Arthur Stuart.”

  “Wirt? What kind of slave is that?”

  “Ward. He’s no slave. But he’s under my protection.”

  “But who will protect me from the two of you? Why could you not be ordinary robbers, taking my money and run away?”

  “Arthur has a question for you,” said Alvin.

  “Here is my answer: Leave! Departez!”

  “What if I can get a goose to hold still for you without killing it?” asked Arthur Stuart.

  Audubon was on the verge of a sharp answer when it finally dawned on him what he had just seen Arthur do, summoning the geese. “You are, how do you say, a knack person, a caller of gooses.”

  “Geese,” Alvin offered helpfully.

  Arthur shook his head. “I just like birds.”

  “I like birds too,” said Audubon, “but they don’t feel the same about me.”

  “Cause you kill ’em and you ain’t even hungry,” said Arthur Stuart.

  Audubon looked at him in utter consternation. At last he made his decision. “You can make a goose hold still for me?”

  “I can ask him to. But you got to put the gun away.”

  Audubon immediately leaned it against a tree.

  “Unload it,” said Arthur Stuart.

  “You think I break my promise?”

  “You didn’t make no promise,” said Arthur Stuart.

  “All right!” cried Audubon. “I promise upon the grave of my grandmother.” He started unloading the gun.

  “You promise what?” demanded Arthur.

  Alvin almost laughed aloud, except that Arthur Stuart was so grim about it, making sure there were no loopholes through which Audubon could slip once Arthur brought the geese back.

  “I promise, I shoot no gooses! Pas de shooting of gooses!”

  “Not even powder shooting, whatever that is. No shooting any birds all day,” Arthur said.

  “Not ‘powder,’ you ignorant boy. J’ai dit ‘pas de.’ Rich! No shooting of gooses, that’s what I say!” In a mutter, he added, “Tous les sauvages du monde sont ici aujourd’hui.”

  Alvin chuckled. “No shooting savages, either, if you don’t mind.”

  Audubon looked at him, furious and embarrassed. “Parlez vous français?”

  “Je ne parle pas français,” said Alvin, remembering a phrase from the few halting French lessons Margaret tried before she finally gave up on getting Alvin to speak any language other than English. Latin and Greek had already been abandoned by then. But he did understand the word sauvage, having heard it so often in the French fort of Detroit when he went there as a boy with Ta-Kumsaw.

  “C’est vrai,” muttered Audubon. Then, louder: “I make the promise you say. Bring me a goose that stand in one place for my painting.”

  “You going to answer my questions?” asked Arthur Stuart.

  “Yes, of course,” said Audubon.

  “A real answer, and not just some stupid nothing like adults usually say to children?”

  “Hey,” said Alvin.

  “Not you,” said Arthur Stuart quickly. But Alvin retained his suspicions.

  “Yes,” said Audubon in a world-weary voice. “I tell you all the secret of the universe!”

  Arthur Stuart nodded, and walked to the point where the bank was highest. But before calling the geese, he turned to face Audubon one last time. “Where do you want the bird to stand?”

  Audubon laughed. “You are the very strange boy! This is what you Americans call ‘the brag’ ?”

  “He ain’t bragging,” said Alvin. “He really has to know where you want the goose to stand.”

  Audubon shook his head, then looked around, checked the angle of the sun, and where there was a shady spot where he could sit while painting. Only then could he point to where the bird would have to pose.

  “All right,” said Arthur Stuart. He faced the river and babbled again, loudly, the sound carrying across the water. The geese rose from the surface and flew rapidly to shore, landing in the water or on the meadow. The lead goose, however, landed near Arthur Stuart, who led it toward the spot Audubon had picked.

  Arthur looked at the Frenchman impatiently. He was just standing there, mouth agape, watching the goose come into position and then stop there, standing still as a statue. “You gonna draw in the mud with a stick?” asked Arthur.

  Only then did Audubon realize that his paper and colors were still in his sack. He jogged briskly to the bag, stopping now and then to look back over his shoulder and make sure the goose was still there. While he was out of earshot, Alvin asked Arthur, “You forget we were leaving Philadelphia this morning?”

  Arthur looked at him with the expression of withering scorn that only the face of an adolescent can produce. “You can go anytime you like.”

  At first Alvin thought he was telling him to go on and leave Arthur behind. But then he realized that Arthur was merely stating the truth: Alvin could leave Philadelphia whenever he wanted, so it didn’t matter if it was this morning or later. “Verily and Mike arc going to get worried if we don’t get back soon.”

  “I don’t want no birds to die,” said Arthur.

  “It’s God’s job to see every sparrow fall,” said Alvin. “I didn’t hear about him advertising that the position was open.”

  Arthur just clammed up and said no more. Soon Audubon was back, sitting in the grass under the tree, mixing his colors to match the exact color of the goosefeathers.

  “I want to watch you paint,” said Arthur.

  “I don’t like having people look over my shoulder.”

  Arthur murmured something and the goose started to wander away.

  “All right!” said Audubon frantically. “Watch me paint, watch the bird, watch the sun in the sky until you will be blind, whatever you want!”

  At once Arthur Stuart muttered to the goose, and it waddled back into place.

  Alvin shook his head. Naked extortion. Flow could this be the sweet-tempered child Alvin had known for so long?

  Jean-Jacques Audubon soon forgot the strangeness of painting from a live bird and concentrated on colors and shapes. Arthur and Alvin both sat in the grass behind him, watching the goose come to life on the paper. To Arthur it was a kind of miracle. A dab here, a dab there, a streak, colors blending sometimes, sharp-edged in other places. And from this chaos, a bird.

