The Dinosaur Feather

chair and walked out.
    For two days Clive was ecstatic. David had finally been put in his place. He came downstairs for meals and would join in the conversation, though he was somewhat subdued. Even Clive’s mother livened up and said, ‘Don’t you think so, darling?’ several times.
    ‘Yes, yes,’ David muttered.
    Clive was the centre of attention as he talked about thereading list he had been sent, and the forthcoming term. His mother listened and David stayed silent. This had never happened before. Clive suddenly thought his father looked old, eaten up by the antagonism he had harboured over the years and, seized by a rare moment of tenderness, Clive called David ‘Dad’ which he never normally did.
    Two days later, Clive decided to suggest to David a final walk through the woods before his departure. It was Clive’s fondest childhood memory and he wanted to take a dew-fresh one with him to Vancouver. He was leaning against the kitchen table, drinking a glass of milk, while he summoned up the courage to go to David’s study, when something in the garden caught his eye. Their lawn was a curved piece of land, scattered with Arctic plants; Clive’s bird table was at the far end, and behind it four large rocks broke the surface of the earth. Then the woods began.
    There were dead birds all over the lawn. Three, seven, twenty, his eyes flickered as he started counting. He slammed down his glass and ran outside. There were dead birds everywhere. Limp balls of feather lay on the ground, on the naked area under the bird table, even on the board itself where Clive usually scattered seeds. Horrified, he inspected the feeding table. It was bare with the exception of a few husks whirling around in the wind. He checked the ground where the spike of the table had been pushed in, and that was where he saw the red pellets. There weren’t many left, but enough for him to know what they were: rat poison.
    Clive went straight to his room and packed his bags. He didn’t want to spend another second in his father’s house.

     
    In Vancouver, Clive rented a room from an elderly lady who lived in a villa. Her front garden was a mess and Clive volunteered to tidy it up.
    Jack lived next door. He was five years old when Clive moved in, and had lost his father a few months previously. He was a beautiful boy with watchful eyes and one day, when Clive was gardening, he came over and started digging his toe into the ground. Clive asked him if he wanted to help.
    Jack and Clive dug a hole for a rose bush the old lady had asked for and, together, they studied everything they unearthed: beetles, worms, pupae ready to burst, skeletons and a recently deceased mole whose coat still was soft and black. Jack wanted to know all there was to know about nature.
    College began the following week and Clive soon found himself very busy. There were compulsory lectures on campus, and he had essays to read and write. Clive told Jack he had to entertain himself during the week. He wouldn’t have time for him until nine o’clock Saturday morning. Jack would show up at nine on the dot in the front garden under Clive’s window with his bucket, his dull pocket knife and his butterfly net. To begin with, they stayed in the garden, but when they had examined every square inch of it, Clive took Jack into the woods, taking water bottles and packed lunches, reference books and collecting-boxes for their findings.
    Clive taught Jack to dissect an animal on a flat rock. A mouse, a rabbit, a pigeon. Clive bought scalpels from the supplies store on campus and made a big deal out of telling Jack how sharp they were. The boy gazed at him, wide-eyed. The first animal they opened up had died from naturalcauses only a few hours earlier. It was very fresh and didn’t smell at all. Clive guided the scalpel in Jack’s hand and when the animal was laid out and its abdomen revealed, he asked Jack if he wanted to dissect the spleen.
    ‘The spleen is bluish and shaped like a plum, that’s all I’m going to tell you.’
    Jack picked up the scalpel, lingered a little, and then he took a deep breath. Soon the boy – pale but smiling – held the shiny organ in the palm of his hand. He had specks of dried blood on his cheek and his hair was tousled, and when Clive praised him, his face lit up.
    This became their game. Clive would tell him which organ to remove and Jack would do it. When Jack turned ten, he was a skilled surgeon, not just in terms of dexterity, but