  From time to time the model grew weary. Arthur jumped up from the grass and spoke to the geese, and soon another took the place of the first, as close a match as he could find. Jean-Jacques cursed under his breath. “They are not the same bird, you know.”

  “But they’re alive,” said Arthur. “Look at the eyes.” Jean-Jacques only grunted. For the bird did look alive on the paper. Arthur whispered about it to Alvin, but Alvin’s reply gave him no satisfaction. “How do you know he didn’t make the dead birds look just as alive in his paintings?”

  At last the painting was done. Jean-Jacques busied himself with putting away his colors and brushes, until Arthur called out to him, rather angrily. “Look here, Mr. Audubon!” Jean-Jacques looked up. The goose was still there, not posed anymore, but still on the ground, gazing intently at Arthur Stuart. “I’m finish with the goose, you can let it go.” Pie turned back to his work.

  “No!” Arthur Stuart shouted.

  “Arthur,” said Alvin softly.

  “He’s got to watch,” said Arthur.

  Sighing, Jean-Jacques looked up. “What am I watching?”

  The moment Audubon’s eyes were on him, Arthur clapped his hands and the goose ran and clumsily staggered into the air. But as soon as its wings were pulling against the air, it changed into a beautiful creature, turning the powerful beats of its wings into soaring flight. The other geese also rose. And Jean-Jacques, his weariness slipping from him, watched them fly over the trees.

  “What grace,” said Jean-Jacques. “No lady ever dances with so much beauty.”

  At that Arthur charged at him, furious.

  “That’s right! Them living birds are prettier than any of your damned old paintings!”

  Alvin caught Arthur by the shoulders, held him, smiled wanly at Jean-Jacques.

  “I’m sorry. I never seen him act so mad.”

  “Every painting you ever made killed a bird,” said Arthur. “And I don’t care how pretty you paint, it ain’t worth stopping the life of any of them!”

  Jean-Jacques was embarrassed. “No one say this to me before. Men shoot their guns all the time, birds die every day.”

  “For meat,” said Arthur. “To eat them.”

  “Does he believe this?” Jean-Jacques asked Alvin. “Do you think they are hungry and shoot the birds for food? Maybe they are stuffing it for trophy. Maybe they are shooting for fun, you angry boy.”

  Arthur was unmollified. “So maybe they’re no better than you. But I’d rather cut off my hand than kill a bird just to make a picture of it.”

  “All these hours you watch me paint, you admire my painting, no? And now you choose this moment and tout a coup you are angry?”

  “ ’Cause I wanted you to see that bird fly. You painted it but it could still fly!”

  “But that was because of your talking to the bird,” said Jean-Jacques. “How can I know such a boy as you exist? I am oughting to wait for some boy to come along and make the bird pose? Until then I draw trees?”

  “Who asked you to paint birds?”

  “Is this the question you wanted to ask me?” said Jean-Jacques. Arthur stopped short. “No. Yes. The way you stuffed them birds back in the shop, that showed me you know the birds, you really see them, but then how can you kill them? You ain’t hungry.”

  “I am often hungry. I am hungry right now. But it is not the bird I want to eat. Not goose today. What beautiful gooses. You love them flying, and I love them flying, but in France nobody ever sees these birds. Other birds they see, not the birds of America. Scientists write and talk about birds but they see only sketches, bad printing of them. I am not very good painter of people. Most of the people I do not like, and this makes my paintings not pretty to them. My people look like they are dead—etouffee—avec little glass eyes. But birds. I can paint them to be alive. I can find the colors, I see them there, and put them on the paper. We print, and now the scientists know, they open my book, voila the American bird they never see. Now they can think about bird and they see them. God lets you to talk to birds, angry boy. He lets me to paint them. I should throw away this gift of God except today, when you are here to help me?”

  “It ain’t your gift when it’s the bird as dies for it,” said Arthur Stuart.

  “All creatures die,” said Jean-Jacques. “Birds live the lives of birds. All the same. It is a beautiful life, but they live in the shadow of death, afraid, watching, and then, boom! The gun. The talon of the hawk! The paws of the cat. But the bird I kill, I make it into the picture, it will live forever.”

  “Paint on paper ain’t a bird,” said Arthur Stuart sullenly.

  Jean-Jacques’s hand flashed out and gripped Arthur’s arm. “Come here and say that to my picture!” He forced Arthur to stand over the open sketchbook. “You make me look at flying gooses. Now you look!”

  Arthur looked.

  “You see this is beautiful,” said Jean-Jacques. “And it teaches. Knowing is good. I show this bird to the world. In every eye, there is my bird. My goose is Plato’s goose. Perfect goose. True goose. Real

  goose.”

  Alvin chuckled. “We aren’t too clear on Plato.”

  Arthur turned scornfully to Alvin. “Miz Larner taught us all about Plato, lessen you was asleep that day.”

  “Was this the question you had for Mr. Audubon?” asked Alvin. “Asking why he thinks it’s worth killing birds to paint them? ’Cause if it was, you sure picked a rude way to ask it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Arthur Stuart.

  “And I think he gave you a fair answer, Arthur Stuart. If he was shooting birds and selling them to a poulterer you wouldn’t think twice ’cause it’s nature’s way, killing and eating. It’s all right to shoot a bird so some family can buy the carcass and roast it up and eat it gone. But iffen you just paint it, that makes him a killer?”

  “I know,” said Arthur Stuart. “I knowed that right along.”

  “Then what was all this shouting for?” asked Alvin.